THIS IS THE "PREVIEW" OF THIS BOOK WHILE I KEEP WORKING ON HUNTER'S ALPHA AND HEAVEN'S CRIME. 

IF YOU'RE INTERESTED TO SEE WHERE THE STORY GOES, LET ME KNOW! I'M SO EXCITED TO START THIS ONE.

WITHOUT FURTHER ADO, CONTINUE.

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              MY NAME IS EVELYN TRIBECA AND my daughter is going to die.

              The words kept echoing in Paris's ears, the chorus of a never-ending symphony. The woman's face—her haunted eyes, her calm expression—circled Paris's thoughts, even as she fought for her focus.

              My daughter is going to die—

              At 3:47 a.m. this morning, Paris had received a dispatch from the hospital.

              It had only taken her minutes—pediatrician's coat, car keys, shoes—and the drive to the hospital had been short. 

              Her favourite part of every morning—the calm before the storm. 

              The empty highway. 

              The grey of pre-kissed dawn. 

              The chill of night soaking into her chest. 

              When she arrived at Mount Sinai General, she had noticed a woman who stood out to her. Young, maybe in her forties. Copper-brown hair. 

              There was a girl a few feet away, head bowed. 

              Leukemia—Paris could tell.

              But the woman—this woman stood out to Paris for one reason.

               Working in the children's ward of the hospital, where most of the kids had terminal illnesses, like cancer, there was one thing in common about the parents: tears. 

               Paris didn't blame them. Most parents were hysterical, afraid, not ready to lose their children.

              But this woman was calm—contained.

              The moment she saw Paris, her head snapped towards her. A bloodhound. "Doctor Young?"

             "Yes, how may I help you?"

             It was 4:06 in the morning. Paris's fingers tightened on her key card, her white coat swishing around her as she moved towards the woman.

             Behind her, the receptionist—a girl Paris knew was named Anna—shot her a look that read, Be careful. 

             Be careful of what? Paris thought, right before the woman spoke again.

             "My name is Evelyn Tribeca, and my daughter is dying."

             She seemed . . . serene, almost. Peaceful. 

            She wasn't telling Paris about her daughter's incoming death—she was talking about the weather. She might as well have been saying, My name is Evelyn Tribeca, and I like long walks by the beach. 

             "Is your daughter a patient here?" Paris had asked.

            "No, but I want her to be. I hear you have authority here. Is that true?"

            "I'm not the Chief, but I do have some control." And it was true—Paris was the one who decided which patients to take under her wing.

            "I want my daughter to be treated here."

            Behind her, the woman's daughter glanced up—brown, almond-shaped eyes, long lashes, and sunken cheekbones. 

             There was something . . . defeated about her. 

              Her shoulders caved in. Her glossy hair curtained most of her face. A pink beanie slid low over her eyes.

           "I . . ." Paris hesitated. "I'm sorry, I don't know that I can make this decision. We have a waiting list."

           Mount Sinai General, thanks to its isolated location and renowned doctors, was a high-priority location for many people with long-term injuries. Most of the kids Paris cared for had been here for years—and she loved them like they were her own.

           The only way a spot on the waiting list opened up was when one of her patients died.

           "You have to." Evelyn Tribeca was still unnervingly calm. "Tasha won't last much longer."

           Behind her, Anna the receptionist mouthed, I told you so. 

           "Give me some time to think about it," Paris had said.

          "ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME?" ALEC demanded, his blue eyes narrowing. "Did you hear what I just said?"

          "No, but let me guess," Paris said. "Switzerland soccer, your newest boyfriend, or the prison break-out in Alberta and the hot felon who might be headed our way."

          Alec's grin widened. "Maybe yesterday, but all of those are old news."

         "Then what's the gossip today?"

         A sudden buzz in Paris's chest alerted her to a dispatch. The voice on the comm crackled, "All available units to Room 702. Code blue." 

         Room 702—Isabella Cantasia. 

         Alec's smile became delighted. "You didn't hear?"

         Why were they calling a code blue? 

         Isabella's seventh birthday was tomorrow. 

         It can't. She can't—

         Dread tightened in Paris's stomach. She gripped the reception counter as two doctors flew past her.

        "I have to go," Paris said. Her mind was racing with the possibilities.

        Code blue meant cardiac or respiratory arrest.

        "Don't you want to hear about Princess Rory's accident?"

        Princess Rory had an accident? 

        But Paris shook her head. She didn't have time to waste thinking about arrogant, spoiled, selfish princesses. Especially not one that had broken her heart.

         "No, thank you!" Paris called out, as she surged towards Room 702.

         When she made it inside, Isabella Cantasia was writhing in the bed, pale and sweat-slick. Doctors clustered around her bed, ordering the nurses to check her vitals. 

         No, Paris thought.

         They were throwing Isabella a surprise party tomorrow.

         But in the midst of the chaos, she found her voice. Her concentration.

        "I need a defibrillator," she commanded. The pressure made her see clearly—helped her think straight. "200 volts."

        She strapped her knuckles into the defibrillator. Letting the panic inside of her dissolve.

        The tidal wave of thoughts—not yet, oh, God, please, not yet—pulled back against the shore of her mind.

         The first kiss of electricity to flesh did nothing.

         Isabella's small, bare chest twitched—not enough. It wasn't enough.

        "225 volts," Paris said. 

        The next shock provoked a thump—Isabella's chest, spasming.

        "300 volts," Paris ordered. 

        But Isabella was only a sixty-pound, 4 foot tall girl. She didn't need that much voltage—but Paris wasn't done. Wasn't ready to give up.

         None of her parents were here. Not her mom or her older brother.

         Paris would be the one who had to tell them. 

         And she couldn't—she couldn't, not if she didn't do her best.

        "Did you hear me?" Paris demanded. "300 volts. Now."

        "Her heart has given up," one nurse said. "There's nothing you can do now, Doctor—"

        "I said 300 volts."

        Paris wouldn't be able to look Isabella's mom, Kelsey, or her brother, Matthew, in the eyes if she didn't do this. If she didn't try. 

        The next shock convulsed the little girl's body.

        For a moment, Isabella's mouth opened.

        You were going to turn seven. 

        The nurse declared, "Time of death: 2:04 p.m."

        It crashed against Paris, then—the ocean.

        I have to get out of here. 

        With one last look at Isabella, she swept away from the room, thinking of what Matthew and Mrs. Cantasia would look like when she broke the news.

         Would they have to wind up the pink streamers again? Prick each balloon until they deflated? 

        Would they have to throw away the candle with the number 7? 

        Isabella would never turn seven.

        "Paris," exclaimed Alec once she left the room. He sprung from his relaxed position against the wall, matching her stride for stride. 

        "Not right now," she said through gritted teeth.

        "I have to tell you the juiciest gossip," he said. Oblivious to the fury-red storm cloud hovering over head. "It's about—"

        "Let me guess—Princess Rory?"

        "Right, and that's not even the best part—"

        Paris was so furious she couldn't see straight. How could news about some rich, spoiled European princess be more important than a little girl who had just died? How could gossip about a stupid, cocky, heartbreaking heir matter to her now, after Isabella's death?

        Alec continued, "Princess Rory is going to be—"

        But Paris had already rounded on him. 

        "Listen," she hissed. "I don't give a damn about Rory Preston. I might be a pediatrician, not a psychiatrist, but I'm pretty sure she suffers from an over-inflated sense of self-importance! She is selfish and arrogant, and completely full of herself! The earth revolves around the sun, but if you ever met her, you would have a hard time telling her that. Newsflash! She could be in a coma for all I care. And if she were here, you know what I would tell her? Get over yourself. Everyone else has!" 

         Sometime during her speech, her voice had risen to a shout. Heat and steam and grief burned bright in her chest. Hotter than the aforementioned sun. 

          "I think you might just get the chance," Alec mumbled, though his blue eyes flared with delight. "Because she's right there."

           Paris turned around.

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Welcome! You made it to the end of the first chapter. I hope you're excited for this book, because I am. Hopefully, I'll see you soon.

How'd it go? 

From the moon and back,
Sarai