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                "PARIS YOUNG." 

                 THE DELIGHT IN ALEC'S BLUE eyes shone like glass as Paris froze. 

                 Every thought emptied out of her head.

                 Because the last time she had heard that voice—the last time she had heard her name spoken like that—

                 It had been in Switzerland.

                 Vega's Boarding School For Ladies.

                 She remembered that it had been in between the wooden pews of the church. Rory on her knees in front of Paris, worship on her tongue. 

                A wicked, devout glint in her eyes.

                And a sinner's grin on that heavenly mouth.

                Paris Young. 

                She turned around.

                What had she been expecting? The same boyish mischief in her long-lashed eyes? The familiar hint of utter cockiness in her red-mouthed smirk? 

                Rory Preston, the young heiress to a kingdom she had never wanted.

                What did they call her nowadays? 

                Paris's fingers tightened over her keycard. The Playboy Princess. 

                But Rory didn't look the same as she had five years ago.

                Her cheekbones were high, gilded in an unfair glow. Her chestnut hair was long and flecked with snow, a silvery spray of pearls. And her mouth wasn't that lush red, the same red Paris had once licked off her lips, but natural. Soft and dewy and pink. There was an unfamiliar flex to her sharp jaw, but her eyes—they still watched with the same unwavering arrogance as always.

                Maybe Rory Preston was more beautiful than the last time Paris had seen her, but it didn't mean she had changed. 

                There was one thing different, though. The wheelchair.

                She had a snowboarding accident . . . 

                Rory's arms were braced on either side, hovering over the metal wheels. It seemed as though she had just rolled herself right into the hospital from outside.

                "Your Majesty," Paris said, and she knew her cheeks were flaming.

                "Young," Rory said. "Don't tell me we've got to be formal now." 

                Alec was still watching, but Paris didn't care.

                Not as she hissed, "We have to be professional. Nobody knows that we know each other. My colleagues don't—"

               "You mean, your colleagues don't know I've been between your legs?" Rory asked, drawing her tongue over her bottom lip. "They don't know I fucked you senseless at Miss Vega's All-Ladies Boarding Academy, where women are supposed to be prim and proper?"

                Paris opened her mouth, fire roaring in her ears.

                "You can't say that here, Rory—"

                "Oh, your colleagues don't know that I once had you moaning my name so loudly we had to convince the headmistress who walked in on us that we were praying to God?"

               In two steps, Paris was suddenly in front of Rory's wheelchair. Something had crystallized, solidified inside of her. Maybe it was Isabella's death. Maybe it was seeing someone she had once—don't think about it—after five years. But it burned inside of her, this resolve.

               This was her battlefield. Her playing ground.

               Paris was the lead physician here, and she wouldn't be bullied in her own territory.

              "Listen," Paris said. "Maybe that wasn't the warm welcome you intended, but—"

              "'The earth revolves around the sun, but you'd have a hard time telling her that'?"

               Paris clenched her jaw. "Was I supposed to bow at your feet? Was I supposed to just run back into your arms after you—"

               No. There was no point thinking about it. 

                Especially not when Paris still had no idea why Rory was here. 

                "This is my workplace," Paris snapped, aware now that Alec—and a couple of other interns—were watching. "So back off, Princess." 

                For a moment, so brief and fleeting, Paris wondered if she had actually managed to hurt Rory. A muscle flickered in her jaw, and her beautiful—don't you dare—mouth twitched.

                But then the smile appeared, so confidently, that Paris knew she had imagined it.

               "It seems you weren't informed, then, Doctor."

                Don't do it. Don't do it. 

                Paris asked, "Informed of what?"

               "I'm going to be your new patient until Christmas."

✫✫✫

              "YOU'RE TELLING ME THAT THE PRINCESS OF VALERIA is going to be staying here for the next six weeks?" 

              The Chief of Medicine, Monroe Rodriguez, squinted through the window at the winter landscape. Snow swirled against the glass. White wonderland. 

              "Yes," she said, humming. "That's right."

              "Why here?" Paris said. "Why in the pediatrics ward?"

               Why didn't you tell me? she wanted to shout.

               Monroe Rodriguez said, "The king of Valeria requested this place. You know Mount Sinai General offers one of the only remote locations in the world. Paired with our doctors—who are the  best of the best—and this was his first choice. No paparazzi here. No publicity. The princess needs to recover in peace."

               Paris wanted to scream.

               Maybe it was the unfairness of it all, or the fact that she had watched a girl she had practically raised die, but she couldn't take it.

               "This is ridiculous," she said.

               Monroe raised an eyebrow. 

               Paris continued, "You know we have limited space to offer patients. Just this morning, there was a woman whose daughter was dying."

               My name is Evelyn Tribeca.

               "We can offer her daughter a space now! We can help kids, and when some—some spoiled heiress is taking up room in my ward, it's a problem."

               "No," Monroe said simply.

               "What do you mean no?"

                "I mean, the king has offered the hospital a very, very generous donation in exchange for his daughter's stay."

                 "No," Paris repeated, dazed.

                  Bribery. It was practically bribery.

                  "No, Rory Preston won't be going anywhere," said Monroe. "And, as a matter of fact . . . she'll be staying with you."

                  Paris could only stare.

                  "Yes," Monroe finished. "The princess will be staying in your ward because nobody would ever expect it."

                  "I'm sure no one would expect her in the senior ward either."

                  As though she hadn't heard, Monroe added, "And . . . because she requested it."

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Do y'all see where this is going? Because I do.

From the moon and back,
Sarai