Chaos has a sound—and today it’s my ambulance brakes shrieking against Fifth Avenue.

Get a grip, Hartwell. I kill the siren, fling the door wide, and jump out, boots slapping hot asphalt.

Flashes. Shouts. Manhattan’s paparazzi circus is in full screech, ricocheting off limestone façades.

But my world narrows to a single, terrifying image: a little girl in a rumpled school uniform, lips edging a bruised blue. Instinct takes over.

The man cradling her looks as if he just strode off the cover of Forbes—charcoal suit, lethal tailoring—but the polish is shattered.

He’s barefoot on the curb, a crescent bruise shadowing one high cheekbone, and the watch glittering on his wrist probably costs more than my annual salary.

Still, all I see is a father gripping his child so hard his knuckles have split.

Focus, Eliza. Breathe.

“EMT,” I shout, slicing between hulking bodyguards and frantic nannies. “Clear a path. Now.”

He hands her over instantly, though his grip never quite releases her tiny fingers.

Our hands brush; a spark—hot, unwelcome—zings straight up my arm. Not now.

His eyes—winter-cold, frighteningly calculating—lock on mine. “Peak-flow baseline two-twenty,” he rattles off. “She’s under ninety. Albuterol ineffective.”

Great. A walking medical journal. “Copy that, Dad.” My tone is calm; my stare, colder. He registers the warning and steps back exactly eighteen inches. Precise. Military.

I drop to the pavement. “Hey, princess.” Soft voice. “I’m Eliza.” Up close, I see faint dryness at the corners of her mouth and her diaphragm fluttering like a trapped bird. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Iz… Izzy,” she gasps.

“Beautiful name. Let’s make your lungs happy again, okay?”

She nods bravely. Pediatric sat probe: eighty-eight. Dropping. Damn. “Mack—neb set, five milligrams!”

Before my partner can blink, Mr. Control thrusts a pre-loaded syringe at me. “Levalbuterol. Weight-adjusted.”

I arch a brow. “Protocols first, sir.” Swap syringe for neb mask, cinch straps. His jaw flexes, but he backs off. Good boy.

Izzy’s eyes—wide, terrified—glisten through the plastic. I lean closer. “Pretend you’re a dragon,” I whisper. “Big breath in… blow out fire.”

Her tiny chest expands. Good girl.

Dad’s phone shrills with an executive-level ringtone; he mutes it without glancing away. Every atom of him is trained on his daughter’s shallow breaths. Mine too.

Then the inevitable power play. “Hassenfeld Children’s,” he murmurs. “Her pulmonologist’s on call.”

“Lenox Hill is five blocks,” I counter.

“Hassenfeld has her full record.”

Control freak. I straighten. “If she dips again, five blocks becomes life or death. My rig, my call.”

His nostrils flare, but after a taut heartbeat he nods once. “Ride in, then decide.”

A flare of respect—or is it heat?—flickers low in my belly. Not the time.

Mack punches the gas, threading traffic like a viper. I perch on the bench seat; Izzy’s small fingers curl around mine. Dad drops opposite us, knees grazing my boot whenever we lurch.

“Heights,” she whispers through mist.

I lean in. “Scary?”

“She hates them,” Dad says, voice rough silk. “First attack on the school balcony.”

I soothe. “Okay, Izzy—picture solid stone under your feet. A castle floor.”

“And dragons on top,” she manages, pulse slowing a hair. Good.

Relief cracks Dad’s façade, raw and unguarded.

For a blink, the power-broker vanishes, replaced by a terrified father praying he won’t fail his little girl. Oh, my poor heart.

Traffic snarls on the FDR; sirens bounce off glass. Sats crawl to ninety-two. Progress. Dad murmurs orders into his phone—efficient even in panic.

Lenox Hill exit flashes by. I gamble. “We’ll push to Hassenfeld; if sats dive, we divert. Agreed?”

“Yes.” One syllable, soaked in gratitude, warms places I really shouldn’t feel just now.

He drops his head, shoulders sagging. I notice a tremor in his hand—fear, adrenaline, old ghosts. Interesting.

Izzy’s mask fogs; she squeezes my fingers. I pivot so Dad sees her brave grin. His trembling eases.

Pager buzz—another crisis somewhere else. Later. One life at a time.

“New rule,” I tell Izzy. “Each birthday earns a dragon-scale sticker on your inhaler. Deal?”

She giggles, coughs, then grins again. Dad’s icy eyes soften—glacier melt.

Hassenfeld doors slide wide; Dr. Liv Bennett waits with residents. Sats ninety-six—perfect. I deliver a quick report.

“Textbook,” Liv says.

“She nailed the dragon breaths,” I shrug, pride blooming anyway.

Izzy tugs my sleeve. “Ride the elevator with us?”

It spears me through the ribs. I glance at Dad. He nods, silent plea in cobalt eyes. Not protocol—but screw protocol. I jog beside them to triage, peel away only when doors swallow the stretcher. Gloves off, finger by finger, the world humming in my ears.

Silence. For the first time since 5:27 a.m., nothing claws for my attention. It feels wrong.

He appears—naturally—holding an embossed card. Montgomery International. Of course.

“Your expertise—”

I lift a hand. “Doing my job doesn’t come with a retainer.”

“It’s gratitude, not currency.”

“Gratitude that slips neatly into a wallet,” I mutter, snapping a glove into the bios bin.

A gust whips through; coolant slicks beneath my boot. I skid—just—then strong hands clamp around my arm, solid, warm, commanding. Time stalls. His face is inches away, eyes no longer ice but storm-lit cobalt. My lungs forget to function.

“You okay?” His voice is velvet over gravel.

“Fine,” I whisper.

He releases me slowly, fingertips brushing my pulse and scattering sparks. Then he presses the card into my palm, gaze intent.

“You saved my daughter. Now let me save you.”

The words punch straight through my armor, leaving me breathless. He lets them hang—weighty, earnest—before adding, quieter, “If you ever need anything…call.”

I swallow hard, pocketing the card even as my heart hammers. “I’ll bill you,” I say, deadpan.

A ghost of a smile curves his mouth—almost. “Drive safe, Eliza Hartwell.”

I vault into the rig and slam the door before my knees betray me. Mack’s grin gleams in the divider. “Seriously—cute rich daddy.”

“Zip it.” I gun the engine, but the side mirror exposes me: Grayson Montgomery watches us pull away, loneliness clinging to him like exhaust.

With lights blazing, we roar into traffic. The heat flaming up my neck? Pure adrenaline. Not the echo of his fingertips. Men like him occupy penthouses and boardrooms. Women like me stitch strangers together and pray the MCAT gods are kind.

Still, as we merge onto First Avenue, I tuck his card against my heart—because maybe, just maybe, gratitude can be the beginning of something else.