Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Before I can respond, a voice calls out. “Cavin! There you are.”
We both turn to see an older man approaching, maybe in his early fifties, with graying hair and kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He’s wearing an expensive suit, but there’s something about the way he carries himself that seems less predatory than most of the people here. More… genuine, somehow.
“Dr. Rosenberg,” Cavin says, and I hear genuine warmth in his voice. “Good to see you, mate.”
My heart stops.
Dr. Rosenberg.
Oh my god. That’s him. That’s the doctor who could save Bridget.
And he’s here. Right here.
Mam was right.
“And this must be your fiancée,” Dr. Rosenberg says, extending his hand to me with a smile. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you, Miss Kavanagh.”
I take his hand, trying not to let my shock show. “It’s lovely to meet you, Dr. Rosenberg,” I manage, my voice steadier than I feel. “Cavin’s told me about you as well.”
I’m stretching the truth, but I know who this man is. I know what he could mean for Bridget.
“Liam’s one of the best doctors in the UK,” Cavin says, his hand warm on my lower back. “Saved my uncle’s life a few years back when no one else could figure out what was wrong with him.”
“Oh, I just did my job,” Dr. Rosenberg says modestly, but there’s pride in his eyes. “Though I must say, it was a challenging case. Took nearly six months to get the diagnosis right.”
Six months. The thought hits me like a punch to the gut, but I force myself to smile.
“Your work must be fascinating,” I say, and I hear the slight tremor in my voice. “I’ve read about some of your research. The work you’re doing with patients who have complex hematological conditions—it’s really remarkable. Groundbreaking, even.”
Dr. Rosenberg’s eyebrows rise, and I see genuine surprise—and interest—flash across his face. I’m guessing most people don’t know the details about the work he does. “You’ve done your homework. Most people’s eyes glaze over when I start talking about blood disorders.”
“I know someone,” I start, then stop myself. Not here. Not now. Not in front of all these people.
But Dr. Rosenberg is watching me with those kind, intelligent eyes.
“Well,” he says carefully, “if you ever want to discuss my work further, Miss Kavanagh, I’d be happy to. Cavin has my number.” He glances at Cavin. “You’ll pass it along?”
“Of course,” Cavin says, but there’s a question in his eyes when he looks at me. Have I said too much?
“Thank you,” I tell Dr. Rosenberg, and I mean it more than he could possibly know. “That would be wonderful.”
He gives me a warm smile, shakes Cavin’s hand again, and melts back into the crowd.
The moment he’s gone, Cavin turns to me. “Alright. What was that about?”
“What do you mean?”
“Erin.” His voice is gentle but firm. “You looked like you’d seen a ghost when I introduced him. And that bit about reading his research? You weren’t just being polite.”
I swallow hard, debating how much to tell him. But he’s going to be my husband. And if there’s anyone who might actually be able to help me get Bridget in to see Dr. Rosenberg…
The bruising and bleeding aren’t getting any better. My sister’s running out of time.
We’re interrupted by someone calling Cavin’s name—some business associate wanting to talk about investments or politics or whatever it is these people discuss when they’re not busy destroying lives.
“Mr. McCarthy!” The man is tall and barrel-chested, with a red face that suggests too much whiskey and too many rich meals. “Been wanting to catch you. Need to discuss the developments in—”
“Not now, Finnegan,” Cavin says smoothly, but there’s steel underneath the politeness.
“But it’s important—”
“I said not now.” Cavin’s voice drops lower, more dangerous. “I’m with my fiancée. Whatever you need can wait until Monday.”
Finnegan’s face gets redder, but he backs off with a mumbled apology.
“Christ,” Cavin mutters once he’s gone. “This is exactly why I fucking hate these things.”
“Because people want to talk business?”
“Because everyone wants something from you, and they don’t care if you’re in the middle of a conversation or eating dinner or taking a piss. They just want, want, want.” He runs a hand through his hair, disrupting the carefully styled look. “It’s exhausting.”
I understand that feeling more than he knows.
“Come on,” he says, taking my hand again. “Let’s get you out of here for a minute.”
“We just got here.”
“And I’m already done with it.” His mouth quirks. “Perks of being the groom—I can leave whenever the fuck I want.”
He’s lying, of course. We both know we can’t actually leave, but I appreciate the sentiment.
He leads me through the crowd, and I notice the way people part for him. The way they watch him with a mixture of respect and fear. The way even the most powerful men here give him a wide berth.