Fucking brilliant.

A high-stakes trauma case, a room full of people who need to get their shit together, and—just to make his day worse—her. Standing on the other side of the glass, arms crossed, gaze sharp as a blade. Ignoring him like he doesn’t fucking exist.

Rowan doesn’t have time for this. He’s got a patient bleeding out, a surgeon he can’t fucking stand assisting, and a migraine pounding behind his eyes.

But she’s here. And after the fight they had last night? The one that ended with her slamming the door in his face? She might as well be another goddamn problem on the table.

"Thorne, focus," some idiot mutters.

Rowan doesn’t snap, but it’s a near thing. Focus? He’s the only one keeping this poor bastard alive. Unlike everyone else in this room, he can compartmentalize.

Except when it comes to her.

Because even as he works, he feels her stare. The resentment. The distance. The unspoken fuck you that’s louder than any goddamn words.

She’s not just here for him, though. She’s here because of the case. Because the patient on his table happens to be one of her high-profile clients. Because while he deals in blood and bone, she deals in the aftermath—the lawsuits, the legal battles, the absolute fucking mess people make of their lives.

And she’s winning this fight too. Like always. Just not the one with him.

The worst part? He wants to fix it. But right now, there’s a man on this table with minutes to live, and Rowan Sinclair is not the kind of man who walks away from a fight—even if the one he actually wants to win is standing just beyond his reach.