Asystole ✷ Mark Sloan

𝟬𝟭𝟮 gold rush

𝙓𝙄𝙄.
GOLD RUSH

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[ a continuation of chapter ten ]

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NEW YORK

FAKE DATING MARK Sloan was not my idea of a good time.

It seemed as though Mark appearing at any social event was bound to be some sort of scandal. Eyes followed us from the door to the floor and I had to ignore the very blatant whispering that haunted our every movement. I was momentarily caught off-guard by the familiar uncomfortable tingle that danced up and down my spine and instead, looked over at the man at my side.

He gave me a strained smile.

Right.

We made the unanimous decision to split into two very opposite directions, with him gravitating towards a male dominated bar at the back of the gala and me being left to pick my way over towards the ladies. They all regarded me with skeptic eyes, catching my carefully pieced together posture and my extortionately priced clothing. I braced myself for interrogation and mentally ran the script that Mark and I had agreed on.

We both work in surgery.

Yes, we're very busy.

Oh, we're so very happy.

Yes, we've been dating for a while now.

We're both very career-orientated.

Did I mention that Mark's thinking about pitching a project on skin graft regeneration?

We've never been happier.

Yes, busy! Always so busy!

No, no plans for anything just yet—

Did we mention how happy we are?

I supposed that trying to suck money out of the rich was the sort of skill you never forgot. It was like riding a bicycle, although instead of stabilisers you just needed half a case of champagne and a burning resentment for the people who profited off of the extortionate interest rates on medical insurance. It was pretty easy to get into the flow of conversation and I allowed myself to get swept up; I dipped from conversation to conversation, ignoring the fact that this really was more Addison's sort of thing.

I'd done this a million times, to the point where I could hear a mixture of voices at the back of my head, a blur of Bizzy Forbes and my sister, encouraging me to correct my posture and add an extra gleam to my smile. Old muscles were flexed, faded pleasantries were exchanged and the absence of my sister was discussed in full. 

In fact, more than once, my conversation followed the same Addison-themed structure, with a random trophy wife approaching me and kissing my cheeks as if we'd known each other our whole lives. 

They'd grasp onto my wrist, smile so wide that I could see their full set of veneers and then immediately launch into how I'd grown up so much since they'd last seen me. (I'd never appreciated that sentiment, it was overly patronising and it made me lunge for another glass of champagne.) Then conversation would flow in the same way: