PLAYBOY PRINCESS (gxg) ✓

01. Paris Young

THIS IS THE "PREVIEW" OF THIS BOOK WHILE I KEEP WORKING ON HUNTER'S ALPHA AND HEAVEN'S CRIME. 

IF YOU'RE INTERESTED TO SEE WHERE THE STORY GOES, LET ME KNOW! I'M SO EXCITED TO START THIS ONE.

WITHOUT FURTHER ADO, CONTINUE.

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              MY NAME IS EVELYN TRIBECA AND my daughter is going to die.

              The words kept echoing in Paris's ears, the chorus of a never-ending symphony. The woman's face—her haunted eyes, her calm expression—circled Paris's thoughts, even as she fought for her focus.

              My daughter is going to die—

              At 3:47 a.m. this morning, Paris had received a dispatch from the hospital.

              It had only taken her minutes—pediatrician's coat, car keys, shoes—and the drive to the hospital had been short. 

              Her favourite part of every morning—the calm before the storm. 

              The empty highway. 

              The grey of pre-kissed dawn. 

              The chill of night soaking into her chest. 

              When she arrived at Mount Sinai General, she had noticed a woman who stood out to her. Young, maybe in her forties. Copper-brown hair. 

              There was a girl a few feet away, head bowed. 

              Leukemia—Paris could tell.

              But the woman—this woman stood out to Paris for one reason.

               Working in the children's ward of the hospital, where most of the kids had terminal illnesses, like cancer, there was one thing in common about the parents: tears. 

               Paris didn't blame them. Most parents were hysterical, afraid, not ready to lose their children.

              But this woman was calm—contained.

              The moment she saw Paris, her head snapped towards her. A bloodhound. "Doctor Young?"

             "Yes, how may I help you?"

             It was 4:06 in the morning. Paris's fingers tightened on her key card, her white coat swishing around her as she moved towards the woman.

             Behind her, the receptionist—a girl Paris knew was named Anna—shot her a look that read, Be careful. 

             Be careful of what? Paris thought, right before the woman spoke again.

             "My name is Evelyn Tribeca, and my daughter is dying."

             She seemed . . . serene, almost. Peaceful. 

            She wasn't telling Paris about her daughter's incoming death—she was talking about the weather. She might as well have been saying, My name is Evelyn Tribeca, and I like long walks by the beach. 

             "Is your daughter a patient here?" Paris had asked.

            "No, but I want her to be. I hear you have authority here. Is that true?"