My Second Chance Billionaire Lover

Sitting with her legs folded cross-legged against the cold floor, Camille was catching the dim light from the bedside lamp; it was the weight of a date, July 9th, pressing against her breasts. Actually, it is this day. Time hasn't really changed a lot for her. She could bury herself in all kinds of distractions, but it always happened. And with it comes that very familiar ache she's learned to embrace.

Slowly, her fingers would trace the worn-out edges of an old shoebox lying under her bed. Inside, they would lay nineteen letters-all sealed, all not sent. And now, she was about to add another sher.

A blank sheet of paper was pulled from the pack, smoothed over her lap, and picked up by her pen.

Dear Adrian,

How has life been treating you? Would you still recognize me today? It has been seven years, yet here I find myself writing to you as if you were just away on some long trip and that one day you would come home and read it all and laugh at how dramatic I was. But you don't, do you?

This, as you would have guessed, is my twentieth letter. I think you should feel really special now. Not even my diary gets this attention.

I wonder if you ever think about me. If you ever stop and hear a song and remember the way we used to drive around at night, our hands hanging out the window, pretending we were flying. Do you remember the last time we did that? We talked about leaving this town, about chasing something bigger than ourselves. I believed we would, but you left first. And you left me behind.

I still don't know why.

I spent the first few years thinking I must have missed something! Some sign, some unspoken goodbye hidden in your eyes-but there was nothing. Just silence. You know how cruel that is, Adrian? To disappear without a single word?

But I won't be cruel back. I will not say I hate you because that would be a lie.

The truth: I miss you.

I miss the way you used to laugh, the way you could tell when something was very wrong with me without me saying a word. I miss how you saw me when there was nobody else who did.

I can't tell where you are or what kind of life you live now-perhaps you have a world that's entirely different from mine. Yet I write.

Maybe because part of me still hopes.

Hope is such a dumb thing, is it not?

Ever yours,

Camille

She dropped the pen and took a shaking breath. She shouldn't be doing this anymore. Writing to a corpse. But Adrian could never leave her, could he? It was more of a haunting presence in the silence between breaths and quiet moments when the world slowed down enough for the memories to creep in.

As she was about to fold the letter, a loud clap of thunder broke across the night, rattling the windows. Jerked to guilty surprise, Camille's pulse skipped a beat as she turned to the window. Outside, it looked like the sky had darkened with heavy clouds swirling and rain was beginning to fall in sheets against the glass.

A storm.

How typical.

Camille left the breath she had been holding out and leaned back on the bed, the letter still open in her hands. The small lamp that illuminated her small apartment flickered and cast shadows on its walls.

Reaching up, her fingers brushed against the cheek from which a single tear had slipped away. In quick, decisive motions, she wiped it away before too much sadness could settle in.

What stared back was a woman at the window long past the girl Adrian had left behind, yet at the same time, she somehow still felt that girl.

Camille Hart had changed in many ways-from that once-soft, youthful face that had hardened with time. Her dark brown eyes now didn't brim with insane dreams, but were careful with age. Her hair, once wild, now fell in waves just over the shoulder, having been tamed enough to convince others that she had it all together.

She had built a successful career as a young intern in New York, an apartment that was small but entirely her own, friends who never proud too much about her past. By the eyes of outsiders, she had inputted on all that and moved on really well.

But this date always proved otherwise.

She turned back to the letter, fingers tightening on its edges as she whispered, "It's already time... You should be coming back, alright?"

Almost immediately after the words left her lips, a soft, bitter laugh escaped her.

How many times has she said that in her life? Whispered it into the nothingness, into her unsent letters?

But Adrian had never returned.

And perhaps the time had come to accept that he never would.

The rain began to pound on the roof, hard and fast, an impatient barrage against the windows. Camille ground her teeth and meticulously folded the letter, slipping it into the stack in the shoebox.

"This is the last one," she told herself.

She had to let it all go. Adrian Vaughn was dead. He was not coming back. And she could not keep pretending he might.

Tomorrow, she will throw the letters away.

Burn them; whatever.

Put the past away for good and move on.

That's what she told herself.

But Camille knew better.

No matter how many times she tried to promise herself to stop, the ink would always find a way to paper.

Because some love, no matter how long it's been, simply don't let go.

And some ghosts... slip back in just when you don't want them to.

The sound of Camille's alarm blaring in her little room was more of an intrusion into her disturbed hours of sleep. She grunted, asleep, with eyes still closed, groping for the phone on her nightstand, fingers fumbling for some time until silence fell. 7:42 A.M.

Her eyes widened.

7:42?!

Then, suddenly, she sat straight up in bed, thinking of the hospital shift that would start exactly at 8:00 sharp. Which meant she had only eighteen minutes to dress, gather her things, and find her way to work without Dr. Nathaniel Carter, her arrogant, condescending, and impossible-to-please supervisor, skinning her alive for being late.

Camille all but tumbled out of bed, her heart racing as she dashed into the bathroom. She switched on the tap, splashed cold water onto her face, and commenced short but frantic movements with a toothbrush to clean her teeth. There was no time for make-up or breakfast; only survival marked her list of priorities.

She yanked her closet door open, took hold of a clean pair of scrubs, then jumped around her small room tugging them over her head. Where was her coat? Where was her ID badge? Papers and textbooks were shoved around as panic turned into a frenzy until she finally spotted them draped on the back of her desk chair.

She grabbed her coat and bag in combination, deciding her sneakers were acceptable before dashing for the door.

Once outside, the musty air of the city slapped her in the face. New York in July is cruel, the kind of heat that clings and suffocates. Barely apt to notice her breaths, the moment Camille hails the taxi, the hissing word escapes her mouth.

"Saint Vincent's Hospital!" In a snap, she slipped through the back seat, fastening her seat belt.

The driver was an old man with tired eyes, who gave a slow nod and pulled out into traffic. But any glimmer of pity that might have existed in the universe for her was gone; there was a full-blown rush hour taking place at that moment.

Camille nervously drummed her fingers against her knee while her foot tapped impatiently on the cab floor. Already, she could hear Dr. Carter's cutting tone, full of disappointment.

"You're late yet again," Hart said. "Do you think this is some kind of joke?"

Her stomach twisted at the thought.

She hated working under him. He had an uncanny ability to make anyone he worked with feel like they could hardly breathe on their own. No praise; no patience-barely impossible expectations.

As soon as the taxi came to a halt at the curb of the hospital, Camille handed the driver a twenty and fled through the doors.

.

.

.

The clinic lobby was alive with energy. Nurses moved down the halls, patients occupied the waiting area, while the few doctors assembled by the reception desk, poring over their case files.

Camille slipped past a nurse carrying a tray of vials, heart pounding, and made a running start toward the staff room, hoping to blend in unnoticed.

She wasn't so lucky.

Dr. Nathaniel Carter's deep and authoritative voice cleaved through the noise like a knife.

"Hart. You're late."

Camille froze. Straining to turn slowly, she felt her stomach drop at the sight of the supervisor by the nurse's station with arms crossed, an unmistakably disapproving frown set on his sharp, clean-cut visage.

Dr. Carter seemed to be around thirty years old, and yet he bore himself like a man who had never once tasted defeat. Dapperly dressed in every way, stylishly composed, and always expectant of nothing but perfection from everyone else in his presence.

Camille steeled herself.

"Do you know what time it is?" he said with unnerving calmness, cloaked with an undercurrent of danger.

She swallowed. "I....."

"Eight seventeen," he said, tilting his head slightly. "That's seventeen past the hour you're meant to be here, Hart. I guess you have a fantastic excuse?"

Camille gritted her teeth. No. No excuse. Just exhaustion and a nasty habit of writing letters to forgotten souls.

"I overslept," she admitted, her voice calm.

Dr. Carter sighed as if she had personally ruined his morning.

"You're an intern," Hart said. Not some junior high kid who can afford to waste time." He stepped closer and lowered his voice enough to reach her ear. "If you cannot handle the responsibility, there are plenty of others who can."

The words were sharp but expected.

"I can take it," she said as she tightened her fists against her sides.

He left her with a long assessing look.

Then, with a nonchalant shrug, he indicated the towering piles of files on the nurse's desk.

"You are on patient rounds today. Do not screw it up."

And then turning, he walked away as if he had already forgotten her.

Camille exhaled sharply, struggling against the urge to mumble something inappropriate under her breath.

"Youch."

She spun around to see Mia standing close enough to watch it all unfold and wince sympathetically.

Ever since the first year of medical school, Mia has been Camille's best friend-a vibrant, sharp-witted blonde with a heart of gold and a terribly stubborn disposition for finding humor even in the blackest of situations.

"I swear, that man needs to get a hobby." Mia folded her arms. "He thinks he was born in a hospital and never left."

Camille sighed and ran a hand through her dark hair: "I don't think he sleeps. He just lurks around waiting for me to make a mistake."

Mia smirked. "Well, you do make it easy for him when you show up late."

"Don't start."

"Relax, I brought you coffee." Mia then handed her a steaming cup from the nurse's station. "Though I was planning to bribe you with it if you were in an extra-bad mood."

Camille thankfully drank from the cup full of rich aroma, then sipped. "You are a lifesaver."

"I will try." Mia bumped her shoulder. "Now go do your rounds before he finds another reason to hate you."

Holding her case file, Camille walked through the clinic hallways, checking patients. She was indeed good at connecting with those people, making them feel heard.

Her first patient, Mr. Calloway, a 72-year-old retired professor who loved telling awful jokes, said, "Miss Hart! "Late again, I see," meeting her with a wide-toothed grin.

"Please don't tell me even the patients know," Camille groaned.

"You're predictable," came his chuckle while checking his vitals-with irritation from Dr. Carter faded slowly as this is how most of her work involves.

As she wrapped her rounds and proceeded to examine her last patient, however, she froze just a step outside one of the examination rooms.

Her heart fluttered in a single beat.

The name file in her hands punched her gut deep down.

Adrian Vaughn .

At that instant, Camille could breathe.

The entire world around her swam, with the name almost choking her in emotions that exploded through her body; it simply had to be a coincidence. After all, Adrian Vaughn had to be a common enough name, right?

It wasn't him. It couldn't be.

Fingers trembling, she reached for the doorknob, her heartbeat hammering in her ears.

Then pushed it open.

As her eyes fell on the man lying on the hospital bed, her breath caught.

It was him.

Adrian.

Seven years. That was the amount of time since she had last seen him. Seven years since he had last disappeared without a single word.

But now, there he was, alive, real, and sitting right in front of her.

Adrian turned his head, stormy blue eyes locking onto hers. And for a heartbeat, time stood still.

Camille gripped the clipboard in her hands, fighting to regain her balance.

Adrian blinked. Then, with an expression that was almost unreadable, and a very deliberate tone, she repeated her name.

"Camille."

Adrian Vaughn sat opposite her, was both familiar and foreign. Seven years had chipped away the rounded patina from his boyishness, etching into his face sharper lines. His jaw was more defined; she thought his dark brown hair was cropped a little shorter than she'd seen last, but his body was broader, more muscular. But those stormy blue eyes looked the same: piercing and inscrutable.

She must have imagined this encounter a thousand times. On the street, at some café, anywhere, with a questioning gaze. Confronting him directly, for sure, about having simply disappeared.

But she had never pictured that.

There was a single bewildered blink from Adrian, confusion sweeping over his face little by little before he finally spoke.

"You must be Doctor Camille?"

She felt a chill trace down her spine.

Doctor Camille?

He didn't know her.

He didn't recognize her.

All those years of writing to a ghost, longing for a man who vanished out of her life without a word, and now, with so much presence, sitting in front of her and looking straight into her eyes, he didn't even know whose name to call.

Something clenched in her heart, but she refused to show it.

Instead, she marshaled her thoughts and settled on looking gruff and distant.

"Yes," she said, placing the clipboard on the bedside table. "Dr. Camille Hart."

Adrian tilted his head slightly, his gaze strolling over her in mild interest.

"You look... young to be a doctor," he said, raising one brow. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

What he said bothered Camille.

Not so much what he said, but the way he said it; casual, amused, as if he were joking, playing her along.

The grip on the pen in her hand tightened.

"If it bothers you, I could get an intern, or a med student to treat you," she said, smoldering in irritation, her voice steady, "That is, if you really wish."

As she turned around, she could feel her heart beating heavier; emotions would have their way if she did not make a quick exit.

However, just as she reached the door, a voice broke the silence of the room.

"And what do you think, Hart? Where are you going?"

Camille felt her stomach drop.

The decision is to turn whether she has to turn to the other cheater or soul.

Standing in the doorway is Dr. Nathaniel Carter, arms crossed and eyes sharp as they flicker between her and Adrian. His presence instantly fills the room, heavy with authority and quiet disapproval.

Camille swallowed her discomfort and stood in her normal posture.

"The patient requested another medical practitioner," she said, and even kept her voice steady while saying those unwanted words.

Dr. Carter's brows arched slightly. "Oh? Did he?"

Dr. Carter turned his attention back to Adrian. "Is there a problem, Mr. Vaughn?"

Adrian shrugged a little in the hospital bed. "No problem, Doctor."

Camille felt her face redden, and she really had to exercise self-restraint and not to roll her eyes.

Nathaniel stepped closer, sifting through the patient's file in his hands.

"So, what happened?" he queried as he scanned the details.

Adrian shifted his injured arm and let out a sigh. "I fell and broke my arm."

That was it.

Camille had been secretly watching the whole thing when she suddenly couldn't stop herself from letting out a very quiet chuckle.

Not loud but very well echoed in the silence of the room.

Adrian's gaze snapped at her, brows knitting together furiously.

Dr. Carter, too, turned in her direction, his eyes hawk-sharp.

"Something funny, Hart?" he queried coolly.

Camille realized too late that, for once, she had been zoning out again even in the processing of everything, and as a result, did not even hear his question.

She cleared her throat, scrambling for an answer.

"Yes, uh... I said we might have to give him some morphine," she added.

Heavy silence descended into the air.

Adrian appeared to be entertained.

Nathaniel, however, was not amused.

He blew hard through his nose, shaking his head. Then, in low, precise tones, he said, "Hart, he has a fracture, not post-surgical pain. If you had been listening, you would know that."

Her jaw clenched.

"He needs acetaminophen for mild pain and a cast," added Nathaniel. "Call the nurse, and have it set up."

Then, with no further interest in her, he turned to Adrian. "I'll come check in on you later."

With that, Dr. Carter walked out without saying another word.

Leaving only her and Adrian.

Camille felt as if a chimera, a thick one, just settled like a heavy weight upon the two of them, suffocating the air they breathed.

Her pride was hurt because of the scolding in front of a patient; in fact, in front of this patient.

Fingers racing on the pager, Camille typed a message to the nurse's station, trying to pretend that she did not notice Adrian's hungry gaze upon her.

"So, Dr. Camille," came his voice after a moment, slow and ponderous. "What's your deal?"

She frowned, looking up. "My deal?"

He tilted his head, eyeing her. "You seem... tense. Almost like you don't want to be here."

Camille dry-laughed. "That's because I don't."

He smirked and shifted in bed. "So it's not just me, then."

With a deep breath and an annoyed crossing of arms, she said, "Mr. Carter, do you think we can just get on with this without endless talk?"

He raised a brow at her. "You really don't like me, huh?"

Camille stiffened.

That wasn't it.

Truth be told, she held far too many feelings concerning Adrian Vaughn : anger, confusion, loss. And now she had to stand in front of him-attractive, infuriating Adrian-who didn't even remember her life and make believe she was just another doctor.

Screaming was what she really wanted to do. Instead, she chose a shorter, coolly professional response.

"I really don't have an opinion about you."

Adrian hummed like he didn't take her word for it.

But before anything else blurted from his mouth, a nurse appeared, carting supplies to set his arm.

Camille pulled out of the way, watching the nurse work.

For now, she was safe.

For now, the conversation has ended.

But deep within Camille, an ominous feeling insinuated that this was only step number one of something much, much worse.