Trapped by the Cold Doctor

Damien Cole POV.

The sharp scent of antiseptic clung to the air, laced with the faint metallic tang of blood. The operating room was cold and sterile, like everything else in my life lately.

I stepped away from the surgical table, my limbs dragging with exhaustion. The heart transplant had been a success, but it had drained every last drop of energy from me. Six straight hours, every second spent dancing on the edge between life and death. That's what I do to pull people back from the edge. Even when I'm the one hanging off it.

My hands were shaking as I peeled off my gloves. The adrenaline was still buzzing in my veins, refusing to let me rest. I wanted to feel triumphant. Relief. But lately, the victories have felt hollow.

I tossed the gloves and scrubs into the bin and splashed cold water onto my face. The shock of it stung, but it was the only thing that felt real. Gripping the sides of the sink, I leaned in and stared at my reflection.

The man in the mirror barely looked like me anymore.

Sunken eyes, dull and empty. A few days' worth of stubble clinging to a jaw I used to keep meticulously clean-shaven. Shadows etched themselves into my skin like bruises, not just from fatigue but from everything else. Grief and Guilt. The kind of sorrow that doesn't bleed out when you cut yourself open. The kind that sits in your chest like a ticking bomb, and no stethoscope could ever detect.

I looked at myself and wondered how long it had been since I'd really felt anything that wasn't clinical or numbing. Since I'd smiled for a reason other than protocol.

With a sigh, I reached for a paper towel and wiped my face dry, the scent of antiseptic still clinging to my skin like a second layer. My body ached as I walked slowly to my office, each step dragging with the weight of hours spent in the OR. The moment I stepped in, I collapsed into my leather chair not like a man who had worked all day, but like someone carrying

years of exhaustion on his back.

I reached for my phone.

I had silenced it before the surgery, not wanting any distractions especially if the call came from the one person who could unravel me with a single word.

"Emily."

My daughter. My reason for breathing. My only light in a life that had grown unbearably dark.

Two missed calls.

My heart lurched.

Not Emily but her school.

Shit.

I sat upright and immediately redialed, my fingers trembling slightly. The ringing felt like thunder in my ears, each tone stretching the tightness in my chest.

"Hello, Mr. Damien Cole," a warm, polite voice answered on the third ring. "This is Miss Daniya speaking from Emily's school."

I froze.

My grip on the phone tightened, the air suddenly heavier in my lungs.

"Is everything okay?" I asked the question roughly and too quickly. I could already feel the dread coiling in my gut like a loaded spring, bracing for impact.

"Oh yes, no worries. We just wanted to remind you about the kindergarten family event next Friday. We're encouraging both parents to attend if possible."

Of course. The event.

Emily had told me about it last week. Her little face lit up with hope, her voice soft, almost unsure.

"Will Mom come this time?"

Her eyes had searched mine, wide and full of impossible dreams.

I smiled. And lied.

"Yes, Mom will definitely come, princess," I had whispered, pretending the lump in my throat didn't exist.

She giggled. "Okay, Daddy. I love you."

"I love you more, Em," I replied, my voice cracking like thin ice under pressure.

She'd run off to her room, her curls bouncing behind her, leaving behind a silence that choked me harder than any scalpel ever could.

I don't know why I said yes.

Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was just the way she'd looked at me hopeful. Trusting.

God, I hated myself for that lie.

Because I knew the truth.

Her mom wasn't coming.

She never did.

I forced a polite smile into my voice. Thank you, Miss Daniya. "Of course. We'll be there."

The call ended, but I stayed frozen, phone still in my hand, staring at the dark screen as though it might offer me answers I didn't already hate.

I let the phone fall to the desk and leaned back, a dull ache blooming at the center of my chest. I was a heart surgeon. I could hold a dying man's heart in my hands and bring him back to life. But I couldn't fix the one heart that mattered most to me.

Emily's.

Not when I was the one who kept breaking it.

I closed my eyes, pinched the bridge of my nose, and tried to suppress the pressure building behind my eyes. I couldn't sit still. Couldn't breathe. Not here.

I grabbed my car keys and walked out of the hospital without a second thought.

The sign Velvet Ember pulsed with life. Glowed like a bleeding wound in the dark. Neon red, pulsing. Loud music bled through the thick glass, wrapping itself around the night like a drunken lover.

I pulled into the parking space and killed the engine. Sat still for a moment.

The air inside the club hit me like a punch to the chest: sweat, perfume, smoke, desperation. The place reeked of people trying to forget. I was no better. I wasn't there to drink. I wasn't even sure why I was there.

I just needed to stop feeling like me.

Women drifted past, trailing whispers, laughter too sharp to be real. Painted lips. Hungry eyes. Predators. Prey. All blurred into one aching picture of survival. Some looked at me like a fresh paycheck.

I ignored them all.

I walked to the farthest booth, slipped into the sticky leather seat, and the heat of the place clinging to my skin. My heart thudded dully in my chest. The buzz of the room faded into white noise.

Then she appeared.

She wasn't the prettiest woman in the room, not the loudest.

But she stopped me cold.

There was something about her. She didn't look like the others. Her dress was short, her makeup light, her heels too thin but her eyes..

They were tired. Not just from the night, but from life. And yet, beneath the exhaustion, I saw something else. A flicker of dignity. A thread of pride that hadn't yet been snuffed out. She didn't move like the others. She didn't wear that same hollow smile.

She walked toward me, calm and composed.

"Vodka?" she asked. Her voice was low, steady. Like someone who had been numb for a very long time.

I nodded.

She poured.

I took a sip, but the burn barely registered. My eyes hadn't left her face.

"Do you offer private services?" I asked. My voice was quiet, steady like I was discussing a patient's chart, not asking for intimacy.

She didn't flinch. Didn't play coy.

Instead, she just looked at me. Really looked. Like she was searching for something beyond the question.

"Yes," she said finally, her voice just as calm. "But you'll have to speak to Madam Rose."

"And where is she?" I asked, glancing around. "I didn't see her."

She lifted her hand and pointed to the far corner, where a woman plump, overdressed, and clearly in command sat laughing with a group of high society vultures in designer gowns.

"There," she said.

I followed her gaze.

And then, without another word, I walked toward Madam Rose.

She caught sight of me and smiled warmly, that familiar polished charm in her expression.

"Mr. Damien Cole. How are you? What a pleasant surprise to see you."

"I'm fine," I said, my voice steady but laced with fatigue. "It's been a while since I came around."

She nodded knowingly, always quick to read between the lines.

"I hope you'll find a way to entertain me tonight," I added, offering her a small, tired smile.

She chuckled, her eyes twinkling. "I'm sure we can. Don't forget you're in the right place."

I returned her smile. "I think one of your girls will keep me busy for the night."

Her brows lifted with intrigue. "Alright then, don't worry. I'll make the arrangements. You can go to your room"

But I shook my head lightly, cutting her off.

"Actually..." I trailed off, glancing past her.

"I think I've already found the one I want to spend the night with."

She followed my gaze as I subtly nodded in the direction of the bar, where the girl was attending to a customer with soft movements and a calm presence.

"Her."

Madam Rose turned slightly, eyes narrowing toward the girl.

"Oh! You mean Kayla?"

I gave a small nod, my voice low. "I don't know her name," I admitted, watching the curve of Kayla's back as she walked away. "But I want to spend the night with her."

Madam Rose smirked, her eyes gleamingase she had just won a bet. "I think she'll be perfect," she said. "I'll handle everything."

And she did swiftly, Within a minute, everything was arranged.

I made my way to the room, with dim lighting. The faint scent of perfume clung to the upholstery. I collapsed onto one of the couches and leaned back, the soft cushions doing little to ease the weight pressing down on my chest.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and her name lit up the screen. My little girl.

I swiped to answer. "Princess," I said softly.

"Daddy! How are you? How's work? You're not home yet."

That voice. It squeezed something in me.

"EM, sweetheart," I chuckled, forcing a lightness I didn't feel, "can you let me answer one question at a time?"

She giggled.

"I'm good," I continued. Then paused. The lie formed too easily. "But... I'm sorry, princess. I won't be coming home tonight. Some work came up. So please go to bed early, okay?"

There was a short silence on the line. I hated that silence more than anything. It always meant she was disappointed but trying not to show it.

"Okay, Daddy," she said at last, her voice smaller. "I'll tell Mr. Hops you're working late."

Mr. Hops. Her stuffed bunny. I closed my eyes and sighed.

"Give him a hug for me, yeah?"

"Okay. I love you, Daddy."

"I love you more, princess."

The call ended, but the ache lingered. I stared at the ceiling for a long time, the silence in the room so loud it hurt.

And somewhere beyond the door, a woman I barely knew was getting ready to offer me the comfort I deserve.

The moment was shattered as the door creaked open behind me.

Kayla walked in.

Her presence was quiet, almost ghostlike. But everything about her demanded attention the way that silky nightgown wrapped around her like it had been poured onto her skin, the way her hair tumbled messily down her shoulders. She looked nothing like the woman who'd approached me earlier tonight with calm detachment. And yet, she looked exactly the same.

Still, I didn't speak. And neither did she.

I placed my phone gently on the side drawer as if it were made of glass, then stood. My limbs moved on their own, heavy but determined, guided by something numb and primal. Without another glance at her, I headed into the bathroom.

The sound of the shower echoed seconds later steady, hypnotic. The water burned against my skin, but I welcomed it. I needed it. I wanted it to peel away the ache in my chest, wash off the guilt that clung to me like sweat.

When I stepped out of the bathroom, my skin was still dripping, my body bare. The vodka I'd downed earlier was no longer just humming through me, it was in full control now, muffling my conscience, numbing everything that made sense.

She was still there. Sitting at the edge of the bed. Motionless. Her gaze was fixed on the floor as if it held the answers to a life she couldn't escape.

Kayla POV

I sat at the edge of the bed, my fingers knotted together in my lap, eyes fixed on the floor as it could somehow offer me answers I wasn't brave enough to ask for. The silence was thick, suffocating. My mind was a whirlwind, but I kept my face composed until he came closer.

I felt him before I saw him. The heat of his presence, the quiet urgency in his footsteps. Then, without a word, he cupped my face gently and crashed his lips into mine.

My heart stuttered.

The kiss was deep, hungry like a starved lion finally tasting its prey.

I didn't resist. My hands found his chest, then his shoulders. Clutching him as I needed him so badly. I kissed him back, matching his urgency with equal need.

Our breath tangled, as if oxygen itself had become a luxury. Until he finally pulled away, his gaze burned into mine.

"What's wrong with me?" I murmured, to myself. "It's been so long since I felt this way, since I felt a kiss like this.

My stomach twisted.

He stared at me for what felt like forever, eyes still searching mine, as though trying to read some truth I hadn't spoken aloud. And then slowly he reached for the strap of my gown and began to undress it.

I shut my eyes tightly, my breath hitching.

He cupped my face and kissed me once more.

I didn't know what it was about his kiss, but it had a way of unraveling me. It wasn't rushed, it was deep. Like he was searching for something in the way our mouths moved together.

When his tongue slid into my mouth, I didn't hesitate. I responded before I could even think, grabbing onto him, my fingers digging into his skin as if he were the only solid thing left in my life.

His lips trailed lower, down my neck, slow and tender, and I arched beneath him without meaning to. My body responded as if it knew him, like it wanted more. And when his lips finally found my breasts, and his hand moved across my skin with this unspoken gentleness, a soft gasp escaped me.

I'd been touched before too many times.

I'd been undressed, handled.

But this felt different.

There was something deeper in his touch, something that didn't feel like lust or power or entitlement. It felt like something I'd never had.

I closed my eyes, letting the sensation pull me somewhere warmer, somewhere far from the cold transactions I was used to. I trembled under him not just from need but from the terrifying realization that I didn't want this to be another job.

But then

He stopped.

"He just stopped."

He rolled away from me, onto his back, lying flat at the edge of the bed.

The silence that followed was unbearable.

I stayed still, stunned. My heart thudded in my chest as my thoughts spun with panic.

Why did he stop?

Did I do something wrong?

Did he see through me?

Did he sense the hesitation I tried to hide, the shame I couldn't scrub off no matter how many times I played pretend?

Maybe he could feel that I wasn't used to being touched like I mattered.

The minutes ticked by, thick and heavy. An hour passed, maybe more. I kept my eyes on the ceiling, afraid to move, afraid to breathe too loudly. He didn't say a word.

Just when I started to believe he'd fallen asleep, his arm reached out and wrapped around my waist. He pulled me into him, his chest warm against my back.

"Just sleep," he whispered, his voice like gravel in the dark. "I don't think I want to have sex with you."

My heart cracked.

The words weren't cruel, but they landed like a blade.

I sank.

Was it rejection?

Did I repulse him?

Or did he pity me?

Did he look at me and see the girl who was just surviving, who was trying too hard to seem okay?

Maybe I'd made him uncomfortable. Maybe I was stiff or awkward or maybe he saw through me in a way no one else had.

I didn't reply.

"I couldn't.

I just laid my head on his bare chest. His skin was warm. His heartbeat was steady.

And for the first time in years, I let myself stop pretending. I let myself feel safe.

No words. Just stillness.

Wrapped in the arms of a stranger who didn't want to use me.

And in that rare silence, somewhere between heartbreak and something I didn't have a name for, I finally drifted off to sleep.

The sound of the running water stirred me, from the bathroom, but my eyes remained shut. Moments later, I heard the door creak open. He stepped out, with a white towel slung low around his waist as he reached for his suit from the bed side and began to get dressed.

I finally sat up in bed, fixing my face into that blank expression unreadable. The one I used when I was sixteen and first learned what it meant to survive.

I didn't say a word as I raised and made my way to the bathroom. When she returned a few minutes later, she began pulling on her clothes in silence.

I stood, walked past him and entered the bathroom. I didn't even shut the door all the way. I just splashed cold water on my face, raised my mouth quickly, and avoided the mirror.

The girl staring back at me in there I hated her.

When I returned to the room, he was buttoning his shirt, tie slung around his neck. He didn't say anything. I didn't either.

I rummaged through my bag, searching for the nightgown I wore the night before. I found it and folded it neatly, but frowned when I realized something was missing.

Where are my panties?

I crouched beside the bed, checking beneath the pillows, under the mattress, even sweeping my hand under the bed frame. Nothing.

Then his voice cut through the silence.

"Are you looking for this?"

My heart stuttered.

I turned sharply, and there he was sitting casually on the edge of the bed, dangling my panties between his two fingers like it was some kind of trophy.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

My face burned. God. I rushed over and snatched it from him, too stunned to even speak.

He chuckled.

And for the first time I noticed the curve of a smile on his lips.

He hadn't smiled yesterday.

Is he mocking me now?

"You don't have to feel embarrassed, sweetie," he said, voice annoyingly smooth. "Don't forget I was the one who took it off."

That was it.

I snapped inside. Like something cold cracked in half.

Embarrassed? Sweetie? He thought this was funny?

If there was one thing I couldn't stand more than being broke, it's being mocked and that was exactly what he was doing.

I shoved my feet into my heels, grabbed my bag, and moved toward the door. He had already paid madam Rose far more than her usual rate. And yet he hadn't even had sex with me.

Not that I ever liked the sex. Sometimes, I cried through it.

I was almost at the door when his voice came again.

"Wait."

I stopped but didn't turn. Not right away.

I didn't want to hear another smug comment.

When I turned, he was walking toward me, one hand extended holding what looked like a business card.

I hesitated, staring at him warily. "What's that?"

"Take it," he said softly.

I stepped closer, but didn't take it.

"What, you want me to be your personal sex worker?" I snapped, pain tightening my throat. "Even though you didn't have sex with me last night just because you weren't in the mood?"

I hated that I'd said that. Hated that I sounded hurt. But I was. I didn't even know why. It wasn't like I had any right to feel disappointed.

I shook my head quickly, like I could rattle the shame out of me.

"Don't think I'm doing this because I want to... or because I enjoy it," I added, my voice trembling. "I don't have a choice."

My eyes burned, and before I could stop it, the tears came. I just hate how I cried easily.

"Hey," he said gently, "you should listen to what I have to say before jumping to conclusions."

His voice was calm.

"I don't want anything from you. You have paid more than you should have, but I"

My breath caught when he interrupted.

"I want you to be a Mom to my daughter"

My breath hitched.

"What?" I whispered.

I blinked once. Twice. My heart slowed, then picked up again in rapid thumps.

I swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling deep inside me.

Yes you heard me right.

"There's an upcoming kindergarten family event at my daughter's school," he said, slipping his hands into his pockets like he was just asking for the time. "And she needs someone to play the role of her mom. Just for that day."

I froze.

A mom?

His daughter's mom?

He had a daughter?

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I blinked, trying to make sense of it, but my brain felt sluggish, like it couldn't compute what he just said.