That day, a very important person came to the hospital.
She was called "important" not because of any title printed on a door plate, but because some unknown mouth had let a rumor slip. By the time the story finished passing from one person to the next, half the city seemed to have heard that a certain someone was here. People came to gawk, and soon the hospital was ringed so tightly you could barely squeeze a sheet of paper through. No one could get in or out.
In the end, the hospital's senior staff had to come forward themselves, explaining again and again that it was all a misunderstanding, until the police arrived to help disperse the feverish crowd. Even so, a handful of media people still lurked in the shadows around the perimeter of the building, squatting in hidden corners with cameras in hand, waiting for a first glimpse, a first photograph, a first anything.
"Dr. Volkova, please come in."
At the sound of her name, the office door opened.
In walked a tall young woman in a white coat. The thin metal rims of her glasses caught a chill glint of light. Her expression was so calm it was impossible to read what she was thinking. Standing beside her, a middle-aged male doctor was already flushed and slightly breathless, like someone who had rushed up the stairs. The two of them made a strangely sharp contrast.
The young doctor cast a glance at the man beside her—Head of Department Hart—then turned to the hospital director.
"Mr. Ward," she said evenly, "you wanted to see me?"
"You've just come out of surgery, so you might not have heard yet," Director Michael Ward said, fingers loosely intertwined on the desk. "We've had a… very big star admitted today. I've only just received the notice. Apparently she burned her arm on set."
Ginevra Volkova's brows drew together. She did not look shocked by the other party's identity. What puzzled her was something else entirely. If it was a serious burn, she thought, she was not the specialist they should be looking for.
"Of course… of course it isn't serious," Director Ward added quickly, catching the question in her eyes. His voice paused for a beat before continuing. "It's more that the patient's identity is somewhat special. We'd like a doctor we can really trust with this."
Ginevra glanced at the man standing beside him, Dr. Felix Hart, who seemed to be holding his breath.
"In terms of specialization," she replied, a faint line still between her brows, "Dr. Hart is head of the burns unit."
"…It's not completely a question of specialization," the director said, clearing his throat. "All of you have rotated through the departments. I'm confident that with a minor issue like this, any of you could handle it. The main problem is that we currently have far too many eyes on this hospital. Dr. Hart tends to get nervous and… talk a little too freely. If he went, it might not be entirely appropriate."
"Director, that's a hell of a way to put it," Felix Hart muttered, not entirely pleased at having his shortcomings laid bare like that. But one sharp look from Ward pinned the rest of his protest to his tongue. He exhaled and raised both hands a fraction in surrender. "Fine, fine. I'll admit that Dr. Volkova stays calmer under pressure than I do."
Director Ward's expression softened into a kindly smile. "The patient herself was quite particular, to be fair. She requested a female doctor. That's really the main reason," he said, offering Felix a graceful way down from the ledge.
Now Ginevra understood. Hart had probably recommended himself, only to be turned down, and that was why he had been so keyed up.
As for her, yes, she had rotated through different departments, but she was not a burns specialist. If anything, Ward was flattering her by insisting on her presence. She had no desire to be thrust into the spotlight. But the director had been an old friend of her mentor, Professor Bowman; that old friendship was not something she wanted to disregard.
She swallowed her instinctive refusal and only drew a boundary, her voice still level:
"I'll go and treat her," she said. "But I'm only responsible for the medical side of this."
"Of course," Ward agreed at once.
Out in the hallway, she and Dr. Hart walked side by side.
Hart was nearly fifty, with a receding hairline and a soft middle, but he still had the bright, restless heart of a teenager. Entertainment news usually left him cold. He could never remember who was dating whom, or which actor had supposedly stormed off some variety show. But over the long autumn break, his daughter had dragged him to the cinema to see the top-grossing comedy of the season, The Neighbors Next Door.
The star who had just been whisked in through the back entrance of the hospital was the woman who had played its leading lady. His daughter's idol.
Of course he wanted to see her in person, just once.
"Dr. Volkova, do you know which celebrity this is?" he asked, unable to hold it in any longer.
Ginevra shook her head. Her pace was just a touch too quick.
Part of it was that she didn't want to walk side by side with Hart; another part was that she simply wanted to treat this star, do what needed to be done, and get back to her own floor and sleep. She had been in surgery three days in a row. Her body was long past its limits.
As they moved, she slipped a mask over her face. It was a habit. Whenever she tended to wounds, she wore one. The origin of the habit still stung her pride: back when she'd been an intern, she had been assigned to bandage a small boy's scraped knee. Her face, naturally serious when concentrating, had frightened him so much that he'd burst into wails that shook the hallway.
"You're not even curious?" Hart persisted, trotting half a step behind. "She's huge right now. The film I mentioned—did you see it? She's the one who plays—"
"Dr. Hart," Ginevra cut in, stopping at the stairwell landing. "I'm going up to the sixth floor to see the patient. If there's nothing else, I'll go ahead."
With a polite nod in his direction, she turned and headed upstairs.
Felix Hart watched her go, the rest of his words drying out on his tongue. He had wanted to gossip some more, but her perpetual coolness made it awkward to push.
He couldn't help wondering, not for the first time, what, if anything, could cause that young woman to show an honest flicker of emotion.
Quite a few of the younger staff admired her—some almost to the point of hero-worship. And who could blame them? She was the youngest of Professor Gabriel Bowman's protégés, his last and most prized mentee. She'd already published more than twenty SCI papers. A true golden child. Someday, without a doubt, she would be one of the leading figures in cardiothoracic surgery.
He could also understand perfectly well why Director Ward had chosen her to handle something as sensitive as this.
But that girl's temperament… she was too distant. Too self-contained. Hart shook his head, a half-amused, half-helpless smile tugging at his lips. So much for asking her to get him an autograph.
The sixth and seventh floors were both VIP wards. The corridor was quiet and empty, the polished floor reflecting the muted lights.
Director Ward had said the patient was in room 603.
From the stairwell, Ginevra was about to turn directly toward the rooms when she noticed someone standing by the windows at the far end of the hall.
A slender figure, head slightly bowed, leaning against the sill with a kind of elegant laziness. She wore a black fitted maxi-dress with a thin wool coat over it, her skin almost startlingly pale against the dark fabric. A pair of oversized sunglasses shielded most of her face.
It wasn't deep winter yet, but autumn was already slipping into early winter. The chill in the air had teeth. Still, from that posture, from those clothes, Ginevra could guess enough about who she was looking at.
"Smoking is prohibited in the hospital," she said.
The other woman froze. The slim cigarette she had just taken from the pack bent between her fingers. A beat later, she folded it with a faintly sheepish motion and pushed it back into the packet.
"Sorry, sorry," she said, a little laugh in her voice. "I… forgot. For a second."
Ginevra watched the whole little sequence of movements without comment. Her gaze slid once, cool and light, over the faint redness on the woman's forearm. Then she gestured towards a door marked "Treatment Room" and led the patient inside.
The moment they crossed the threshold, the sharp smell of antiseptic hit the actress and she wrinkled her nose, choosing a chair at random and sinking down into it.
"Doctor, I thought this room was empty," she remarked, tilting her chin slightly as she watched the other woman's back. The young doctor was already at the counter, wordlessly laying out instruments and supplies.
"Your arm," Ginevra said, turning around with a tray in hand. "Lift it, please."
The woman had no choice but to comply, raising her left arm toward her.
"And… if you could just forget what you saw out there," she added lightly. The tone was almost playful, but the meaning was clear enough. A polite request that the doctor keep her aborted attempt at a smoke to herself. Public image was no small thing when crowds outside would sell even a rumor.
Ginevra did not answer.
Instead, she slipped on a pair of medical gloves and gently took hold of the actress's wrist, raising her forearm toward the examination lamp. Under the bright light, the burn was easy to assess: a small area, superficial, with a few tiny blisters just forming. Nothing that wouldn't heal perfectly with a few days of anti-inflammatory burn ointment. There would be redness and swelling for a short time, but no lasting damage.
The actress watched the doctor's hands as she worked. A cotton swab dipped in iodine grazed the reddened skin, followed by cool ointment dabbed carefully at the worst spots.
To be fair, the doctor's movements were unfailingly gentle. Still, when the swab touched the rawest part, pain flared up all the same.
"It'll stop hurting soon," the doctor murmured.
The voice came from just above her arm—low, steady, not especially warm, but with a strange kind of reassurance threaded through it. The sound alone, somehow, made it easier to breathe.
The woman behind the sunglasses found her gaze drawn to the eyes hidden behind the lenses of the other's glasses.
Even with half her face covered by a mask, those eyes were enough to suggest the rest: the clean, composed features of someone accustomed to focus and responsibility.
Even though the patient herself wore dark lenses, Ginevra could feel the weight of her gaze. The kind of direct, curious stare she had long since grown used to in the hospital. Still, it made her a touch uneasy.
When she finished wrapping the gauze, securing the bandage so it would interfere as little as possible with movement, she finally looked up to meet that gaze head-on.
"I won't tell anyone," Ginevra said quietly.
The actress blinked, surprised. Then she laughed at herself inwardly.
She had been petty, she realized. From the moment this doctor had silently led her into the room, she had sensed that something was different. No flustered excitement, no overeager smiles, no attempt to get closer because she was a star.
Her assistant had asked the director to recommend a trustworthy doctor, and apparently he had. Someone like this wouldn't go around talking about her at all.
Someone like this…
There was someone like this in her memory already.
"Your eyes look like hers," she said suddenly.
The words slipped out before she had quite thought them through.
Ginevra's hand paused for the briefest second, but she didn't look up. She smoothed the last bit of gauze into place, making sure it lay neat and flat.
"Like an old friend," the actress added, voice dropping, turning inward. "Though I can't even remember how long it's been since I saw her."
The last few words were almost under her breath, meant only for herself.
Her throat caught, and she coughed twice. Her voice had been rough these last two days, scraped raw by back-to-back crying scenes filmed in cold night air just after she'd shaken off a bad chill.
She lowered her head, eyes falling to her own wrist. The bandage was clean and secure, the pain already dulling. In a few days, she'd barely remember it.
"Thank you, Doctor," she said, rising gracefully to her feet. "For such a little thing, I've caused you trouble."
She knew it was only a minor burn. She also knew she'd been using it as an excuse—to slip away from the tide of cameras, to hide in a place where gossip columns and paparazzi lenses couldn't easily follow. Lately the pressure had been almost suffocating. She had needed a quiet corner of the world to wander through, even for an hour.
Ginevra only inclined her head a fraction. Accepting thanks had never been easy for her.
"In two days, you can remove the gauze," she instructed. "Keep applying the ointment twice a day, morning and evening, until the swelling is completely gone."
"Okay, I'll remember. And if I don't, I'll make sure my assistant does," the actress replied, her voice lightening. The corners of her bright red lips curled into a smile that transformed her whole face.
The smile caught Ginevra off guard.
For a moment, something flickered at the edge of recognition—a tremor in her thoughts—but before she could follow it, a young man barreled in, panting hard enough to bend at the waist.
"Boss, it's bad, it's really bad—" he blurted. "The company found out you burned yourself, they told me to call them with your exact location immediately."
His panic stuttered to a halt when he noticed the doctor still standing beside his boss. His gaze dropped to the bandaged arm, and his voice dropped with it.
"Boss Jayn… I mean, Jaynara, what do we do? You said it was just a tiny burn, but they even wrapped it up like that—what if it's serious?"
"Don't make a scene," Jaynara Stevens said, a small amused smile tugging at her mouth. She looked at him with a mix of fondness and exasperation; it was hard not to, seeing her assistant flail like this. "You're always so sharp, but you still don't have the slightest bit of common sense. The bandage is just so it doesn't get infected. It'll heal faster this way."
"It's my fault," the assistant muttered, shoulders hunching, his eyes reddening. "If I'd been the one holding that cup, none of this would've happened."
Jaynara sighed helplessly and rapped her knuckles lightly against his forehead.
Her frown told him without words that she didn't blame him. And in any case, she had no desire for outsiders to know too much about the details. The doctor standing a few feet away didn't look like someone who'd run her mouth—but she had long since learned that with fame, caution was survival.
"We'll talk about it when we get back," she said. "Besides, this doctor is very good. I'll be healed in two, three days."
As she spoke, she glanced at Ginevra and smiled again, a little softer this time.
"And now the doctor and I share a little secret. She's promised to keep it for me. If I ever need anything again, I'll come here and ask for her by name."
A little secret?
Her assistant, Tom Hanley, stared between the two women, baffled.
He wanted to ask, he really did, but courage failed him halfway up his throat.
"Hospitals aren't exactly pleasant places," Ginevra said coolly. "If there's nothing else, I'll leave you to it."
Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked out.
Tom stood there staring after her, dazed.
Something about the way his boss and that doctor looked at each other… there was a feeling there he couldn't quite name.
"Boss, what… what was that?" he whispered. "And what secret were you talking about?"
Jaynara let out a long breath and slid her sunglasses down, revealing a pair of striking, expressive eyes. She fixed Tom with a look.
"Tom," she asked, "who won this year's 'Most Popular Actress' award?"
That was a sharp turn in subject if he'd ever heard one.
Tom blinked, then quickly answered, "You, Boss."
Who else could it be? Jaynara Stevens was the most sought-after triple-threat in the industry right now—acting, singing, hosting. And on top of that, Vogue had just named her "The Face You Never Forget."
"And who took 'Best Actress' at the Aurora Awards this year?" she pressed, one brow arched.
"Boss, why are you asking me questions you already know the answer to?" Tom grumbled. "It was you. Obviously. What's going on?"
His eyes flicked uneasily to the bandage again. It was well done, clean and neat, but still… she had been burned. She hadn't hit her head, had she?
Jaynara gave him a little shove and then shook her head, a touch of genuine frustration slipping through.
"Exactly," she sighed. "I hate it when I'm constantly trending, you know that. But with popularity this high, there's no avoiding it. Still—why was that doctor so indifferent to me? Does she really not know who I am? Or does she just not like me? Is she some closet anti-fan who can't stand the sight of me?"
"That's impossible," Tom declared immediately. "Your popularity is basically galactic at this point. The only people who might not know you are those living off the grid in some deep forest. And even if she didn't like you, I doubt it. She probably just has that kind of personality."
He gave her his most ingratiating grin as he spoke, and it worked as it always did; flattery was a language she happily allowed herself to enjoy.
"Galactic" was an exaggeration, but not by much.
Her face stared down from billboards in almost every major mall in the world.
Yet that doctor had shown neither enthusiasm nor a desire to get closer after realizing who she was. She had simply done her job and walked away.
In Jaynara's memory, the hardest people to deal with had always been exactly this type.
The thought made her laugh softly, a bitter little smile that was gone in a moment.
"Come on, Boss, let's go," Tom urged. "Enough smiling. We should get you out of here."
He fussed with her coat, settling it over her shoulders with meticulous care. There were fewer people in the hallway now, and Jaynara didn't bother putting her sunglasses back on. They headed for the elevator, aiming straight for the rear exit where her security team had already pulled the car around.
Her heels clicked against the white floor tiles with each step, a clear, rhythmic sound that forced her to slow down, each footfall resonating faintly in the quiet corridor.
"I was thinking," Tom said as they walked. "It's actually a good sign, you know? If anything, it proves that doctor's really professional. The director himself recommended her to treat you."
"You're saying someone that young has already earned Director Ward's trust?" Jaynara mused. "That's not nothing. Do you at least know her name?"
Tom shook his head.
"It was all pretty last-minute," he admitted. "I just asked my uncle to arrange for a doctor he trusted. All I heard was that she's incredible—graduated from the best med school, top of her class. That's it. Want me to ask around?"
"That is impressive," Jaynara said.
She turned her head slightly, looking back down the corridor.
The doctor was nowhere to be seen.
She slid off the wide-brimmed hat that had been blocking her peripheral vision. Her long, wavy hair spilled down her back to her waist. She ran her fingers through it once, then handed the hat to Tom.
"No need," she decided. "It's not like we'll ever cross paths again. You really think I'm going to come back to the hospital just to see her?"
She lifted her arm, studying the perfectly wrapped bandage.
If the company executives saw this burn, some of them might very well explode. Which, in turn, would give her the perfect excuse to wriggle out of a few exhausting engagements. The thought was not entirely unpleasant.
"Oh, right. Did they fix my bracelet?" she asked suddenly, a hint of urgency in her tone.
Tom reacted at once, rummaging through his bag. He pulled out a small velvet pouch and handed it to her with both hands, almost ceremonially.
"It's fixed," he said. "I found the best repairer in town. He said the bracelet's quite old, though. He's reinforced the clasp so it won't snap again."
"Good," Jaynara breathed, relief softening her features. "Thank you."
Her fingers were almost reverent as she drew the bracelet out. The metal carried a muted sheen, the kind that came only with age. Her eyes grew gentle as she looked at it, as if the little circle of metal held an entire lifetime. Then she slipped it carefully around her wrist, the weight of it settling against the fresh bandage.
On another floor, Ginevra had no idea that she'd just been mentally scolded as a possible anti-fan.
She was back in her own department, putting away instruments as she always did after any procedure. Once her hands had finished their familiar rhythm, she stepped into the corridor—only to find several colleagues waiting there, clustered around her office door like a barricade.
"Dr. Volkova," one of them burst out, "is it true the director sent you upstairs?"
"Yes," she said simply.
A younger doctor practically bounced forward. She was one of Ginevra's junior team members—a resident assigned to the surgical group under her.
The opportunity was too much to resist. Who wouldn't want details about their goddess, the legendary Jaynara Stevens?
"So—was she really burned?" the younger woman asked breathlessly. "Was it bad? Did it happen on set? Or was it—like—something deliberate? Did someone do it to her?"
"That's a ridiculous question," another doctor cut in before Ginevra could respond. "If it were serious, why would they send our cardiothoracic prodigy, instead of keeping her in burns?"
Then he leaned closer to Ginevra, eyes bright with gossip.
"And hey, what about the rumors between her and Luke Mercer? Did you see him? Was he there?"
Who on earth is Luke Mercer?
The names flew at her like stray instruments. Ginevra could only shake her head.
"I don't know," she said truthfully.
"So you just treated her and left?" the junior doctor persisted, scandalized. "You didn't hear anything? Didn't see anyone?"
"Oh, come on, you know Dr. Volkova never keeps up with this stuff," someone else put in with a laugh. "She doesn't follow celebrities at all. You could put a movie star in front of her and—"
Ginevra shot to her feet so suddenly that the speaker actually flinched.
She stared at Dr. Wendy King, eyes wide in a way no one on their floor had ever seen before.
Her voice trembled when she asked, "What did you just say her name was?"
"Her… name?" Wendy stammered, wrong-footed by the intensity of that gaze. "Jaynara Stevens, of course. She just won 'Most Popular Actress of the Year.' You really don't know—"
She didn't get to finish.
Ginevra was already out the door, the echo of her footsteps rattling the glass panels in the corridor.
"Hey… what just happened?" someone murmured, too stunned to chase after her.
It had been less than a minute when Ginevra hit the sixth floor again.
She had taken the stairs at a run, barely seeing the people she almost collided with on the landings.
Her palms were damp, her forehead beaded with sweat. Against the stark white of her skin, she looked almost ghostly. Her breath came in ragged bursts, as if every step up the stairs had been a sprint. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a wild, uneven rhythm that left her nauseous.
She didn't think. She couldn't.
The elevator doors were just starting to close.
She lunged forward and thrust her left hand between them. The metal caught her wrist with a sharp, bruising pain, and the doors sprang back with a mechanical chime.
Inside the elevator, Jaynara jumped.
The sudden intrusion, the harsh clang of the doors, the sight of a pale figure forcing her way in—her first instinct was fear. A crazed fan, maybe. The kind who jumped barricades and screamed declarations of love.
She was already halfway through the motion of pushing the stranger back when the woman tugged down her mask.
Jaynara's hand stilled.
Her eyes widened.
"Doctor…?" she breathed. "Is something wrong?"
Tom's fear went from vague to immediate.
He stepped in front of his boss, shoulders square, like a bodyguard twice his size.
The woman in the doorway sucked in a long breath. Her dark eyes never left Jaynara's, which flickered in confusion, then dawning recognition, then something rawer.
Ginevra took one step forward.
Then another.
She pushed Tom gently but firmly aside, not giving herself even a second to reconsider.
Her arms went around Jaynara in a hard, desperate embrace.
"I missed you," she whispered, her voice low and rough, hardly more than air forced through her throat. "I missed you so much, Jaynara."
The name was one she had repeated to herself in the silence of countless nights, a litany, a ghost, two syllables worn smooth with use.
The woman in her arms was silent for a long time.
Then her eyes reddened, and she swallowed, hard.
"It's been a while, Ginevra," she said softly.
"Eleven years," Ginevra answered. "It's already been… eleven years."