[BL] Bound to My Enemy: The Billionaire Who Took My Girl-Chapter 196: Man in the mirror

NICK

My apartment always feels like a crime scene where the only thing murdered was the concept of a soul.

It’s clean, ordered, and expensive... a high-rise glass box filled with furniture that looks like it belongs in a museum of mid-century discomfort. It’s not a home; it’s a showroom.

It’s an important distinction to make. Lila’s place had throw pillows and half-empty wine glasses and the smell of expensive candles.

My place had the smell of nothing. I didn’t live here; I just slept there occasionally between shifts.

I woke up at 5:00 AM, forty minutes before my alarm was set to scream.

My body had developed a Pavlovian refusal to cooperate with the idea of rest. I laid there in the dark as usual, staring at the ceiling, feeling a specific kind of exhaustion that sleep had no interest in fixing.

It was a bone-deep lethality, a low-grade wrongness sitting right in the center of my chest. It wasn’t pain... I know what pain feels like... it was weight.

Maybe I was coming down with something.

Maybe it was the stress of the "Hero Surgeon" mantle finally beginning to crush my ribs. Or maybe it was just three years of never, ever stopping finally reaching out to grab my ankle.

It’s nothing, I decided, the same way I’ve decided every other physical ailment in my life was a personal weakness to be ignored. I got up.

I reached for my phone. It was already vibrating with the digital heartbeat of a world that wouldn’t let me breathe.

My father’s message was at the top, time-stamped at 4:45 AM. George Bennett didn’t sleep easy either, but his insomnia was strategic, fueled by the blueprints of a social climber. Mine was just hollow.

The message was a list of logistics.

Reminders about the tuxedo, the arrival time, the list of dignitaries. The subtext was written in the margins of every sentence: Don’t embarrass me. This is my win as much as yours.

Below that, a string of emails from hospital administration. Confirming the schedule. Confirming the PR talking points. Confirming that everything was confirmed. I didn’t read any of it fully.

I set the phone face down on the cold marble of the nightstand and stepped into the shower, letting the water hit me until my skin turned a dull, angry red.

I arrived at the hospital an hour early. I preferred the corridors at this hour; they’re quieter, the lighting still dimmed in the non-patient areas. It’s the only time of day where fewer performances are required of me.

But today was different.

I felt it the moment I stepped off the elevator.

It was subtle... a shift in the atmospheric pressure of the hallways. People knew. The nurses at the station glanced up when I passed, their eyes lingering a beat longer than usual.

A resident near the coffee machine straightened his posture as I walked by, as if my presence were a surprise inspection.

The comments started before I’d even reached the locker room.

"Good luck tonight, Dr. Bennett," a night-shift nurse said, her voice genuine and bright. I offered a sharp, practiced nod.

"Don’t forget us when you’re famous, Nick," another joked, leaning against a chart rack. They laughed, expecting me to join in on the camaraderie of my sudden ascent.

I produced something that functioned as a smile... a mechanical lifting of the corners of my mouth... and kept walking.

I hated it. It wasn’t the recognition itself; I’ve always known I was the best in the room.

It was the watching.

It was the way they’d all decided that tonight mattered to them vicariously, as if my surgery on the Governor’s wife was a communal achievement they all got a piece of.

They didn’t. I was the one who spent ten years in the dark. I was the one in the OR when the bleeder wouldn’t stop and the room smelled like scorched flesh and antiseptic. None of them were there.

By midday, the weight in my chest had started to hum.

I was in the middle of a routine consult, explaining a valve replacement to an elderly man and his anxious daughter.

Halfway through my explanation of the risks, I coughed. It was sharp and unexpected. I paused, my hand instinctively going to my sternum, then I cleared my throat and continued.

But they’d noticed it. The daughter’s eyes flickered with concern. The resident standing behind me shifted his weight.

I felt a flash of pure, unadulterated vitriol for my own lungs. My jaw tightened, and I finished the consult with a voice that sounded like it was being squeezed out of a tube.

An hour later, I was scrubbing in for a standard bypass. The ritual was usually my sanctuary... the water, the brush, the smell of surgical soap.

But as I positioned myself at the table, the room tilted. It was only for a half-second. A momentary lapse in the physics of the world.

My body was reminding me that it was running on insufficient fuel and zero rest, and it was starting to default on its loans.

I steadied myself, gripping the edge of the table until the metal bit into my palms.

No one saw. I made sure of it.

As I exited the OR, Dr. Carmichael was waiting near the scrub bay. He looked like he’d spent the morning being polished.

"Big night tonight, Bennett," he said. He gave me a smile that was all teeth and no warmth. "Try not to embarrass us."

He framed it as a joke between peers, but the us felt like a claim. I looked at him, my eyes cold above my mask.

I thought about the fact that his wife had been in my bed seven times in the last two months.

I thought about the fact that he was standing there, trying to assert dominance over a man who had already dismantled his domestic life.

"I’ll manage," I said.

I went back to scrubbing. He had no idea what he’d already lost.

There was no time to go home. The venue was too far, and my shift had run long. I showered in the surgeon’s locker room, the water scaldingly hot. I didn’t adjust it. I wanted the heat to burn the exhaustion out of my nerves.

The tuxedo had been delivered to my office two days ago. My father’s doing, of course. A designer he’d chosen, a fit he’d approved via a photograph from the tailor. It was a black-tie ensemble that screamed "Old Money" even though our money was only twenty-five years deep.

I put it on in front of the locker room mirror.

The suit was dark, precise, and perfectly constructed. It felt like a second skin, or maybe a shroud. I stood there longer than necessary, staring at the person looking back at me.

I felt absolutely nothing. No satisfaction that I was the guest of honor. No anticipation for the Governor’s praise. Not even dread. Just the hollow realization that I was a man in a mirror, wearing a suit that wasn’t mine, about to go to a room full of people who wanted a piece of a "hero."

I adjusted my cuffs. I picked up my jacket. I left.

The Mercedes was waiting at the curb.

Black, rented, and chauffeured. My father’s suggestion, framed as a practical necessity. "It makes the right impression arriving separately from a less expensive car, Nicholas. People are looking at the details now."

I’d agreed because disagreeing took energy I no longer possessed.

My father, George, was already inside. He looked like a corporate portrait come to life. The moment I settled into the leather seat, his eyes took an inventory of me. He didn’t say hello. He didn’t ask how my day went.

He reached out and straightened my tie without asking. I didn’t move. I sat there like a mannequin.

"Posture," he said.

I adjusted my spine two centimeters. He nodded.

"The tie choice is acceptable," he mused, looking out the window. "Though I wonder if the silk is a bit too reflective for the flash photography.

"This is fine" I countered.

"Fine isn’t the standard tonight, Nicholas."

Then the rehearsal began. He went through the talking points as if I were a witness he was preparing for a deposition. What to say to the Governor. Which donors to acknowledge. How long to speak. When to defer.

"Remember who you represent tonight," he said as the car slowed. He said it like punctuation, like it was self-evident that I was an extension of the Bennett brand rather than a man who had just worked a twelve-hour shift in a chest cavity.

I stared out the window at the city. It looked expensive and indifferent. I said nothing. There was nothing to say that hadn’t already been decided for me.

The Metropolitan Club was a fortress of marble and quiet. It was the kind of space designed to communicate that money was never the point... taste was.

The lighting was deliberate, casting everything in a soft, managed glow. The floral arrangements looked like structural pillars.

It wasn’t crowded. It was curated. Every person in the room had been selected like a specimen.

I counted the people there immediately... maybe forty people in a space that could hold ten times that.

I flipped the switch the moment I stepped out of the car. Professional warmth. Measured confidence. The posture my father had demanded. Internally, I was watching myself perform from a slight distance, a spectator to my own artifice.

My father was already scanning the room, his eyes hunting for opportunities. I let him go. I didn’t care.

We moved through the lobby toward the main reception area, guided by a venue coordinator who spoke in a hushed, reverent tone. I was mapping the room out of habit... the exits, the body language of the security detail, the power clusters forming near the bar.

Then, I stopped registering the room.

Noah was standing near the far side of the lobby.

He was alone, looking up at the detailing above the archway with that specific, distracted expression he gets when he’s thinking too hard. He looked calm on the surface, but I could see the tension in his shoulders from fifty feet away.

My heart did something jagged in my chest. My recovery was immediate... no one saw the hitch in my step... but the internal response was a surge of pure, concentrated irritation.

Of fucking course.

My father caught my eyeline and registered Noah at the same time. I felt the air around George turn cold. What is he doing here? The question was unsaid, but it was deafening.

My brain immediately went to the worst-case scenario.

Noah had heard about the dinner. He’d seen the news. He’d seen the Governor’s name attached to mine and decided to show up. To what? To attach himself to the light? To play the "troubled brother" in front of the people who held my career in their hands? To ruin the one night where the Bennett name was actually untarnished?

The logic was thin, but I didn’t care to examine it. My father leaned in, his voice a low, cutting hiss. "Fix this, Nicholas. Now."

I was already moving. I crossed the lobby with the controlled, predatory stride I used when a resident had botched a closing. My expression was my professional mask... the one that gave nothing away.

I stopped three feet in front of him. I didn’t raise my voice. I used the tone I used when I had already decided a patient was terminal and was just waiting for the heart to stop.

"What are you doing here, Noah?"