ANDREAS’S FINAL SHIFT at Nordic Care arrived two days later, much sooner than planned. With a heavy, grieving heart, he strode onto Clara’s ward, his eyes scanning for sight of her. Even now, when tension seemed to colour their every interaction, he selfishly craved her like a drug.
Curtains were drawn around the bed of one of his patients. From the urgent comings and goings, Andreas surmised some sort of emergency was taking place. Curious, he entered the bay. Clara, the ward sister and the new registrar, Dr Nilsen, attended to an elderly man, who was breathless.
‘Hello, Mr Hagen.’ He addressed the patient he’d admitted a week earlier with uncontrolled diabetes and infected venous ulceration of the lower leg, and looked to Clara for guidance as to the nature of the emergency.
Their eyes met. Pressure built in his chest. He’d missed her so much. Her obvious concern for their patient triggered his protective urges. How he ached to comfort her, to spirit them both away—maybe to the hunting lodge so they could be alone, and work out everything that felt tense between them since she’d panicked about her father, and go to bed until the pieces of his world slotted back into place.
But there was no time for any of that.
‘What’s the situation?’ he asked, scanning the monitors. The patient was clearly in respiratory distress, his respiratory rate elevated and his blood oxygen saturations ninety-four percent.
Clara frowned, as if he had no right to be there. ‘Acute shortness of breath. Dr Nilsen was on the ward.’ She looked away.
‘Good, but I know this patient well.’ Stifling an irrational flinch of rejection, Andreas took the man’s pulse, which was fast but regular, noting the fine beads of sweat on his brow. That Clara had bypassed him and gone straight to another doctor irked. It shouldn’t matter, but it was another sign of her dwindling trust. Not that he could blame her; after today, he wouldn’t even work at Nordic Care.
‘I think it’s acute left ventricular failure,’ the registrar said while Clara silently passed Andreas an ECG tracing.
‘Any chest pain?’ Andreas asked, reaching for his stethoscope to listen to Mr Hagen’s lungs.
‘No,’ Clara answered, while the registrar set about siting an intravenous cannula in the man’s antecubital fossa.
Andreas listened to the patient’s chest, hearing the unmistakeable crackle of pulmonary oedema, or fluid in the lower lobes of the lungs.
‘Let’s get some intravenous diuretic and morphine, please, Nurse Lund,’ he said, taking control of the situation while trying not to draw parallels with his first day there a few short weeks ago.
So much had happened since they’d met, kissed and faced their first emergency together. He felt as if he’d known Clara a lifetime. But how did she feel? Did she still relate to the real him, or was she too overwhelmed by the inconveniences of his public life to keep sight of what they’d shared?
Clara left the bay to fetch the medication, returning with two vials and a syringe, which she handed to the registrar, who quickly drew up the drugs and injected them through the IV cannula.
She couldn’t even look at him. It was as if she’d already made up her mind and deemed him too much trouble. Andreas concealed his sigh. He might want to protect her, but he couldn’t make any guarantees. He didn’t want to let her down or fail her in any way.
‘Have you listened to Mr Hagen’s chest?’ he asked, handing over his stethoscope.
The patient’s distress eased as the drugs worked. ‘Nurse Lund is going to have a listen, Mr Hagen.’
They’d always collaborated on cases and trusted each other’s clinical skills and diligence, regardless of the traditional role demarcations of doctor and nurse. They were a team. He wasn’t about to act differently now that his personal circumstances dictated that his other job, the one he would inherit, demanded more of his time.
‘We need a chest X-ray, bloods and an echo.’ He addressed the team. ‘He also needs a catheter to monitor urine output. I’ll speak to cardiology, make an urgent referral. We need to exclude a silent myocardial infarction.’
There was a flurry of activity, a dividing up of the tasks. Andreas explained the diagnosis and the tests he’s ordered to Mr Hagen, and then sat at a computer station to write in the patient’s notes.
He kept one eye on Clara while she went about her duties but she wouldn’t meet his eye. He’d just finished speaking to his cardiology colleagues when he spied her heading for the ward exit with her bag slung over her shoulder.
He caught up with her just as she left the ward. ‘Clara, can we talk?’
She cast a wary glance around the foyer before pushing through the door to the stairwell, a place of relative privacy.
‘Why didn’t you call me about Mr Hagen?’ he asked when the door closed, unable to keep the hurt or accusation from his voice. He stood as close as he dared, desperate to reach for her. But she was rigid and remote.
‘I assumed you were busy,’ she said, her expression hurt. ‘I understand that today is your last day at Nordic Care.’ She shrugged, resigned. ‘Hospital rumour mill.’
Andreas winced, reaching for her bare arm, the feel of her skin a jolt of desire to his system. ‘I’m sorry. I meant to tell you. I’ve been stuck in A and E most of the morning. The seasonal flu rush has started.’
‘It’s fine.’ She shook her head, her cheeks flushed, as if she was embarrassed by her hurt feelings.
Despair gripped his throat. He stepped closer, dropping his voice. ‘You know how I’ve struggled with giving up work. I’ve tried to delay the inevitable as long as possible.’
She nodded. ‘I understand. You don’t have to explain.’
‘Yes, I do,’ he muttered, willing her to look at him properly.
She was slipping through his fingers.
‘Everything came to a head this morning,’ he said, desperate to downplay the matter so she didn’t get too spooked and end this right now. ‘More leaks to the press about Father’s radiotherapy, speculation about how long he has left. The palace communication team are scrambling to control the flow of information, but tensions are high.’
Sometimes he felt as if his entire world was crumbling. He swallowed, relieved to see the compassion in her stare. ‘It’s finally forced me to face facts.’ He took her hand, needing to touch her. ‘I can no longer spread myself so thinly.’
‘Of course you can’t.’ Clara tilted her head in understanding and concern. ‘And the demands on you are only going to increase.’
Andreas clenched his jaw in frustration. He wished they were anywhere but there, where they could barely look at each other for fear of discovery, let alone have a meaningful conversation.
‘Can you come over tonight?’ he asked with a desperate edge to his voice that he hoped she wouldn’t hear. ‘We can talk, in private.’
‘I finish at six...’ She hesitated, glancing down at her feet. ‘But perhaps we should...cool it off for a while.’
‘This again...?’ With his pulse pounding in panic, he rested his hand on her waist, as if he could physically stop her withdrawing. But lately every time they were together felt as if it might be the last time.
‘Look, all this media fuss will die down,’ he said, willing her to trust him enough to overlook the gossip. ‘I know you’re nervous about exposure, but I’m dealing with it. I won’t let you down.’
Her trust had been badly damaged in the past, so it was no wonder she struggled to completely trust a man like him: a man with baggage. A man whose life was public property.
But couldn’t she see that he’d move mountains to protect her?
She sighed, her eyes on their clasped together hands. ‘There have been...whisperings on the ward. I think people recognised me from that photo.’ She looked up, her fear and uncertainty etched into her face. ‘I still need to work here after you’ve gone, Andreas.’
Nausea rolled through his gut. She was right—after today, he wouldn’t be at work to collaborate with her or to be there for her. He didn’t want to leave Nordic Care and leave Clara to the wolves. He wanted to look after her. That was what people did when they cared about someone. That was what Clara herself did all the time: with her patients, her family, even with Andreas.
Except, just like the rest of his life, her trust in him, the connection they’d shared, seemed to be crumbling before his eyes. Without even trying, he was failing her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said simply, because he couldn’t make her any promises. He had to leave his career. ‘I know it’s a lot to take on. Of course you must protect yourself.’
With Prince Henrik’s diagnosis, with a change of ruler imminent, the media heat on Andreas was only likely to increase. No matter how much he wanted to protect Clara, he was sickeningly aware that, unless she was part of his life, what he could do to keep her family and her safe and safeguard their privacy was limited.
Maybe that was the solution... But she didn’t want his help.
Fear laced his blood. He’d dated women in the past who’d ended the relationship because they wanted no part of life in the public eye. He’d hoped Clara was different—that she understood him, saw the role, the stage, the act, for what it was: something he did, not something he was. Desperation for her raced through his blood. He didn’t want to lose her over this.
‘You know all that stuff,’ he said, his voice close to begging, ‘The media, the photos, the PR moves—that’s not the real me. It’s just a role I put on, the same way we put on our roles as doctor and nurse when we put on our white coat and uniform.’
‘I know.’ She inclined her head, regarding him with sad eyes. ‘And I’ve always understood that you have other priorities beyond me.’ Her hand rested on his arm. ‘I walked willingly into this affair. This isn’t a bid for my share of your attention.’
‘And just because I’m leaving here sooner than I planned,’ he argued, ‘Doesn’t mean that I’m walking away from us. We can still see each other.’
His teeth ground together with frustration. He was already failing at his career and his royal role. And, by selfishly craving Clara, he’d exposed her to speculation, letting her down too.
His stomach dropped. Maybe he should do the right thing and let her go...
He would hate to drag her name into the press and then have her snubbed or criticised for not fitting some arbitrary mould. In his eyes, she was perfect just as she was.
‘I’m just trying to be realistic,’ she said. ‘We agreed it was temporary.’
‘Damn realistic,’ he snapped, dragging her into his arms and kissing her, his misery finally spilling over. ‘Give me a little longer, sötnos.’
He was full-blown begging now, his heart pounding against hers as she looked up at him with uncertainty.
A door below them opened, footsteps echoing on the stairs.
Clara stepped out of his embrace, a guilty look on her face. ‘I’ll try.’
Casting him one last inscrutable look, she descended the stairs and disappeared. Andreas curled his fingers into fists. He’d always known it would take a special woman to tolerate his life. Since they’d begun their affair, he’d experienced brief flashes of inspiration when he’d wondered if Clara might be that very woman.
But now... Was he failing her? Did he risk hurting her by asking her to stay? A man in his position, with the eyes of the world watching and the weight of a nation on his shoulders—not to mention the self-imposed burden of honouring both his father and his brother as the future of Varborg’s monarchy—couldn’t afford to be wrong about anything, including Clara.
He couldn’t bear to make a mistake. If he wasn’t careful, he’d let Clara down. He’d let himself down. And he’d let Oscar down.
None of that was an option.