When the door clicks shut, I press my palms flat against the desk. Focus on the cool surface. The wood grain. Anything but the phone sitting like a time bomb beside my hand.
It dings again.
I reach for it, resolve already crumbling. It's a phone call, not a text. And this time, the screen shows a different name. It's Pope Carrigan, my past client and owner of CHG Concierge Hospital.
I swipe the screen. "Warren Carter."
"Warren. It’s Pope. Do you have a moment?" His voice is sharp, clipped, never one for small talk.
Pope Carrigan. I’d helped him fight for custody of his half-brother last year, a case that started as a temporary guardianship and ended with full adoption. Seven years old, shy as hell, clinging to Pope’s hand in the courtroom. That win was one of the reasons I do this work.
"Of course," I say, straightening in my chair. "What’s going on?"
"I'm calling to tell you you're joining my board."
I blink. "Excuse me?"
"The CHG Foundation board. I need someone with integrity. Someone who won't just nod along with whatever I say because I sign their checks."
My fingers drum against the desk. This feels like a trap. The last thing I need is to tie myself to another powerful man's legacy.
"I appreciate the thought, but?—"
"Let me cut through your objections, because I know you, Carter." Pope's voice has that edge, the one that bulldozes through boardrooms. "This isn't about your family name or connections. I've got plenty of blue bloods beating down my door for this spot."
I snort. "Then why not pick one of them?"
"Because they want the prestige. You don't give a shit about that."
He's not wrong. I press my fingertips into my temples. "Pope, I don't have power or money to contribute. I run amodest practice, not a dynasty. I'm not connected with the Carter family, or their connections."
"I've got money. I've got influence." His voice softens, just barely. "What I need is someone who remembers that hospitals should help people, not just shareholders. Someone who won't be afraid to tell me when I'm being a ruthless asshole."
The tension in my shoulders eases, just slightly. "So you want me to be your conscience?"
"I want you to help me build something that matters. CHG makes money. But this foundation will put some of that money to doing something good for Palm Beach. I want to come up with ways that we can do something for the community even though we are no longer a public hospital."
My stomach twists. It sounds good. Too good.
I lean back, narrowing my eyes at the ceiling. "What exactly does this mean for me? How many hours are we talking? What kind of meetings? Am I expected to raise money, wine and dine donors, put my name on checks?"
"You’ll be expected to attend quarterly board meetings and serve on one committee. That’s the baseline. But when initiatives come up, grant reviews, hospital partnerships, new programs, I’ll want you in the room. I’ve got plenty of donors and fundraisers. What I don’t have is someone who’ll call bullshit when I need to hear it."
"Quarterly," I repeat, testing the word. Not nothing. Not everything.
"What makes you think I'll be able to do that, Pope?"
"Because you walked away from everything to do what’s right. That’s exactly who I need. And I know you aren’t connected to your family anymore, but you’re still a Carter, and that carries a lot of clout in Palm Beach. Best of both worlds."
"Alright," I say finally. "I’ll hear the details. But I’m not committing yet."
"Fair enough." Pope doesn’t miss a beat. "My assistant will send the prospectus. The first meeting is on Thursday. Maybe plan to come regardless, meet the others, ask questions."
"I’ll take a look and let you know. How’s Lennon?"
Pope’s tone softens. "Settling in. Loves school, still hates broccoli. He’s thriving." A pause. "I’ll fill you in more Thursday morning, once you’ve had a chance to read."
"Sounds good, man. Take care."