The six-year-old son of the most powerful man in Chicago fired five doctors before breakfast.

Then he pointed at me and said, “Her. She’s the only one Daddy can’t buy.”

I had been walking past Room 314 when I heard it.

Inside, three pediatric specialists stood near the door, looking as if they had been dismissed from a board meeting. A nurse clutched an unopened blood-pressure cuff. Two hospital administrators hovered in the hallway.

At the center of the room sat Oliver Sterling.

He had wedged himself between the bed and the window, knees pressed to his chest. His dark hair was carefully combed, but his blue sweater was twisted at one shoulder.

Beside him stood Gabriel Sterling.

Thirty-three. Widowed. Founder of Sterling Technologies. Donor of the hospital’s new pediatric wing.

He was also painfully handsome.

Tall, dark-haired and dressed in a charcoal suit, Gabriel looked less like a frightened father than a man preparing to fire the entire hospital.

“Dr. Monroe isn’t assigned to this case,” one administrator explained.

“She is now,” Oliver said.

Gabriel’s gaze moved to my badge.

“Claire Monroe. Pediatric emergency medicine.”

“That’s what the badge says.”

His eyebrows lifted. Apparently, people didn’t usually answer him that way.

“My son collapsed at a charity breakfast,” he said. “He needs an ECG, bloodwork and a neurological assessment. He has refused all three.”

“Then six adults standing over him probably isn’t helping.”

One administrator went pale.

Gabriel stepped closer. “Are you suggesting we stop testing him?”

“I’m suggesting everyone except his nurse leave the room.”

“I’m staying.”

“Then stand somewhere he can’t mistake you for another doctor.”

For one tense moment, neither of us moved.

His eyes were gray and cold, but exhaustion lived beneath them. He had probably not slept since Oliver collapsed.

Finally, Gabriel stepped back.

The specialists filed out.

I removed my white coat and placed my stethoscope on the floor. Then I sat several feet from Oliver.

“I’m not going to touch you,” I said.

His eyes flicked toward me.

“Everyone says that.”

“Then they touch you anyway?”

He nodded.

“You can say no to me.”

“My dad doesn’t like no.”

“Your dad isn’t my patient.”

Behind me, Gabriel exhaled sharply.

Oliver almost smiled.

“What happened before you fainted?” I asked.

“My heart felt funny.”

“Funny how?”

He tapped his chest twice, paused, then tapped again.

“Like it forgot what came next.”

That was not how most six-year-olds described anxiety.

“Did it hurt?”

“No. Everything got far away.”

“Were you scared before it happened?”

He shook his head.

Gabriel interrupted. “His private physician believes these episodes are panic attacks.”

Oliver’s shoulders tightened.

I looked back at Gabriel.

“I asked him.”

His jaw hardened, but he remained silent.

I returned my attention to Oliver.

“Would you let me check your pulse?”

“Only your fingers?”

“Only my fingers.”

After several seconds, he extended one small hand.

His skin was cold.

His pulse felt slow, then suddenly quick, followed by a pause long enough to make me count again.

“When was his last ECG?” I asked.

“Three months ago,” Gabriel said.

“I want another one.”

Oliver snatched his hand back.

“No wires.”

“We can stop whenever you say stop.”

“No one stops when I say it.”

“I will.”

He studied my face, searching for the lie.

Then he nodded.

The nurse attached the leads one at a time while I explained each movement. Gabriel watched from the wall, his control slipping every time Oliver flinched.

When the machine began printing, I saw the prolonged interval immediately.

So did the cardiologist standing outside.

This was not a panic attack.

Before I could speak, Gabriel moved beside me.

“What is it?”

“I need cardiology to review it.”

“You know what you saw.”

“I know enough not to discuss it over your son’s head.”

His face was inches from mine.

“Name your price,” he said quietly. “I want you assigned exclusively to Oliver.”

“I’m not for sale.”

“Everyone says that before hearing the number.”