Chapter 27 · Open Sign

"That's my ribbon," Ethan said, and he was already holding the scissors before I even got to the door.

I stopped on the sidewalk with the vinyl OPEN sign still rolled under my arm. Cameras. Three of them, plus a girl with a clipboard from the pack newsletter, all lined up outside my own clinic like I hadn't spent six weeks bleeding cash to keep the lights on.

"Put those down," I said.

"Relax, Sloane." Ethan smiled at the lens, not at me. "Good for optics. Heir cuts the ribbon, medic gets her clinic back. Everybody wins."

"Nobody asked you to be here."

"Your board did." He held up the scissors like a trophy. "Turns out I still know how to write a check people notice."

I felt my jaw go tight. That was the thing about Ethan — he rejected me on a warehouse floor in front of the whole pack, and eight months later he still thought a checkbook bought him back into my doorway.

"The deed's in my name," I said. "Not the pack's. Not yours. Mine."