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There’s something about leather seats, ample leg space, and champagne bottles by arm’s reach that just makes the air of a limousine even thicker than that of a normal car.
It almost makes the sparkly dusty pink dress Lucy wore look real. It was real—but these sorts of dresses never feel right when you try them at the store. You look out of place trying to mimic a celebrity.
But when Lucy sits cross-legged at the back of the limousine, headed to the Carter family gala, she is reminded that here she becomes one.
Inside the limousine, the sparkles are much more than a few shiny dots on her earrings. They are her. At the back of the limousine, she isn't Dr. Knight, the psych resident at County General. No. Here she is Lucy Knight—The Star. Her golden rays, which escape through the tinted windows into the outside world, are what make the cameras and microphones turn at them as they enter the family estate.
It’s a feeling she never really gets used to.
" You okay?” Carter asks, gently tapping her shoulder, breaking her out of the spell. She moves her head from the tinted window to face him.
John looks straight out of a magazine. The tux matches him in a way it doesn't for most men. He wears it like he owns it, because unlike most men, he does. Carter was born into the glitz and glamour, so seeing him dressed formally is quite like seeing him as he came into the world.
“ Yeah.” she chuckles “just nervous”
"dont worry. you've been to these things before. its nothing” he shrugs, adjusting the cuffs of his dress shirt.
Nothing. Definitely not the word she would use to describe it.
The thing is, she likes the galas—she definitely likes them more than John does.
For him, they are nothing more than a nuisance on the calendar. She understands where his hatred comes from. The galas don't actually do a big service to society. It's a performative philanthropy with just a faint scent of honesty. So for someone like him, that was born into this lifestyle, therefore not impressed by it. They might be nothing.
But definitely not for her.
She likes renting the fanciest dress at the store—only to gaze at the glamorous hall and realize most of the attendees are even fancier than she is. She likes an excuse to wear out the soles of her heels and guess just how expensive the wine she just drank is.
She likes partying like the American elite for at least one night.
Yes, her reasons to enjoy the galas are pretty vain. She's aware of that. She also knows that inside those gilded halls there are thousands of much more vain people than her—people that don't even know what charity they are donating to, which could feed a family of four. Or worse, those who pretend to care but then go ahead and treat the staff and servers like crap as a display of power.
she likes the idea of fortune rather than actually living it, tasting it just enough to be in awe but not enough to be corrupted by it.
“Well, do you think I look nice enough? do I look worthy to be a Carter family debutant?” she deflects with humor while playing with the shiny earring he gave her.
“oh much more than a debutant—you're dressed like a future Mrs Carter"
he kisses her—gently enough on the face not to smudge her makeup or mess up her hair. It makes her wonder just how many other girls he did this with before. How many times he dressed them nicely and fed them lobster for him to learn exactly how to charm them so perfectly. It makes Lucy a bit jealous in a way she knows she shouldn't feel.
He loves her so much, and that's undeniable. But it's hard when she stops to think that he is Chicago's golden boy, who could have any bombshell in the world and still choose her.
She's pretty—she knows that. But she's a girl next door. Attainably beautiful. The type you crush seeing her work at your hole in the wall coffee place. Nothing compared to the types of women he could choose from; she barely comprehends it herself. But in a way, that's fitting—love never makes much sense anyway.
He grabs her by the waist, pulling her closer to him, keeping the longing kiss just enough for both of them to taste the champagne in each other's mouths. It almost feels like a dream, the end sequence of a romance novel.
“would that be a spoiler to a future proposal?” she asks, looking into his eyes, inches away from his face. hot air blowing against his skin in tiny whispers.He looks caught off guard by the comment—his face blushing bright red. Even Alger, the driver, had his eyes fixed in the rearview mirror.
John looks to the window, trying to avoid further questioning. “We're almost there,” he tells her. “uh– remember to cover your face when the flashes come out. don't want you blind”
“youre good at changing the subject”
Alger moves toward the door, opening for them the entrance to the crowd of faceless, burning white flashes.
Walking in heels is hard enough without a field of flash grenades exploding and blurring her vision, so she has to take closer care not to fall or trip over. That would be a shame—especially being captured by so many paparazzi. At least she has Carter's hand to guide her. Her other hand is used to cover her eyes like he instructed.
It's scary—but an exciting type of scary.
As Lucy pads down the entrance, she isn't sure what's the loudest: the camera shutter clicks or her heart pounding inside her chest. But she doesn't need to know.
All she must do is take a deep breath and follow Carter's lead into the world of the one percent.
Quiet mornings were always one of John's favorite rare events.
He's a morning bird—always the type to naturally rise together with the sun, no matter how late he slept. That was one of the many simple joys that medicine stole from him. So whenever he does have the privilege to enjoy them, he does not spare the chance.
He's glad to be having one of those moments now, simply decompressing without the worry about his next shift. The beauty of a well-deserved day off.
He looks around at the mansion, which feels ridiculously empty in comparison to two days ago at the party, almost as if the halls lack the sight of drunken, decomposing old men whose only deep qualities were their pockets.
It's only when there's not a soul to distract you from the view of the family estate that you can see it for what it truly is.
Hauntingly empty.
Maybe that's why he tends to look for beauty in the simple places. The raindrops breaking the calming stillness of the garden fountain or the caramel bubbly foam in coffee never fail to clear his mind. Those are much more visually alluring than the dusty gold trims on collection paintings, which serve their only purpose to bait investors with vacant dazzles.
But Carter sees through the lies—he grew up around them.
He knows that the world's greatest virtue can't be bought or fabricated: kindness—an artistry that can only be mastered by those pure of heart.
He stares at the deep end of the wide dark void of his mug, which carries his distorted reflection like the paintings on the wall, except that reflection carries the substance of who he is instead of an aimless display of wealth.
Is he pure in spite of all that surrounded him? Could he climb up the mountain of horrific heirlooms, or would he drown in them, never seeing the light of day again?
John swiftly pirouettes his spoon into the dark void, disintegrating his reflected image from the liquid mirror in the cup. That signals to him a morbid yet expected no.
Shamefully, he looks away and drinks the bitter truth.
A sound coming from the maid's quarters scoops John from his personal dwelling. It's a happy sound. Laughter—the best medicine in the world.
John is close to the workers of the family estate. It isn't too far-fetched to say that they are more constant figures in his life than his own parents. Not that said title is very hard to acquire by any chance, but still, it does have its merits.
He isn't sure why they like him.
Probably because he is the only Carter in Chicago that acts closer to a normal warm-blooded human. He greets them with hellos and goodbyes, talks occasionally when he isn't too tired from work to do so, and always manages to smile during it. Most of the time he helps them with the job—bringing his own plates to the kitchen, doing the bed himself, and things like that. Anything that makes their lives easier, but not too much to make them fear loosing their job or embarrass them in any way.
They tell him he shouldn't, but he does so anyway, partly out of politeness and also because it always pissed his parents off when he broke some of those etiquette rules.
The yelling never ceased to fuel some of that rebel spark in his bold teenage heart. But he grew up, and they grew colder. Nowadays, whenever his parents are both around and sober, they are too numb to care. Time dulled their anger into apathy, and John was just left to learn to deal with it. But even without the honor of their attention, he can't seem to break these old habits.
All this to say that their laughter is contagious. The familiar glee activates the animalistic instinct to fit in with those alike, making John crack a smile.
But quickly the naturally relaxed muscles in his mouth strain in shock. He heard his name. He heard them saying 'dr carter’ in between all the laughing. Were they laughing with or at him? The question emerges in his brain, quickly contaminating all his mind with it.
The conversation is still muffled; however, the sound becomes clear by the second. They are so close. The laundry room is only separated by the old bark door, and it makes it so easy to hear that he almost forgets not to eavesdrop.
“She's lucky. i would kill for a piece of that” he can guess the voice's owner is Maureen, which is then answered by Helena's.
”can you imagine though? waking up to all this—” are they talking about Lucy? Carter thinks, suddenly the fear in his stomach switches to heat on his cheeks. “just going from a normal person to dance halls and news articles”
Maureen scoffs before turning the doorknob. "sign me up—”
The click is followed by the aged wood's accordion sound rattling, which fills the air with dramatic anticipation.
“oh doctor.”
Her eyes were three times bigger than normal. If Carter didn't know better, he would jump to do a clinical exam. However, there's no differential diagnosis that could beat the clear signs of a shameful encounter.
“wh-what are you—uh doing here so early?” Maureen's voice asks, thready and mortified. Helena's wasn't as much, though—the mortified maid quickly stomped on Helena's feet to get her to stop nervously laughing. Maybe it was out of fear or just a momentary short circuit. Carter can't tell because he also doesn't know what to feel except the awkwardness in his bones.
"Breakfast,” he answers after a solid minute of pondering.
Looking away from the woman in uniform, who still hadn't even moved her arm from the doorknob. They are both in a shame-induced state of paralysis, both wishing to just go away and end this torture, but unfortunately both stuck in the same place.
"we're sorry for the bother.” Helena says, trying to break the cold iceberg that emerged in the kitchen. "you're usually here later and—”
“no no,” he shakes his head. “it's fine. you didn't do anything wrong.”
He watches in time-lapse as both their faces gain a bit of their color back, a gentle smile appearing between their cheeks. And like that, they're both back to their housekeeping duties, while Carter rewinds on their words like a broken record.
‘...going from a normal person to dance halls and news articles’
News articles
that was oddly specific.
Not that there weren't many articles about the Carter family. There were plenty out there—even more if considering those that said too much and were given a generous payment to be taken down or removed from circulation.
But Lucy wasn't on them.
It likely meant nothing. Just one of the many possible examples of fame that came into their minds when talking about her. He is the weird one for overthinking about it.
Yeah, that's it. A coincidence.
Nothing more.
Tired.
The weight of his eyelids was the only thing Carter felt at the end of his shift. The yearning for rest was such that he usually wouldn't even realize that he still had other basic needs. The adrenaline of his work field meant that things like food and water were always swept under the rug in between jumping from trauma rooms.
His at-work meals—or lack thereof—are a perfect example of how doctors can be the worst patients.
The good news is that there's a convenience store conveniently located on the way to his El stop. The bad news is his diet has been dreadful since he discovered it.
There's no other way to say it—his diet is awful. A few scraps from the vending machine and Doc Magoos, which he stores for later consumption like a rodent stocking for winter.
The worst part is it's so easy too, especially when he is a clearly healthy-looking adult man who doesn't gain weight with ease. As a doctor, he knows this thinking is all wrong—he knows that there are many layers to one's health other than physical appearance. But he spent so many years worrying about just that in college that it's hard to overlook it now, hard to find motivation for a change of habits when he looks good regardless.
If he looks good, then people don't worry, and if they don't, he can keep going.
Carter keeps going.
He walks through the Chicago winter night, hands in his wool coat as his shoes sweep the thin layer of ground snow, creating a path to his famously guilty pleasure, which he doesn't take time before opening the glass doors.
Inside is warmer, but definitely not calmer by any means. The bright lights burn his eyes, a successful design made to blind him from other options on the market. The aisles of possibility make him nauseous, his vision moving the earth like in a dream.
That might be because of his lack of sleep, though. He doesn't know anymore. All he knows is he wants to get some snacks, pay, and get the hell out of there as fast as possible.
He moves through the aisle and starts to think about his options. What poison could kill him the slowest?
He picks Cheez-Its.
Before he moves to the fridge for drinks, he spots two teenage girls. One of them has curly blonde hair and holds a bright pink magazine, while the other, with shorter and darker hair, reads it. The wires of their shared MP3 are hanging by a thread to both their pierced ears.
They both have such vivid smiles, showing no signs of worry or trouble. They live free from any responsibilities, a complete opposition to his current adult misery. It makes him reminisce about that age—that in-between stage where you know too much to be a kid, but also haven't forgotten your soul like a grown-up.
The short-haired girl bumps her friend and whispers something in her ear while staring at him from the other side of the store.
That pisses Carter off a bit—his lack of soul stolen by corporate greed isn't an attraction in a zoo for them to watch. The girl's eyes keep moving from the page in the magazine to his figure at a rapid pace.
He tries to ignore their vigilance and goes to pay for his items. When he is already leaving the store, he hears the door behind him open in a hurry.
“sir!” a scratchy voice catches him off guard “ im sorry to ask you this but uh are you—”
“—Are you Dr Carter?" the other girl cuts her more timid friend.
Suddenly the strange feeling of being watched becomes even stranger. It clicks—he wasn't being watched. He was recognized.
Carter looks around before answering.
“yes?” his voice uncertain, matching the look on his face “i am.”
“oh my god,” the timid girl answers, her grip on the magazine tightening to a point where it almost rips the front page. “this cant be real.” she says more to herself than to him or the bubbly girl pushing some strands back in her ears nervously.
“coud you sign this for us?” excitement filling the air in the curly girl's voice, she takes the magazine from her friend's tight grip and hands it to him along with a gel pen.
“uh i dont understand what's happening.” the girly pen looks foreign in his grip; in actuality, all this feels wrong, like a dream state. None of it makes sense. “you probably got me mixed up with someone else.” he shakes his head “im not a celebrity.”
“oh c'mon," the vowels stretched more than usual in a laid-back way. “were not paparazzi's or anything. you dont gotta hide from us Dr john truman carter the III.”
They know his name.
His full name. Not the shortened ‘John’ or ‘Carter’ like he went by to the whole world. No, they really knew his name, including the pathetic title which he always murmured shamefully when giving his ID. He wasn't sure that this situation could get any weirder, but it just did. His hands suddenly got sweaty and he almost dropped the gel pen.
They didn't just know him from the ER, that's for sure. The question is where the hell did they know him from then?
That question answers itself when he glances down at the magazine open for him to sign.
There he is, in suit and color.
His figure is located on the upper right corner of the page. The design looks like a preschool child puked rainbows and glitter onto the paper. It’s a mess to read—a jumble of scrapbook-ish designs and glittery shimmers which make his eyes move from place to place in confusion.
He comes back to the photo.
It's a good photo—which is a relief. But it wasn't him either.
That Carter wasn't John. That Carter smiled as if it were a resistance competitive sport instead of a natural human response. He was a family asset who sat quietly in nice suits and had perfect posture. That Carter resisted the urge to blink away from the camera flashes for hours until his face muscles ached and his eyes burned. But for the public eye, that was him—and that was the only thing that seemed to matter.
Then he looks at the bubbly title above it. A horrible idea.
—Breaking Chicago's stocks and hearts—
As if that wasn't humiliation enough, the subheading under it said:
Who is The Carter's most dashing son's new girlfriend? All you need to know about the private lives of the Windy City elite
Suddenly every bit of his body starts to burn. He turns into a source of shameful heat in the midst of the falling snow. He doesn't know what to do. He wants to hide, run away, stick his head in the snow like an ostrich.
In the moment, he does none of those options. In spite of it all, he signs the paper.
He waits for the girls to leave, running to their houses with joy at each step, ready with excitement to tell everyone they know about this ‘amazing encounter they just had,’ kicking their feet at their soft mattresses while daydreaming about that gunpoint smile.
When they disappear from his view, he sighs in relief.
He turns on his feet and goes back inside the store, picking up a copy for himself. It's just paper, but it feels heavy with the weight of shame from what he's doing. John looks away from the judgmental stare the cashier has for a grown man buying an item made for 15-year-old girls and leaves.
Now he has in his possession a meal that challenges the rules of what really constitutes a meal, a teen magazine in hand, and less than a third of his previous confidence.
The new question becomes: could he make it till home before passing out on the El tracks?
Tired
The sight of the magazine on his lap placed emphasis on the past tense of the word.
He was tired. A state that wasn't true anymore.
His mind is hyped and his blood comes rushing hot to his whole body. He disposes himself of a bit of that pent-up energy by nervously hitting the El steel floor repeatedly with his shoes.
He wants to read it. He needs to read it. He might die if he doesn’t. Everything feels perfect for it. It's a night shift, so it's not crowded, meaning he's comfortably sat down. It also means that there aren't many people to watch as he reads a girly teen magazine. The shame would be his own to carry.
It's made for people whose brains aren't even formed yet, so it's not complex. He could finish it before getting home, and he probably wouldn't miss too much from not being well rested.
He should just do it at this point. It's not as if he will be able to sleep before doing so anyway.
Carter sighs deeply, letting his shoulders fall in defeat.
He takes one last look around the perimeter just to make sure nobody present is looking over. They aren't, but when he goes back to facing the paperback, it's as if sets of eyes appeared on his back.
As a born city boy, he knows no one cares. No one has time to look over and judge what he is reading at 4 AM.
He is invisible.
But for some reason, that part of him stops functioning when he places his digits over the page's corner.
One pull.
That's all he needs the courage for. It's pathetic what he is obsessing over, more even than the reading itself.
“screw it” Carter murmurs under his breath, biting at his inner lip before taking the page close to himself.
He opens it.
—Breaking Chicago's stocks and hearts—
Who is The Carter's most dashing son's new suitor? All you need to know about the private lives of the Windy City elite
An unanswered question has attacked Chicago's female population during the 77th Carter family annual charity ball. During the night, John Truman Carter ‘Dr Carter,’ the only son of the current main branch of the family, was seen repeating his date for the charity event for the fourth time in a row. something quite rare for the bachelor. A pattern that can only signify one thing: love—or the emotion's similar that the rich are able to feel. Could this mean a new addition to the family branch? Who is this captivating and jealousy-inducing young woman? How many other women are distraught, ugly-sobbing with the news that this dashing brunette catch is off the market?
Worry no more, as your ‘millionaire scavenger’ did the dirty work in search of all those burning hot questions.
Let's start from the basics: who is she? Who is the woman who has beaten Chicago's female population in the quest of living the American dream?
…
‘A photo of Lucy appears, a nice and deserved break from the painful shame Carter has while reading this. She's wearing a graduation gown from her med school graduation in front of a monochromatic background. probably gathered from the UICOM archive, it serves it's purpose to show she is both brain and beauty.’
…
Dr Lucy Jane Knight, born on October 16, 1974, in Carlsbad, CA, however lived in San Francisco for most of her teen years before moving to Chicago for med school, bringing a fresh West Coast flair to the Carter family's ancient Midwestern roots. Her untraditional traits don't end there. Dr Knight is a pgysician at County General, the same hospital Dr Carter works at—isn't it beautiful? The lovey-dovey romance practically writes itself. Was he sweet and collected, ever presently understanding of the young woman's questions about the medical world? Dr Carter, always known for his great public posture and patient gentleness, must have been one hell of a teacher to have—although I'm sure most of us would not be looking above his waistline anytime soon.
During my research, I was shocked to discover she comes from a normal background—no millionaire parents or ancient royal lineage. She's an ‘everywoman’ who simply snatched the young dreamy trust fund baby with her own hardworking hands, like an American Princess Diana. Her pure heart and humble smile were powerful enough to charm the members and become an asset to the family. She's currently living the fantasy of going from a usual girl to trophy wife, dropping the dishes and clothing iron in the world of the common people to spin around marble floors in fancy gowns, giving us women still stuck in the common world a chance to dream of our own worthy white knight rescue.
This is more of a stretch, but maybe her social abilities were what set her apart from other suitors. Dr Knight is currently in the last year of her psych residency, which means she can read people with ease. Was she a master of poker face masquerading through the grand halls and gold statues? Or maybe it was just destiny that she and Dr Carter met in the hospital's crowd. We will never know for sure, but I sure do have my bets on the first.
I tried to reach for more information through unconventional methods, even trying to interview some of the workers of County General. Unfortunately, it did not go as I anticipated. The ER was busy, as expected, so let's just say nobody wanted to spare time to answer questions. One of the workers was especially rude. She didn't even give me a name, but by the arrogant way she spoke, you could see she was likely of high rank. Her red hair and striking cane that hit the linoleum with anger were enough of a warning not to tempt her. Words were few and sharp—telling me to go away if I didn't have a medical issue and get a ‘real job.’
It was quite surprising learning the rude and uncaring types of people a man like John Truman Carter III would prefer to spend time with, especially knowing he could be surrounded by the whole of Chicago if he so desired.
Because of that, my information came to an end. However, don't get disappointed, as time will definitely open the curtains to their secrets and gossip, and I'll surely have a lot of content coming from the young ‘Doctor and Doctress’ relationship and the everyday drama that surrounds the Carter family.
In the meantime, I just beg you to keep reading our monthly updates!
-Epilogue-
What a waste.
Carter thought as he saw Lucy's blue eyes glistening as she read through that article, her hands shaking with a sort of excitement he had never seen before.
Believe it or not, there actually are some protocols to these types of events. Breaking news, scandals, scammers—you name it.
John knows that. Every single member of the Carter family knows how to deal with the press, avoid scandals, and talk the least possible to anyone holding a microphone. Before he was even taught how to spell properly, he was taught how to deflect from compromising questions. But one of the most necessary parts of said training is what to do in case this type of confidential information gets out to the public.
Before even telling Lucy about it, he had already called the family lawyer, requesting a nice seven pages of something along the lines of—take this down or face legal action—in a flowery language, disguising the threat as the Carter businessmen do. By his age, he had been present in more than enough of the family's scandals to know what to do. He had memorized the whole ordeal by now.
Power and money can buy many things, but the most important one of all is privacy. He was sure Lucy would feel the same way, that she would rather keep their relationship behind closed doors instead of spreading it open for the whole world to read.
That was until he saw how happy she looked.
How her smile—that beaming smile he loved so much—only grew wider and wider as she finished peering through that low-quality celebrity gossip article. He just couldn't do it anymore—he would kill himself before taking down the source of so much of her happiness. He couldn't break her heart just for the sake of protecting the PR of a family business he loathed with all his soul.
"They called me the American Princess Diana." she said, playing with her hair, her girlish grin making her look years younger.
“I know. i read it,” he says monotonously.
"did you hear me? they compared me to the Princess Of Wales.” her tone becomes louder and whinier, and it reminds him that yes, it's still the Lucy he knows.
“I did. I just don't see any resemblance.” he says in a louder voice to match hers, giving a pause before the attack. “Well, besides the fact that you have made me want to plan an assassination before too.”
He is met with snark on Lucy's righteous face.
“You're just jealous, John. you're jealous because if i am Lady Diana—that makes you King Charles. and you don't wanna admit that you're the asshole of our relationship.” Carter scoffs at that remark.
“yeah, yeah sure lucy,” he continues to stare at her, looking absolutely in awe with the razzle-dazzle of fame. “so you don't want me to take it down, right?”
“are you crazy? no! of course not.” she answers, dumbfounded at the question. “this is the best thing someone has ever written about me—god, I haven't been this excited reading something ever since I got the letter that i matched at county.” her eyes suddenly get bigger as if she remembered a very important piece of information. “I-i didn't even call my mom or my friends to show them this—they're going to freak out.” she starts looking for the phone in her bag to make said call.
“Well, that at least saves me some paperwork.” Carter smiles, a scent of worry behind his eyes, but not nearly enough to stop him from doing so.
They're not even an important news outlet—Gamma will forgive him, John thought as a defense for what he was about to turn a blind eye to.