Broken dream, p.1
Broken Dream, page 1
Broken Dream
Steel Legends
Book 3
HELEN HARDT
This book is an original publication of Waterhouse Press.
* * *
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.
* * *
Copyright © 2025 Waterhouse Press, LLC
Cover Design by Waterhouse Press, LLC
Cover Photographs: Shutterstock
* * *
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
To the two therapists who helped me when I needed it
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Message from Helen Hardt
Also By Helen Hardt
Acknowledgments
About Helen Hardt
Prologue
If I can’t have you, I’ll make sure no one else ever does.
She never heard me say the words out loud.
But they live inside my mind.
I watch.
And I wait.
Chapter One
Angie
Today’s the day.
Anatomy lab begins.
And I’m feeling a little…nauseated.
This is a huge part of a medical student’s education, and I knew it was coming. Still…
The room is chilly. It has to be, so the cadavers won’t rot.
Yeah, more nausea.
“How can you not be more excited?” Tabitha Haynes, a bubbly blonde and my assigned lab partner, asks me.
She and I met briefly at the mixer at the beginning of the first semester, but we haven’t been friendly. I haven’t been very friendly with any of my fellow students, to be honest. I’m kind of an introvert. I was popular in high school and college simply by being one of the “awesome foursome,” which consisted of my twin sister, Sage, and my cousins Brianna and Gina. We’re the youngest in our large family, so we’ve always hung out together. Sage, Bree, and Gina are all extroverts, so I tagged along, and they brought me out of my shell.
But I’m alone here in Boulder, Colorado, as I begin my second semester of my first year of medical school.
“I’m going into psychiatry,” I tell Tabitha. “The thought of dissecting an actual human being kind of makes me want to barf.”
My comment doesn’t seem to faze her. “I’m going into surgery, so this is huge for me,” she says.
I wrinkle my nose. “Don’t you ever think about the ethics of it? Like, what if we recognize him? Or her?”
“Now you’re just being gross,” Tabitha says. “Besides, we’ve only been in medical school for a couple of months so far. You may really enjoy this lab. You may decide you don’t want to focus on psychiatry after all.”
I shake my head. “My aunt is a renowned psychiatrist. She’s retired now, but she’s amazing. If I can be half the psychiatrist she is, I know I’ll contribute something wonderful to the world.”
Tabitha rolls her eyes at me. “Dr. Melanie Carmichael Steel. We all know who you are, Angie.”
Yeah, everyone knows I’m a member of the Steel family. I may not carry their last name, but my mother, Marjorie Steel Simpson, is sister—and the only female sibling—to the three Steel brothers.
“I don’t flaunt my family ties,” I say.
“Did I say you did?” She purses her lips. “There’s been talk, of course. I’m not saying I’ve been talking, but there’s been talk.”
I should be surprised, but I’m not. There’s always talk.
“About what?” I ask.
“About you and your hefty Steel trust fund. About why you’re even bothering with medical school when you have enough money to last your entire lifetime and more.”
“God.” I let out a huff. “I’m so sick of this kind of shit. I got it all through college, too. Maybe I should’ve gone to medical school somewhere on the East Coast where no one has ever heard of the Steels.”
“Calm down,” Tabitha says. “I haven’t been talking. That I promise you. Frankly, I think anyone who has the drive and perseverance to get into medical school—which is not easy, as you know—and the desire to heal should be here.”
I nod. “I have that. I’ve learned so much from my aunt over the years. I want to help people the way she does.”
“Then you totally should.” She crosses her arms. “But I’m just saying, don’t count out surgery, because once we cut into this cadaver, you may find you like it.”
I force a smile at Tabitha. Maybe we could be friends. She’s cute, with her blond hair and light-brown eyes. She’s half a head shorter than I am, but I come from tall stock.
“So what should we name him?” Tabitha asks, looking down at our cadaver covered with a thick white sheet.
I drop my jaw. “You want to name the dead guy? I’m still on ‘what if we recognize him?’”
She smirks. “Are you kidding me? These bodies have been soaking in formaldehyde for years. Have you had anyone you know die and leave their body to science in that time?”
Ugh. I don’t want to think about that. “We don’t know whether we’re going to get a male or female,” I say.
“So we choose an androgynous name, then. Like Jordan or Morgan.”
Is she kidding me? “Don’t you think we should see what he or she looks like first?”
God. Soon we’ll have to look at it.
She lets out a laugh. “You are too funny! You don’t want to do any of this, but you want to wait until we see the cadaver before we give it a name?”
I grimace. “Hey, if I had it my way, there would be no name. There would be no anatomy lab.”
“Then why didn’t you just pursue a doctorate in psychology? Why bother with med school at all?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I shrug my shoulders. “Psychiatry is a medical profession. I happen to think the link between physical health and mental and emotional health is very important.”
“Okay, okay… Simmer down.” She punches me gently on my upper arm. “If you want to get through med school, though, you’re going to have to pass anatomy lab. We’re going to be doing this for four years, and probably more during internship and residency. Well, at least during internship for you. If you stick with psychiatry, that’s where your residency will be.”
“Thank God,” I say under my breath.
Then Tabitha grabs my arm. “Fuck,” she says. “Check out our instructor.”
I look to the front of the room, where a tall man is walking in.
Make that a really tall man, with gorgeous dark-brown hair, black stubble on his sculpted jawline, and the most piercing emerald-green eyes I’ve ever seen.
Oh my God.
He may just be the best-looking man I’ve ever laid eyes on, and I grew up in a family of famously handsome men.
“Who is that?” I hear another student whisper.
Every woman in the room is staring at him, and quite a few of the men as well. And I don’t think they’re all gay. He’s just that good-looking.
“Good morning,” he says. “I’m Dr. Jason Lansing, and I’ll be your instructor for this semester’s anatomy lab. Please call me Jason.” He gives a dramatic scowl. “Dr. Lansing makes me feel about a hundred years old.”
Laughter echoes throughout the lab. I simply gulp and try not to stare at my professor’s magnificence.
He looks around the room. “You’ll get to meet your cadavers soon. First, some preliminaries.” He paces up and down between our tables. “You’re very lucky to have only two students per cadaver. In normal years, there are four per cadaver, and even sometimes six. The school received a hefty donation this year, so we’re able to do two per cadaver.”
Hefty donation.
From my mother and father, of course. But no one needs to know that, though I’m sure they all suspect.
He looks up and down the lab, pausing on each individual face. “You may be feeling a mixture of anticipation, excitement, maybe even a bit of nervousness. That’s all norm al. Today, and over the next few months, you’ll begin a journey of understanding the human body in ways that can only be taught here.”
He pauses a moment. Is he going to ask if we have questions? He doesn’t. He simply clears his throat and continues.
He gestures to the sheet-covered cadavers. “These are not just bodies. They are people who made the thoughtful decision to donate themselves so that you could learn. They’ve given you one final gift—one of knowledge. Every time you approach these tables, remember that you’re not just studying anatomy. You’re honoring a life.”
Another pause.
What’s with all the pausing?
“Over the course of this semester, we’ll be covering different regions of the body, moving from the thorax to the limbs, and eventually to more delicate areas. Each lab will build on the last to give you a complete view of how interconnected our bodies truly are. For many of you, this will be the most hands-on learning you’ve ever experienced. It will be challenging and at times uncomfortable, but also incredibly rewarding.”
He takes a few steps closer to the nearest table—which happens to be Tabitha’s and mine—and places a hand on the edge.
He’s so close.
So close that I can smell his scent over the chemical aromas of the lab.
He smells like the outdoors—crisp pine and the faint smokiness of a fire that’s long since burned out. It’s rugged and raw, as if he’s part of the wilderness itself, untamed and irresistible.
“Remember, this is a privilege, and we are here to learn—not only from books but also from these individuals. They teach us the complexities of human life, health, and disease in a way no lecture can. Each scar, each variation you’ll see, tells a story.”
A few students exchange glances.
“Let’s also be mindful of each other,” Dr. Lansing adds. “Some of you may feel overwhelmed today or in the coming weeks, and that’s perfectly okay. We’re in this together, and I encourage you to support each other, to ask questions, and to take breaks when needed. This lab is a safe place for learning and growth.”
With those last words, he’s talking directly to me. At least I feel like he is. I seem to be the only apprehensive person in the room.
“Before we begin,” he says, “I want to go around the room and have each of you introduce yourselves. You’ve been in school together for a few months now, and if you’re like most new medical students, you’ve been spending all your free time hitting the books, and you haven’t gotten to know each other.” He crosses his arms. “But medicine is a collaborative practice. For the rest of your careers, you’ll be working with other physicians and depending on them as they will depend on you. We’ll start with you two.” He meets my gaze, his hand still resting on Tabitha’s and my table.
I swallow as I try to breathe.
When I finally open my mouth—
Tabitha beats me to the punch. “I’m Tabitha Haynes,” she says, “and I’m from Denver. My undergrad degree is in microbiology, and I’m hoping to become a surgeon.”
“Good to have you here, Tabitha,” Dr. Lansing says.
He deepens his gaze at me.
God, those eyes.
Like a bright-green flame.
I feel like he’s melting the clothes off my body.
I clear my throat. “I’m Angela Simpson. Call me Angie. I’m from Snow Creek on the Western Slope. My undergrad degree is in biology and psychology, and I’m interested in psychiatry.”
Jason’s lips tremble a bit.
Seriously? Is he trying not to laugh at me?
No. I’m reading far too much into it. He’s our instructor, and all medical specialties are valid. He knows this as well as I do.
“I see, Angie.” He presses his lips together. “Any particular reason for choosing psychiatry this early in the game?”
No way. He didn’t interrogate Tabitha about her choice.
“My aunt is a renowned psychiatrist, and I truly respect what she’s been able to do during her career. Psychiatry is my calling.”
He slowly nods. “I’m sure your aunt is very proud of you.”
Is it my imagination, or is his tone kind of dismissive?
Before I can consider it further, Dr. Lansing moves to the next table.
And then all I can think about is what he might look like without a shirt.
It’s sure as hell more appealing than thinking about the dead person lying in front of me.
Chapter Two
Jason
There’s one in every class—a student who thinks he or she is going to save the world from the current mental health crisis.
A worthy goal, for sure.
But an impossible one.
I’m living proof of that.
And of course for this lab, she has to be the most beautiful woman in the room. She’s tall, slender, with a gorgeous head of dark hair pulled into a ponytail, beautiful brown eyes, and full pink lips.
I listen with one ear as the rest of the students introduce themselves.
Once everyone is done, I move back to the front of the room. “Are you all ready?”
I get several resounding yeses.
Nothing from Angie Simpson, though. She looks like she’s about ready to lose her breakfast.
I take a steadying breath and look around the room, making sure every student is focused and ready—or as close to ready as they can be. This first encounter is a memory they’ll carry long after they’ve left this lab. I still remember the day I saw my first cadaver.
I knew then I’d be a surgeon.
I just didn’t know how short my time as a surgeon would turn out to be.
“Let’s begin.” I move to another table in front. I can’t be so close to Angie Simpson. Something about her makes me feel things I’ve long forgotten.
The cadaver at the next table lies covered in a heavy sheet. “We’ll start by uncovering just the thoracic area, the upper chest,” I say. “This way, you’ll see just a section of the body, not the whole, which helps keep our focus and eases us into this process.”
I reach down and slowly lift the top of the sheet, just enough to reveal the shoulders and upper chest.
The room is silent, filled only with the soft sound of fabric moving.
“This is the thoracic cavity,” I say. “In here, we have the heart, the lungs, and vessels that carry life to every part of our bodies.”
I pause and look around the room. Some students’ eyes widen, others look deeply thoughtful. “Now, reach out, place your gloved hand gently on the sternum here, at the center.” I demonstrate, pressing lightly. “This is the core of the chest. From here, we’ll feel the ribs, the borders of the thoracic cavity. Take your time, feel the shape, imagine the movement that once filled these lungs with breath.”
I walk around the room. From some students I sense curiosity. From others, astonishment. From a few, boredom. All normal.
Then I lock eyes with Angie Simpson. No boredom there. Definitely no curiosity. Maybe a little astonishment.
Mostly she seems to be giving off a mix of dread and determination. Her hands are as white as the sheet covering the body in front of her. She looks like she’s holding her breath, as if the weight of the moment might overwhelm her.
Her lab partner has uncovered the chest and is probing it with her gloved hand.
But Angie hasn’t touched anything yet. She’s only now snapping on her gloves.
“You doing okay?” I ask.
