There were two times that Addison was completely convinced that God, or whomever it is that controls the insanity that is life, has it in for her.

When Addison was eleven, Madam Madeline, her eighth private tutor in only three years ran away, after one of the maids found her under the Captain's desk. The Captain then hired another tutor, a young girl fresh out of college. This time, she had introduced herself as Just Jolene; "Let's not bother with that Ma'am, Madam or Miss crap," Jolene had said smirking, and the child with fiery red hair, the awkward one without many friends, had taken an instant liking to her and hoped that this time it would be different. But then of course, four months later, like every time, somebody had caught her screwing the Captain and that was the first time Addison decided that God must hate her.

The second time happened years later, after getting over the fact that her father was and would always be an adulterous man-whore. It happened that fateful night, on the steps of number 740 Park Avenue, after Derek had caught her in their bed, with his best friend inside of her. After she had chased after Derek and after he had thrown her and some of her ridiculously expensive clothes out of the house and into the rain, Addison had leaned against the door and cursed life. She had found the irony beneath all the heartache; of all the other regular nights where Mark would be hanging around, watching movies with her, making her laugh, giving her massages, eating Derek's dinner… playing Derek's role as husband sans the sex, of course, Derek would choose to come home on the exact and only night that they chose to act upon months—no, years—of pent-up emotions. Of course he would. Because she was Addison and God—if He exists—was never on her side.

A few years later, and here she was in the emergency room of Seattle Grace Hospital, staring at a patient tag at two in the morning and she's feeling it again. Feeling the suspicion that divine powers are against her, and it felt like some fucked up déjà vu.

"18, Caucasian female…Car flipped over. Paramedics found her a few meters away from the scene. She must've broken the window and crawled out. The driver didn't make it," the medical assistant said, pursing his lips. It was a weekend, another weekend that he didn't get to spend with his girlfriend and their son. He had hoped to clock out early when paramedics came, wheeling this wreck in. "The general surgeon on call's in another OR, so one of the nurses paged you." He stared at the unresponsive doctor, who doesn't even seem to be listening. No wonder her marriage fell apart, he thought, irritated. What a nasty thought. He pinned it on exhaustion and patiently waited.

At the same time, Addison's eyes absently scanned the nametag on his chest. If she was reading it, it would read that his name was Dave. But she wasn't. "This can't be happening," she muttered. She wasn't listening. She was vaguely aware that someone was speaking to her, yapping on about a broken car window, but more important things were on her mind. Crucial things, like how this patient, this girl, had gotten to Seattle and what kind of joke fate was playing on her…

"Dr. Montgomery?"

…Or things like the fact that she needs medical attention—now! Addison turned to the medical assistant, and then back to the patient who was bleeding onto the bedding, shards of glass embedded into the side of her face which was being obscured by her blood-covered hair. Blood pooled at her abdomen. The young girl suddenly opened her eyes and cried out in pain, her voice cracking.

Grey eyes. Tiny specks of blue. She has his eyes. The girl whimpered and Addison quickly detached herself, ignoring the lump in her throat, and reminded herself that she is a surgeon first, that her patient was dying and now was definitely not the time for a trip down the dreaded memory lane. "I need an OR!" Addison yelled, heading up to the surgical ward, Loboutin heels clicking. The medical assistant, who was in footwear better suited for running, rushed off ahead of her.

Later, on the surgical floor, a surgical resident stood in front of the OR board, scrawling in details of the surgery: Sunday, 2:30 A.M., Leila Sloan, Trauma—Abdominal bleeding, lacerations, Dr. Montgomery, A.

By the time the other attendings had returned to the hospital, the nurses had already begun whispering. Someone had even took the liberty of snapping a photo of the OR board, Addison discovered, when she walked past a group of interns on the third floor. One of them, a mousy brunette, was reading from her smartphone, and the other three huddled around her. "Sloan!" She squeaked, in a rodent-like tone that matched her features, and her friends murmured excitedly.

Addison held her head high and kept walking, her face not showing the discomfort she felt. In her mind, she was already regulating her own breathing, trying to lull herself back into a state of calmness that now seemed alien to her.

As she reached the elevators, one of the doors opened. Out walked a nurse pushing an aging patient in her wheelchair. Addison slapped the 'Down' button, eager to get a shot or two of caffeine from the café downstairs, and glanced inside the lift, immediately wishing she hadn't. Mark Sloan grinned at her from inside the metal contraption, his eyes twinkling. Startled, Addison composed herself before flashing him a weak smile, her fingers toying with the edge of her coat.

The same doors were about to shut when a gruff voice declared that he wanted to get off, "Excuse me." He'd noticed how her smile didn't quite reach her eyes, her uneasiness… how she'd almost seemed afraid of him. He had always noticed her. Since college, and all throughout med school, when she was off-limits, the forbidden fruit, the love of Derek's life. Hell, he'd noticed her even when Derek stopped. His compulsive way of noticing her had probably gotten them all into this mess in the first place. But he had seen her first, had known her first—in his mind, if anything as free and enchanting and beautiful as she was belonged to anyone at all, she was his. Not Derek's. And things were going great. Ignoring the disgruntled faces of the elevator's occupants, he carefully edged his way out to be with her.

Addison sighed. She would know that voice anywhere. "Mark," she mumbled.

The man in question ran his fingers through his messy hair and moved to stand next to her. "Where you headed?" He looked down at his female counterpart.

"Café."

"So am I," he said, smiling. He needed coffee anyway. He made a mental note to make Karev do something else that was humiliating and non-medical later. Like pick up Addison's dry cleaning…

"Stop it!" She said, just as the right elevator sounded its arrival.

Confused, his brows furrowed. Mark gave her questioning look. The elevator doors pulled open and they both got inside.

"That shit-eating grin, Mark," She announced. "Wipe it off."

"Aw, come on Addie. Don't be such a party pooper, no pun intended. It's the last week until… you know," he wiggled his eyebrows at her suggestively. He was talking about the 60-day celibacy bullshit bet she'd talked him into participating. It was supposed to prove that they were worth waiting for, she had said. She could've said nothing and he would've still said yes. He doesn't know if it's a part of loving her, not being able to tell her no, but this one has definitely got him wrapped right around her empty ring finger.

She laughed, and sauntered out of the elevator. She did know. She wasn't faring as well as she thought, with the bet still on and sexy interns like Alex Karev strutting about in her presence.

Mark was right behind her. Checking out her behind.

In line, at the small coffee shop, he pressed up against her, his hand grabbing hers, whispering in her ears, "I was thinking we could leave early next week, go back to my hotel room, order some room service…"

His breath on her neck, his too-close proximity… Addison shivered. "Mark, we're at work," she protested.

The plastic surgeon, abiding to her wishes, stepped back. "Never stopped us before," he teased.

She pretended not to have heard him. "Two cappuccinos, one with an extra shot and the other one dry, please."

Mark reached for his wallet.

"You've been getting me coffee for days, Mark. This one's on me." She likes that he isn't the type to feel inferior when she offers to pay for him. Mark hadn't acted like he felt inadequate when he'd found out many years ago that she was a trust fund baby. Might be because he was one himself. Substitute love and presence for money, that's what some parents do.

They walked back to the elevators together, his arm on her lower back. Mark was telling her, in animated detail, about a phone call from Amelia last night. Derek's younger sister had apparently freaked out about the three of them all together in one hospital after what had happened. Addison smiled, laughed when appropriate, but her thoughts were on the car-accident patient from that morning. She refused to think of the girl as anything but a patient. Maybe if Addison just ignored her existence, the girl would eventually recover and disappear. No one had to know, especially not Mark.

Derek Shepherd stood in front of room 216, contemplating the name on the door. The handsome doctor had had a fairly good morning and had welcomed this new trauma patient's file with a smile. He never had a chance to actually look at the patient's name, up until that moment. It's not exactly an uncommon last name, the girl's, but the way the entire hospital had been talking about her ever since he set foot into Seattle Grace that morning, how one of the nurse had scandalously exclaimed to the receptionist that she looked "exactly like The Ex-Wife" and had "The Best Friend's hair and eyes…and last name!" made Derek uncertain and anxious to see her for himself.

He pushed the door open and stepped into the room. Meredith, Yang and Karev were waiting for him, engaging the patient with awkward small talk, all of them, he could tell, were trying hard not to stare.

Meredith looked at her boss and boyfriend with wide eyes, thankful for his arrival. She had never been good with small talk, pretending, or carefully traipsing around elephants. Especially when said elephant was a patient, a girl who looked just like Addison Montgomery—the stunning, infuriatingly nice ex-Shepard—minus the blazing red hair, plus the Sloan last name. Yes, Sloan. Like Cristina had said earlier, this had potential to become very interesting. But Meredith's just mostly thankful the girl's surname wasn't Shepard.

Derek did not gape. He did not stare, and he did not curse or yell for Addison, even though he very much wanted to. Betraying none of his feelings, he spoke. "Good morning, I see you've met some of my interns. My name is Dr. Sheherd and I'll be doing your neurological examination today."

"Her name is Leila Sloan," Meredith told him, frowning. How could he be so indifferent? Did he not see what everyone else in this goddamn hospital saw?

Leila Sierra Sloan stared at the blonde doctor, whose name she did not remember. The doctor seemed tense, displeased, for some reason, which Leila found odd since Dr. Shepherd had just said that he would be performing a simple check-up. Simple was a good thing. Maybe she hasn't been properly laid, Leila thought, the corners of her mouth twitching into a smile. In her mind, she can be just as crude as she wants to be.

Gold star for Grey. Derek bit back the urge to reply and simply disregarded her comment. "Dr. Yang, does the patient exhibit any symptoms of traumatic brain injury?"

"The patient, 18, suffers from slight headaches and spatial disorientation after her car accident, nothing that seems permanent so far. CT scans show some internal bleeding caused by the head trauma, but it should be absorbed and gone in a few hours."

"Okay then, let's begin."