“Standard closure. Document everything in detail.” I step back, my body moving through the practiced rhythm of post-operative routine.
“Nurse Yang,” I say, glancing briefly at her, “hourly observations for the next four hours. Any deviation—page me immediately. I’ll be in my office finalizing the documentation.”
“Certainly,” she replies, efficient as always, though I don’t miss the flicker of exhaustion in her eyes.
I glance around the theater—subtle cues of fatigue everywhere. The way shoulders slump, the slight delay in movement as instruments are packed away, the quiet sighs that no one acknowledges.
They’ve earned my gratitude. I’ll offer it—properly—later. When there’s space for it.
For now, there’s still work to be done.
One final check of Matthews’s sutures. A brief discussion with the anesthetist about Mrs. Patterson’s post-op pain management—ensuring everything is in place for an optimal recovery.
The snap of latex gloves as I remove them carries its usual satisfaction—a ritual marking the end of another successful procedure.
And then—the paperwork.
There is always paperwork.
Satisfied that Mrs. Patterson is in capable hands, I step out of the theater, the low hum of the hospital swallowing me back into its rhythm. The procedure is over. My focus should shift. My shoulders should relax.
They don’t.
Twenty minutes later, I’m slumped behind my desk, the last of the operative notes typed up.
I lean back, letting out a slow breath that feels like it’s been trapped in my chest for hours. Since last night, to be precise.
Theincident.
Daisy.
My fingers tighten around the armrest, jaw clenching as the memory forces its way back—unbidden, unwelcome, infuriatingly persistent.
It’s left me off-balance in a way I cannot tolerate.
Unacceptable. A surgeon’s control must be absolute. Anything less is dangerous.
I press my fingers into my temples, trying—failing—to force order back into my mind.
For the first time since Millie died, I broke my pre-operative routine. Didn’t get enough sleep. Didn’t wake before dawn to run through the procedure in my head, every possible complication, every contingency plan.
A breach so egregious I’d eviscerate anyone else for it—let alone tolerate it in myself.
My patients deserve better than a surgeon distracted by memories of a naked woman sprawled in his bed.
The operation was flawless, yes, but that offers no consolation. The lack of error does not excuse the failure in discipline.
The first woman in my bed since Millie’s death, and she wasn’t even there for me.
Millie would be laughing herself sick at this. If I believed in an afterlife, she’d be up there having an absolute field day.
And with Spencer, of all bloody people.
Of all the men, of all the ways this farce could have unfolded.
I had words with him after Daisy left. Stern words.
Impersonating me? To seduce women?
