"I have rounds," I say stiffly.
I walk out.
My heart is pounding. We won. We survived the audit.
But as the door clicks shut, I realize we weren't saved. We were just used as ammunition. And Sterling looks like a man who is done playing by the rules.
Victory tastes like cold brew coffee and hubris.
I spend the hour after the boardroom meeting in a state of euphoria I haven't felt since my first solo transplant. We won. We actually won. My father, a man who usually treats me like a bad investment, had descended from on high and crushed Anthony Sterling like a bug. And he did it while complimenting Jax.
I walk toward the elevators, my phone buzzing.
From: Jax
Did you see Sterling’s face? I thought he was going to cry. Drinks on me tonight. I know a dive bar that serves beer in plastic cups. You’ll hate it.
Plastic cups are unsanitary. We are going to the jazz club on 4th. Wear the suit. Alistair was right; it fits you.
I pocket the phone. I feel invincible. The funding is secured, the "study" is validated, and Alistair York has essentially blessed the partnership.
I head to the scrub room outside OR 1. I have a scheduled mitral valve repair at 2:00 PM. I want to scrub early. I want to feel the water on my hands and revel in the fact that I am still the Chief.
I push through the swinging door of the scrub room.
It is empty, save for the stainless steel sinks and the smell of antiseptic soap.
I turn on the tap. I begin the ritual.Fingertips to elbows.
"Dr. York."
The voice is quiet. It cuts through the sound of the running water like a bone saw.
I turn.
Dr. Anthony Sterling is standing in the doorway. He isn't accompanied by legal counsel this time. He isn't holding a budget report. He is holding a manila envelope.
He steps inside. The room is small, and suddenly, it feels like a coffin.
"I’m scrubbing, Anthony," I say, keeping my voice bored. "If you want to discuss the robotic arm again, take it up with Alistair. I believe he was quite clear. He likes the project. He likes Dr. O'Connell."
"Oh, I know he likes O'Connell," Sterling says. He walks over to the sink next to mine. He doesn't turn on the water. Heplaces the envelope on the dry metal ledge. "Your father has a soft spot for... rough edges. He thinks O'Connell is a war hero."
Sterling rests his hand on the envelope.
"But your father is also a businessman, Maxwell. He tolerates eccentrics. He does not tolerate liabilities."
He slides the contents of the envelope out.
Photographs.
They fan out across the stainless steel like a losing hand of poker.
I look down. The water is still running over my hands, but I can't feel the temperature anymore. I can't feel anything.
The first photo is grainy, taken from a distance. It’s the hospital parking lot. Me and Jax walking in, shoulders brushing, laughing.
The second is clearer. It’s the terrace of the York Estate. Snow is falling. Jax is pulling me into his coat. We are kissing.
