"Dr. York," Sterling says, checking his watch. "You’re late. And you look... disheveled."
"I was with a patient," I say, remaining standing. "Dr. O'Connell is stable, by the way. Since none of you asked."
"Dr. O'Connell is the subject of this meeting," Sterling says. He taps the photos. "As is your gross misconduct. I have prepared the statement for the press. 'Dr. York resigns due to personal reasons.' It’s clean. It’s generous."
He slides a piece of paper across the table.
"Sign it, Maxwell. And we can bury these pictures before your mother sees them."
I look at the paper. Then I look at the Board members. They are shifting uncomfortably, avoiding my eyes. They know this is a hit job, but they are money men. They follow the path of least resistance.
I reach for the paper.
I pick it up.
And I rip it in half.
The sound is loud in the silent room.
Sterling blinks. "Excuse me?"
"I am not resigning," I say. My voice is steady. "And I am not firing Dr. O'Connell. If you want to release those photos, go ahead. Send them to theTimes. Send them to my mother."
I lean forward, placing my hands on the table, a dark smile touching my lips.
"Hell, you can even send them to the Vatican. But you might want to remember that Pope Pius XIV came out of the closet to be with the Italian Prime Minister. Considering he changed two thousand years of doctrine for his own forbidden love, I imagine he’d be our biggest fan."
"But know this: If you fire Jax O'Connell—a man who drove into a blizzard to save two lives, a man who is currently lying in your ICU with four broken ribs sustained in the line of duty—I will burn this hospital to the ground."
"Is that a threat?" Sterling sneers.
"It is a promise," I say. "I will go to every news outlet in the city. I will tell them that St. Jude’s fired a war hero because the Chief of Surgery has a petty vendetta. I will take my grant money, my research, and my donors, and I will walk across the street to Mercy General."
I pause.
"And I will take my father’s name with me."
Sterling laughs. "Your father? Maxwell, please. Alistair protects winners. He won't protect a pervert who got caught with his pants down in a tailor shop."
"On the contrary," a voice booms from the entrance behind Sterling. "I think the tailor shop photos are quite artistic. The lighting is superb. Very Caravaggio."
Sterling spins around.
Alistair York stands in the entrance, the doors thrown askew as he enters with his typical casual arrogance. He is holding a glass of water, but he is looking at it like it’s scotch.
"Alistair?" Sterling pales. "I... I didn't know you were sitting in."
"I own the building, Anthony," Alistair says pleasantly. "I sit where I please."
Alistair walks to the table, leaning heavily on his cane. He picks up the photo of me on my knees in front of Jax.
"Bold," Alistair muses. "Submissive. I didn't think you had it in you, Maxwell. I’m impressed. Then again, it’s always the quiet ones, isn't it?"
"Father," I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose.
"Alistair, look at the evidence!" Sterling insists, pointing a shaking finger. "Your son is sleeping with a subordinate! It’s a liability! Catherine will be furious!"
"Ah, yes. Catherine."
