About the future—when could she start? What would her priorities be? What kind of support would she need?
And about the salary.
Maggie nearly choked when Jennifer named the figure.
“That’s... significantly more than Oakridge,” she managed.
“You’re worth it,” Jennifer said simply. “And we want you. So. What do you think?”
Maggie closed her eyes.
Saw Evie’s face last night—defeated, exhausted, crying.
Saw Sarah’s journal—choose living.
Saw the next four months of hiding, of pretending, of slowly breaking under the weight of impossible.
“I think,” Maggie said slowly, “I’m very interested. But I need to know—when would you need me to start?”
“How soon can you be available?”
“I’d need to give notice. Two weeks minimum, probably closer to four to properly transition my patients.”
“So early January?”
“January sixth,” Maggie said. The date appeared in her mind fully formed, certain.
“That works perfectly,” Jennifer said. “Let me draw up an offer letter and send it over today. Take a look, let me know if you have questions, and if it looks good we’ll get the official process started.”
“Thank you,” Maggie said.
“No, thank you. Welcome back to Cedar-Sinai, Doctor Laurel.”
They hung up.
Maggie sat on the couch for a long time, phone in her lap, heart pounding.
She’d just agreed to leave Oakridge.
She’d just agreed to start over.
Again.
For Evie.
For them.
For living instead of surviving.
The offer letter arrived at 2 PM.
Maggie read it three times, checking every detail, looking for catches or red flags or reasons to back out.
There were none.
It was a good offer. Better than good. Fair compensation, excellent benefits, research opportunities, teaching responsibilities that excited rather than drained her.
And most importantly—no restriction. No ethics committee oversight. No mandated distance from the person she loved.
