Three hours of being the instrument of that destruction.
Victor Shaw had been relentless. He had pushed for immediate suspension of surgical privileges, arguing that every day Isla remained in the operating room was another day of potential liability. The committee hadn't gone that far, but they had issued formal restrictions. Mandatory consultation for any procedure outside standard protocol. Required documentation before, not after, any deviation. A probationary period that would follow Isla for the next twelve months.
It wasn't the end of her career. But it was close enough to feel like one.
The restrictions would hamstring Isla in exactly the ways that mattered most. Her ability to make split-second decisions, the instinctive choices that had saved so many lives, would now be subject to consultation and approval. In trauma medicine, where seconds could mean the difference between life and death, that delay could be catastrophic.
Marianne had tried to argue for less restrictive measures. Had pointed out that Isla's outcomes justified her methods, that constraint might actually increase risk rather than reduce it. But Victor Shaw had been relentless in his opposition, and the committee had sided with legal over clinical considerations.
The result was a compromise that satisfied no one. Too restrictive for Isla, too lenient for the board's more aggressive members. A middle ground that would probably make everyone miserable.
Marianne had watched Isla's face as the restrictions were announced. Had watched the fury and betrayal flash across her features before being replaced by a mask of cold professionalism. Had watched her walk out of the room without looking back, her spine straight and her hands steady, revealing nothing of the devastation she must be feeling.
And now Marianne sat alone with the weight of what she had done.
She had tried to be fair. Had presented the data as objectively as she could, had included the outcomes that demonstrated Isla's exceptional abilities alongside the deviations that created risk. But objectivity didn't matter to a committee focused on liability protection. They had heard what they wanted to hear.
The case she had built, the documentation she had assembled, had been used as ammunition against the woman she couldn't stop thinking about.
Marianne pressed her palms against her eyes until she saw stars. This was exactly what she had been hired to do. Identifyrisk. Document concerns. Recommend appropriate action. She had done her job, done it well, done it exactly as the board expected.
So why did she feel like she had committed an act of betrayal?
Because you have, a voice whispered in the back of her mind. Because somewhere along the way, this stopped being about risk management and started being about her.
She needed to explain. Needed to make Isla understand that this wasn't personal, that the political pressures from the board had left her no choice, that the restrictions were the best outcome she could negotiate under the circumstances.
The excuses felt hollow even in her own head.
Marianne stood abruptly and left her office before she could talk herself out of it. The hospital corridors were quiet at this hour, the evening shift settled into its familiar routine. She nodded to the few staff members she passed, maintaining her professional composure through sheer force of will.
She found Isla in the surgical wing's locker room, alone in the dim space between banks of metal lockers. The overhead lights were off, the only illumination coming from the emergency exit signs that cast everything in shades of red and shadow.
Isla was sitting on a bench with her back against the lockers, still wearing her scrubs, her head tilted back and her eyes closed. She looked exhausted. Defeated. Nothing like the fierce, confident surgeon who had challenged Marianne in their very first meeting.
"I figured you'd come." Isla's voice was flat, her eyes still closed. "To explain, right? To tell me it wasn't personal?"
"Isla..."
"Don't." Isla's eyes opened, and even in the dim light fury blazed there. "Don't come here with your prepared justifications.Don't tell me you were just doing your job, or that the committee made the decision, or that this is somehow for my own good."
"I didn't want this outcome."
"Then why did you present that evidence? Why did you give them exactly what they needed to restrict my practice?" Isla stood, and the movement was sharp, predatory. "You built that case, Marianne. Every page of it. Every data point. Every damning statistic. You know what you’re doing."
"I presented the facts. The committee drew their own conclusions."
"The facts you chose to highlight. The narrative you constructed." Isla moved closer, and Marianne felt herself backing up against the lockers. "You knew how they would use that documentation. You knew what would happen. I feel sick."
"I knew whatmighthappen. There's a difference."
"Is there?" Isla's voice was low, dangerous. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you got exactly what you came here for. The board wanted a visible example of accountability. Congratulations. You delivered one."
The accusation hit like a blow. Marianne felt her composure cracking, felt the careful walls she had built starting to crumble under the weight of Isla's fury.
"You can't reduce this to?—"
"To what? Fair?" Isla laughed, and the sound was harsh and bitter. "You want to talk about fair? I've spent my entire career saving lives that other doctors would have written off. I've made decisions that terrified me because the alternative was watching people die. And now, because of you, I have to get permission before I can do what I was trained to do."
