She started avoiding the hospital. Worked from home when she could, citing "personal time" that everyone knew was really exile. Spent hours staring at the walls of her apartment, spiraling through memories and second-guesses.
The grief over Marianne didn't help.
Every time she thought she had a handle on the professional crisis, the personal one would resurface. The way Marianne had looked at her that last night. The cold precision of her words. The careful distance in her eyes.
Maybe this was a mistake from the beginning.
Had it been? Had Isla fooled herself about that too? Had she believed they were building something real when Marianne had always been holding back, always keeping one foot out the door?
The signs had been there, if she was honest with herself. The way Marianne always seemed surprised by intimacy, as if she hadn't expected it. The careful boundaries she maintained even in their most vulnerable moments. The reluctance to talk aboutthe future, to make plans, to commit to anything beyond the next secret meeting.
Isla had told herself it was because of the circumstances. The forbidden nature of their relationship. The pressure they were both under. She had believed that once the audit was over, once the external crisis resolved, they would be able to build something real.
Instead, Marianne had chosen her career. Had walked away the moment the choice became impossible to avoid. Had proved that all of Isla's fears about vulnerability and abandonment were justified.
The apartment felt like a prison. Every corner held memories of Marianne. The kitchen where they had cooked breakfast together. The couch where they had talked for hours. The bedroom where they had made love with an intensity that had felt like everything.
Isla couldn't escape any of it. Couldn't stop thinking about what she had lost. Couldn't convince herself that she was better off without someone who would choose safety over love.
Because the truth was, part of her understood why Marianne had made that choice. Understood the fear of losing everything she had rebuilt. Understood the terror of vulnerability when you had already been destroyed once.
The understanding didn't make it hurt any less.
She missed Marianne with an intensity that surprised her. Missed her voice in the quiet moments. Missed her hands, her mouth, the way she looked when she finally let her guard down. Missed having someone who knew her, really knew her, beneath all the professional armor.
The nights were the hardest. Isla would lie awake staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment they had shared. The first kiss in the conference room. The desperate coupling in thelocker room. The quiet mornings in San Diego when she had let herself believe they had a future.
She had been a fool to hope. Had known from the beginning that Marianne was damaged in ways that made commitment impossible. But she had hoped anyway. Had let herself be vulnerable. Had trusted someone with her heart.
And now she was paying the price.
---
On the fourth day, she got a text from Elena, one of the trauma nurses.
Just wanted you to know we're thinking about you. You're the best, Dr. B. Don't let them make you forget that.
The next day, another text. This one from Marcus, the anesthesiologist she worked with most often.
Heard what's happening. It's bullshit. You saved my patient last month when everyone else would have let him die. That counts for something.
The messages kept coming.
The department isn't the same without you. Come back soon.
The support felt like a lifeline. A reminder that her value wasn't defined by the board's judgment or Shaw's vendetta. That the people who actually worked with her, who saw what she could do, still believed in her.
It couldn't stop the spiral of self-doubt and fear. But their belief in her—a few people who had actually seen what she could do, who stood by her when no one else would—kept herfrom drowning completely when the weight of the investigation threatened to pull her under.
---
A week into her suspension, Isla got a text from Dr. Hartman.
Lunch? Off campus. My treat.
She almost said no. Had been avoiding social contact, retreating into isolation the way she always did when things got hard. But something about the invitation felt different. Important.
They met at a small Thai restaurant far enough from the hospital that they were unlikely to be seen by colleagues. The rich aroma of lemongrass and coconut filled the air, steam rising from dishes at nearby tables. Hartman was already at a table when Isla arrived, his face grave but his eyes sharp with purpose.
