Reid doesn’t wait for a reply. He turns back to me, his hand firm at my back again, guiding me toward the exit.
“Let’s go, baby.”
By the time we get home, I’m vibrating. Not with fear—fuck that. Not even with grief.
With rage.
It hums low in my chest like a live wire, bitter and bright. My hands won’t stop shaking with the fury of being cornered and handled and sent away like some cautionary tale instead of a surgeon building a goddamn legacy.
I march into the house without waiting for Reid, change into leggings and an old shirt of his, then storm straight into the kitchen. I need todosomething. Control something.
The cutting board slaps onto the counter, and I grab a knife and an onion, and go to war.
Behind me, the front door clicks shut, and I hear his keys clang.
But Reid doesn’t say anything, just lingers in the doorway while I finish murdering the onion then grab a red bell pepper to quarter.
“I swear to God, if you tell me to calm down right now, I will”—I glance up. The tip of the knife is angled toward him—“accidentally stab you, apparently.” I lower it. “Sorry.”
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed and lips twitching, but still says nothing. I turn back to the cutting board, pick up another pepper, and resume battle.
“I’m so pissed,” I snap, blade slicing down hard before I look back up at him. “And I’ve had to work twice as hard for half the respect.”
“You’re pointing that knife at me again,” he says finally, nodding at where it’s clutched in my hand. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s giving less MasterChef, more stabbing spree.”
I snort. “You’re there like you’re not enjoying it.”
He walks in slowly and leans a hip against the far counter. “I’m just saying, maybe whatever that bell pepper did to you… it’s suffered enough.”
I turn to the stove and slam everything into a pan anyway, and for a while, the only sound is the click of the burner and the hiss of oil heating the vegetables. My pulse thrums in my ears, and I can feel him watching me, still waiting.
“Jenny wants to bury me,” I mutter, spinning to pace with knife still in one hand. “That’s what this is. Not ethics or integrity. It'scontrol.”
Reid doesn’t answer.
“She’s always hated that I wouldn’t kiss ass and still had Moreno's attention, that I’m better than half the ortho team, andI don’t apologize for it. And now she’s got the perfect angle—pregnant, vulnerable, emotionally compromised. Fuck her.”
Still no response, but when I whirl around to ask him why, he’s setting something on the counter beside me.
A glass with a lime wedge. Something fizzy with ice.
“…You made me a drink?”
“Mocktail.” He shrugs. “You’d be drinking a real one if you could.”
I blink at it, then at him, then reach for it with my free hand. The ice clinks gently as I lift it to my mouth. It’s sweet and tart and stupidly perfect.
“Goddamn you,” I mutter, then take another sip. “That’s so good.”
Reid just watches me, his eyes twinkling with amusement, before quietly taking a breath.
“You done waving that sharp thing around?”
I exhale.
“No,” I say. “But I’ll put it down.”
I set the knife aside with more force than necessary and launch into my rant.
