CATHERINE
The room was cold, as it always was. The hum of machinery was a low, constant drone beneath the sharp rhythm of Catherine Harrington’s voice.
“Clamp,” she ordered, her tone clipped but steady.
A gloved hand moved into her line of vision, the instrument gleaming under the harsh overhead lights. Catherine’s fingers closed around it with the precision of a machine, her eyes never leaving the exposed chest cavity in front of her.
“Good. Hold it steady,” she said, not looking at the resident beside her. She didn’t need to. She could feel the younger woman’s hesitation, the slight tremble in her hands that betrayed her nerves.
“Pressure’s dropping,” someone announced, a note of panic creeping into their voice.
“I can see that,” Catherine replied, her voice razor-sharp but calm. “Increase fluids. And if you’re going to stand there and state the obvious, at least try to sound useful.”
The room fell silent except for the rhythmic beeping of the monitors and the soft rustle of surgical gowns. Catherine barely noticed. Her world had narrowed to the task at hand.
The minutes stretched on, the tension thick enough to taste. The resident at her side shifted, and Catherine’s voice cut through the quiet like a scalpel.
“Stop fidgeting. If you can’t keep your hands steady, step back.”
“Sorry, Dr. Harrington,” the resident stammered, her voice barely audible over the whir of the ventilator.
Catherine didn’t reply. Apologies were meaningless in the operating room. There was only the work—precise, unyielding, and unforgiving.
“Almost there,” she murmured, more to herself than to anyone else. Her hands moved with a confidence born of years of practice, her every motion deliberate and controlled.
The monitor beeped steadily, the sound like a heartbeat for the room.
“Pressure’s stabilizing,” the anesthesiologist reported, relief evident in his tone.
“Of course it is,” Catherine said dryly. She didn’t look up as she worked, her focus unrelenting.
Finally, she straightened, the clamp in her hand glinting faintly under the lights. The incision was sutured with the same meticulous care she had given the entire procedure, each stitch a testament to her precision.
“Close him up,” she said, stepping back and stripping off her gloves. She dropped them into the waste bin with a flick of her wrist.
The team exhaled collectively, the tension in the room dissipating like steam.
“Excellent work, Dr. Harrington,” one of the nurses ventured, her tone cautious but admiring.
Catherine glanced at her, her expression unreadable. “It was adequate,” she replied before turning away. Praise wasn’t the point. The patient lived; that was all that mattered.
The hospital’s administrative wing was its own sort of battlefield with its polished floors, glass walls, and the faint hum of productivity vibrating in the air. Catherine strode through the corridor, her posture straight and her expression unreadable. Every glance cast her way by passing staff was tinged with equal parts admiration and intimidation.
Her heels clicked sharply against the tiles as she approached her office, but before she could step inside, a voice called out behind her.
“Dr. Harrington.”
Catherine stopped mid-step, her jaw tightening. The tone was familiar, polite but firm, the kind of voice that wasn’t used to being ignored. She turned slowly, her expression already guarded, to find Dr. Malcolm Hall standing there, clipboard in hand and a faintly smug smile tugging at his lips.
“Malcolm,” she greeted, her voice cool. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s more what you can do for the hospital.” He stepped closer. “I’m sure you’ve heard about tonight’s charity art gala.”
Catherine raised an eyebrow. “Vaguely.”
“Well, the board has decided that your attendance is non-negotiable.”
Her brow furrowed. “Non-negotiable? My work in the OR is non-negotiable. Attending a glorified cocktail party to rub elbows with donors is not.”
