“It is when the donors are responsible for funding the very equipment you use in that OR,” Malcolm countered smoothly. “We’re courting several new benefactors tonight, and yourreputation precedes you. They want to meet the surgeon who’s saving lives and building the hospital’s prestige.”
Catherine’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Surely someone else can play the poster child. I have patients to see, charts to review?—”
“Your schedule is clear for the evening. I checked,” he interrupted with a faint smile. “Besides, Catherine, you know as well as I do that the Harrington name carries weight. People trust it, admire it, and they’ll open their checkbooks because of it.”
She inhaled deeply, forcing herself to keep her tone even. “I’m a surgeon, Malcolm. Not a showpiece.”
“You’re both,” he said bluntly. “And the hospital needs you to wear both hats.”
There was a long silence as Catherine weighed her options—or lack thereof. Finally, she sighed, a sharp exhale of irritation.
“Fine,” she said curtly. “I’ll attend. But I won’t linger.”
“Of course not,” Malcolm said, the faint smirk on his face suggesting he knew better. “Black tie. Seven o’clock. Don’t be late.”
Catherine didn’t bother replying as he turned and walked away. Instead, she stepped into her office and shut the door behind her with more force than necessary. The click of the lock echoed in the quiet room.
She leaned against the door for a moment, closing her eyes. Her mind was already racing with what the evening would entail: false smiles, superficial conversations, and people wanting to talk about everything except what actually mattered.
She hated it.
Crossing the threshold into her office, Catherine exhaled deeply as the space enveloped her like a cocoon. In here, she could impose order on the chaos, each file and instrument precisely where she needed it. The plush carpet muffled her footsteps as she made her way to the desk, the supple leather of her chair molding to her body like a second skin. She inhaled the lingering scent of coffee, the ritual of her morning brew a grounding force.
Her eyes drifted to the framed photo on the corner of the desk. It was an old one with her and her sisters, taken years ago at one of their grandmother’s Sunday lunches. Olivia’s warm smile beamed at the camera, Roz was mid-laugh with Lillian, and Catherine, even then, was the epitome of restraint.
She picked up the frame and studied it for a moment, her fingers brushing the glass. The weight of the Harrington name was something she had carried for so long that it felt more like instinct than obligation. But lately… Lately, it felt heavier.
Her phone buzzed, breaking her thoughts. She glanced at the screen: a calendar reminder for the gala. The words “black tie, 7 p.m.”stared back at her like a challenge.
She set the photo down with a muted clink and stood, her reflection catching in the glass of the window. Her tailored suit was immaculate, her shiny brown hair neatly pulled back, and her expression as composed as ever. She looked every bit the ice queen people said she was.
“Smile and mingle,” she muttered under her breath, the words bitter. “How hard could it be?”
By the time Catherine arrived home, the sky had darkened, and the rain that had been threatening all day had finally begun to fall. She slipped out of her heels and walked intoher immaculate apartment, where every piece of furniture was chosen with precision and every item had its place. It was calm and controlled, a stark contrast to the chaos she expected from the evening ahead.
Her gown, a sleek black number with clean lines and an air of understated elegance, hung waiting in her bedroom. Catherine eyed it with faint disdain as she stepped into the bathroom to prepare. The harsh fluorescent light above the mirror illuminated her features, highlighting every sharp edge and angle.
She brushed on her makeup with the same precision she brought to surgery, her movements efficient and practiced. When she finally slipped into the gown and fastened the diamond bracelet around her wrist, she paused to study herself in the mirror.
She looked the part, as she always did. But the woman staring back at her felt like a stranger.
The room was everything Catherine hated: grand chandeliers dripping with crystal, walls lined with oversized paintings and sculptures that tried too hard to impress, and a crowd of people in formalwear pretending they weren’t appraising each other.
The soft hum of classical music played over the sound of clinking champagne glasses and polite laughter. A waiter drifted by, offering her a flute of something golden and bubbly. She declined with a curt shake of her head, her dark eyes scanning the crowd.
This was a mistake.
The air felt too warm, and the fabric of her black dress clung too tightly to her skin. She tugged at the sleeve as she steppedfurther into the room, wishing she’d come up with an excuse, any excuse, not to be here.
“Dr. Harrington!”
Catherine turned, schooling her expression into one of polite indifference as Malcolm approached. He was all smiles, his tuxedo perfectly tailored, a glass of wine already in his hand.
“You made it,” he said, as if there had been any doubt.
“I’m here,” Catherine replied, her tone as sharp as her heels. “Let’s get this over with.”
Malcolm chuckled, steering her toward a cluster of donors near the far wall. “Relax, Catherine. It’s a party. Try to have some fun.”
