The bright overhead lights of the operating theater were a kind of salvation, clean, clinical, and unrelenting. In here, nothing was ambiguous. Nothing was chaotic. You knew what to cut, what to fix, what to suture. And if you didn’t, then you had no business being in Catherine Harrington’s OR.
The scalpel in her hand moved with practiced ease, her mind hyperfocused on the narrow field of tissue and bone in front of her. The cardiovascular procedure was complex but familiar. She’d done hundreds of them, if not more. Each motion was a memory embedded in her muscle and nerves.
“Clamp,” she said crisply.
A hand passed it into hers without hesitation.
She didn’t look up, didn’t need to. The field was all that mattered. Everything outside—the buzz of her phone thismorning, the brush of paint on her skin, Sloane’s mouth on hers—was gone now, sealed shut behind the sterile mask and the rhythm of her breath.
Only the surgery mattered.
“Pressure’s dropping slightly,” came a voice from her right.
“Adjust and monitor. Do not interrupt unless it’s critical,” she replied, clipped.
“Yes, Doctor.”
The tone was respectful, but she felt the tension in the room shift, tighten.
Good. Let them be tense. Tension kept people sharp.
An hour later, she was out of surgery and down the hallway, already half-scanning the next patient file when Dr. Meyers, a young resident, jogged to catch up with her.
“Dr. Harrington?” he called.
She didn’t slow.
“Dr. Harrington,” he repeated, breathless. “About that bypass consult, we adjusted the dosage as you recommended, but the patient still?—”
“You waited to tell me until now?” she snapped, turning abruptly.
Meyers blinked, startled. “I…I was in with Dr. Patel, and then?—”
“Your responsibility is to the patient, not your convenience,” she said coldly. “If you ever delay a report again because you're trying to juggle too much, you’ll be off the rotation. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Doctor,” he said quickly, his face flushing.
She pivoted without waiting for a response, leaving him standing in the hallway as she strode toward the admin wing.
By the time she reached her office, her pulse had steadied. Her hands didn’t shake. Her mind was still. The familiar feeling of righteous control anchored her like it always had.
She was fine.
She didn’t need Sloane.
She didn’t need anyone.
“Rough morning?” came a voice as she stepped into the staff lounge to grab a coffee.
It was one of the newer nurses—Laura, maybe? Blonde, kind-eyed. Always tried to make casual conversation, as if Catherine was a woman who did small talk.
Catherine didn’t look up. “Does it matter?”
There was a pause.
“Guess not,” the nurse said, backing away with a polite, awkward smile.
Catherine poured her coffee in silence.
