CHAPTER 1
Jayne
“Rhys, Finn was waiting in the cold for thirty minutes. You couldn’t just call one of us and?—”
“I was in surgery,” he snaps, filling a glass of water from the fridge door.
I lean against the kitchen counter to face him. “Why didn’t you say you’d be in surgery so I could?—”
“You think cardiac arrests come planned, Jayne?” He drinks and then looks at me, his eyes stern. “News for you—they don’t. I had a patient rushed to the ER; they wanted a consult and…look, this happens. Youknowthis happens.”
I pretend I’m not angry.
I pray for patience.
I workveryhard not to lose it.
His response is flippant.
Like always.
When he gets aggressive, I shrink, which is why I think he does it, uses it as a way to silence me and end the conversation.
But this is important, so I try again.
“I have a job, Rhys, which means we both need to?—”
“I don’t even know why you’re still working,” he cuts me off.
When was the last time he let me finish a sentence?
“I make enough money for you to sit on your ass and eat bonbons and watch Oprah,” he adds. It’s something he says because he thinks it’s funny.
It’s not.
It’s like my job doesn’t matter.
Like, I don’t matter.
“Eat bonbons and watch Oprah?” I repeat, my voice flat. “It’s 2026, Rhys. Oprah doesn’t even have a show anymore.”
He smirks, like he’s humoring a child. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah,” I say softly.
Unfortunately, and pathetically, I do.
He’s still in his scrubs—dark blue with his name embroidered over the pocket: Dr. Rhys Prescott, MD, Cardiology—like anyone could forget. It might as well say important in bold letters.
He sets the water glass down on the kitchen counter and rubs his forehead like I’m the problem, giving him a migraine.
“I’m just saying,” he mutters, “you don’t have to kill yourself working. You could be home…pick up the kids and drive them around. Have dinner ready. Help Mikaela with her science project. You know…behere.”
“Iamhere.” I keep my voice even as his words hit an old nerve. He doesn’t have to say it outright—I hear it in every sigh, every glance—that I’m not doing enough and if only I’d leave my job and be at everyone’s beck and call all the time….
But Iamdoing enough. I’m doingeverything, all the time.
How can he not see that?
