My humiliation crystallized into something sharp and painful in my chest.
But Dr. Cross remained focused on the IV, his expression unreadable.
In the past six months of working as his first assist, he'd barely acknowledged me outside the OR. To him, I was a pairof competent hands across the surgical field. His best assistant, maybe. But definitely just another cog in the machine.
I stole a glance at him. His face was carved from stone, jaw set in that way he always wore during surgery—complete concentration, absolute control. His fingers were still pressed gently against my wrist as he monitored my pulse, eyes flickering to the cardiac monitor.
“Dr. Cross.” My voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. “I’m so sorry. Thank you for helping me. I didn’t mean to?—”
“Don’t apologize.” His tone stayed professional and detached, like in the OR. “You collapsed from exhaustion and dehydration. You need fluids and observation.”
“I can’t stay.” I tried to sit up, but his hand on my shoulder stopped me. Gentle but firm. “I have a shift soon?—”
"You're not going anywhere." It wasn't a suggestion. "I'll handle your shift coverage."
My phone buzzed again. Another loud, insistent series of vibrations. I didn't have to look to know what they said. Past-due notices. Final warnings. Legal threats from my landlord's attorney.
Dr. Cross' eyes flickered to the screen. His expression stayed neutral, but his thumb pressed slightly harder against my pulse point. A muscle ticked in his jaw.
I turned away, staring at a water stain on the ceiling. "It's fine. I'm handling it."
He didn't respond. Just held my wrist, monitoring my pulse in silence.
"Where is she?!" A grating voice echoed from the corridor outside. "I know she works here!"
My stomach dropped realizing who it was. No. Not here. Not now.
"Sir, you need to lower your voice—" A nurse's calm voice tried to intervene.
"I'll make as much noise as I want!" The voice grew louder, closer. "She owes me money! Where is Mireya Rosen?!"
My heart rate spiked, the monitor betraying my panic with faster beeping.
This couldn't be happening. There was no way Gerald would come to the hospital to hunt me down. But I'd been dodging his calls for weeks, and apparently he'd decided public humiliation was an acceptable collection tactic.
The door burst open. A flustered nurse tried to block him, but Gerald shouldered past her, his face mottled red, hair disheveled, clutching papers in one meaty fist.
“There you are! Finally!" He stalked toward the bed, jabbing a finger at me. “I’ve been calling for days, Mireya. Days! Do you think I run a charity? Do you think rent pays itself?”
He ignored my IV, the monitors, the hospital gown, and the fact that I was basically a patient.
“You’re three months behind. Three months! I’ve been patient, but enough is enough!” He thrust the papers toward me. “Sign these eviction papers now, or I'll have the sheriff remove you and your sick mother from my property. Tomorrow, if necessary."
My throat closed up. I couldn't breathe.
“Sir, this really isn’t the time.” The nurse stepped between us. “She needs rest?—”
“Not the time? When is the time?” Gerald's face turned purple, veins standing out like cords in his neck. He brushed past her. “When she’s four months behind? Five? She’s stealing from me! Months of free housing while I lose thousands!”
“Please,” I whispered, voice breaking. “I just need a few more days. I’m working on the money?—”
"More days? I've given you months of extra days!" His fist slammed down on the bedside table, rattling the water pitcher. "Months of extensions, of trusting your promises. And for what? Nothing!"
“I’m trying.” My eyes burned. “My mother is sick. Medical bills?—”
"Not my problem!" He leaned in, spittle flying. "Your problems aren't my problems! Sign the damn papers before I?—"
"Get out."
