I sat down at my desk and pulled up the surgical schedule for next week. Three bypasses. A valve replacement. A complex repair I had been preparing for since Tuesday. Enough work to fill every hour I wasn't sleeping, which was most of them.
This was manageable. She would have her own space. I would have mine. We would pass each other in the hallways the way colleagues did and it would be professional and appropriate and completely fine.
I had told myself cleaner lies than this and almost believed them.
The truth, if I was being honest with myself in the way I rarely allowed, was that I had known something was wrong the moment I found her on that supply closet floor. Not wrong in a clinical sense. The dehydration and exhaustion were straightforward. What was not straightforward was the way something cold had moved through me when I saw her there. Fast and sharp, the way fear moves before you have time to name it.
I had carried her to the bed and taken her pulse and stood there with my fingers on her wrist longer than was medically necessary.
That was the part I could not explain away.
Having her in my home was a terrible idea. I knew that with the same certainty I brought to surgical decisions, the clean instinct that saidthis is the wrong move, find another way.
But she had nowhere to go. And her mother had nowhere to go. And I had three empty rooms and more than enough resources to fix a problem this size without feeling it.
So I would fix it. Carefully. Professionally.
And I would keep my hands to myself and my thoughts where they belonged and it would be completely fine.
I almost believed that too.
My phone rang—an unfamiliar number with a Connecticut area code. There was only one person who'd be calling from that particular location.
Sebastian Cole. My father's estate attorney. Third call today.
I answered. “Dr. Cross.”
"Finally." Sebastian's voice carried sharp irritation. "I've been trying to reach you for weeks."
"I've been occupied."
“We need to discuss the Connecticut property. There are documents that require your signature.”
“Email them.”
“I already did,” he snapped. “Six times, Riven.”
“I’ll review them.”
“When?” He didn't bother hiding his irritation. "August keeps calling my office. He helped build those hospitals. And he deserves clarity."
"I'm aware of what August deserves," I said quietly.
"Then handle it." His tone sharpened. "These delays are creating problems."
Handling it meant paperwork and lawyers and confronting an estate I didn't want—dealing with a house full of memories I'd spent nine months avoiding.
"I'll take care of it," I said.
"You said that three months ago."
“And I’m saying it now. Send the documents.”
I ended the call and opened my email. There were indeed six unread messages from him. I moved them into a folder labeledLaterwithout hesitation.
The Connecticut estate could wait. Everything could wait. Because dealing with any of it meant acknowledging loss, and I’d become very good at avoiding that.
I turned back to the patient files on my computer screen. A sixty-three-year-old man awaited valve replacement surgery scheduled for Thursday morning. I should’ve been thinking about surgical access, possible complications, and post-operative care plans.
