Page 100 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

At a red light, I check my phone. Her message from this morning is still the last thing on the screen.

Hannah: I didn’t say anything. I don’t know what this is about. I’m really sorry. I’ll make sure it’s investigated and that you’re cleared because this is absolute bullshit. You’ve done nothing wrong. If anything, you’ve gone beyond what was needed. I’m recovering so well because of you. I won’t rest until it’s fixed. You deserve to be a surgeon.

She doesn’t have the power to fix this. I know that. But the fact that she’s fighting for me anyway, without me asking, means a lot.

I start typing a reply and delete it. I need to fix this myself first. Then I can go back to her.

The light turns green, and I keep driving.

The cameras find me the moment I pull into the parking lot. Three reporters, Violet from The Pulse Bulletin, and two I don’t recognize. They swarm before I’ve even closed the car door.

“Was Hannah Morgan the one who filed the complaint, Dr. Sterling?”

“Do you have any comment on the allegations?”

I keep my head down and focus on my steps. Saying nothing.

How does Hannah deal with this constantly?

Inside, the hospital smell hits me. Fuck, it’s been too long. My body vibrates with the need to get my hands back into surgery. Caring for Hannah has been fulfilling in ways I didn’t expect. She satisfies something deeper. But it’s not the same as the feelings of a scalpel in my hand, the rush of the operating room. I still want to be a surgeon. I need to be.

And that’s why today terrifies me. What if this takes it away for good?

My phone buzzes. My heart jumps, thinking maybe it’s her. But it drops when I see my father’s name.

Dad: Saw the article. Call me after your meeting. I’m serious, Zac.

Of course he saw it. Someone probably forwarded it to him before his morning coffee. I can picture him now with a vein in his temple, throbbing the way it does when he’s pissed off but trying to stay professional. He built his reputation on being unshakeable, and here I am, his son, becoming a fucking headline.

Me: I know. I’ll call you later.

I shove the phone back into my pocket.

Rolling my shoulders back, I walk toward Peltz’s office.

Whatever’s behind that door, I’m ready.

I knock twice.

“Come in.”

I enter with my chin up. Peltz is behind his desk, fingers steepled, expression already cold. He doesn’t stand. Doesn’t gesture to the chairs. Just watches me cross the room like he’s been waiting for this.

“Dr. Sterling,” he says. “Sit down.”

“I’d prefer to stand.”

“This isn’t a negotiation.”

“Neither is my career.”

Peltz’s expression darkens. He drops his hands to the desk.

“Your career is exactly what’s under discussion. So I’d suggest you take a seat and listen carefully.”

I stay standing, but wait.

He opens a folder on his desk and turns it toward me.