Page 14 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

Mia squeezes my hand. “We’ll see you bright and early tomorrow, okay?”

I nod, even though I catch the look they exchange, the one that clearly says they don’t believe I’ll be at work. “I’ll be there.”

Karyn snorts softly. “Sure, you will.”

“I mean it. Hurt or not, I show up for work.”

Karyn and Mia trade a look over my head, this one tinged with concern.

They leave with promises to text later, and suddenly the room feels too quiet. The steady beep of a monitor somewhere, sounds of voices in the hallway, bright lights overhead.

I want to call home, to hear my mom’s voice, to tell her what’s going on. But if I tell her, she’ll insist on dropping everything to be here. But worse, she’ll worry. And there’s no point in making her panic if this turns out to be minor. I need to hear what the doctor says first and have a plan.

So, I stare at my swollen ankle and wait for the doctor.

Chapter 5

Zac

Walking into my office after surgery, my phone rings. It’s my dad.

I look at the screen and let it ring out.

He’ll leave a voicemail. He always does. I pick up after the notification comes through.

“Zachary. Your mother said you haven’t called back this week. I read the article in the Emergency Medicine Journal about ligament reconstruction outcomes—thought you might find it relevant, given your caseload. There’s also a position opening in Hope Town if you ever decide to stop hiding out there. Call your mother.”

I set the phone down.

No how are you. No how’s work going generally. Just an article he read, the position in Hope Town that always comes up, and the reminder to call Mom like she’s the mediator we both use to avoid actually talking to each other. I’ve been getting versions of this voicemail my entire adult life, and it coils in my chest with a mix of hurt and numbness.

A loud knock interrupts my thoughts. I close my eyes momentarily, sucking in a deep breath before I turn around. I’m expecting Adam, but instead, it’s my supervisor, Julian Peltz. A man I despise.

He’s tall, with silver hair he’s too proud of and a smile that never reaches his eyes. He knows I don’t like him. Fuck, I’m pretty sure the feeling is mutual, but my work performance leaves him no other option but to keep me around.

“I need to talk to you. Are you free now?” His tone is carefully professional, but there’s something underneath it. Something that makes my instincts prickle.

I nod. “Come in.” I remove my glasses and set them on my desk, then clasp my hands in front of me as I watch him sit in the chair that Adam just vacated.

Whatever this is, I’m not going to like it.

The stony-faced man sits across from me, his spine rigid against the leather chair, reminding me of the formal complaint that has me on my last warning. His thin lips press into a disapproving line—the same expression he handed me that write-up probation four months ago for defending my medical honor. A patient’s family member screamed at me in the hallway, accusing me of medical negligence when the surgery went exactly as planned. I stood my ground, defended my decision and my medical judgment. The family complained to Peltz, and instead of backing his own doctor, instead of defending the medical team, Peltz put me on probation.

One more mistake, one more complaint, and I’m done. That’s the message he sent.

“There’s a patient in the emergency room who’s VIP.” His voice is flat, almost bored, like he’s reading from a script he’s delivered a hundred times before.

I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest, waiting for him to continue. Refusing to make this easy for him.

“You will look after her as the senior doctor of orthopedics.” He doesn’t ask. He never asks.

“That’s not my job. I don’t take on special patients.” I glance at my watch, the silver glinting under my office lights. Sixty minutes until the end of my shift, and I still have a stack of paperwork waiting. “Send her to whoever’s on call for trauma. I have other responsibilities.”

Peltz’s jaw clenches. “She’s a high-profile client who requires discretion. And if there’s something you’re good at, Dr. Sterling, it’s keeping your mouth shut when it counts.”

I stare at him, eyes narrowing. Is that a compliment? Backhanded, sure, but I’ll take the small win. Still, a high-profile client usually means it’s a celebrity, and if I had to take a guess, it’s someone from that new makeover show filming in town. Probably some contestant who decided to play contractor without the skills to back it up and ended up with a broken finger. And here I am, expected to patch them up and smile through their entitled demands.

“I need to finish my paperwork before my shift ends.” I keep my tone professional. I have the job of my dreams; it’s exactly what I always wanted. I don’t need to prove myself anymore. I’m at the top. I just need to stay out of trouble. And a high-profile client with unrealistic expectations and an easy complaint reflex? That’s trouble with a capital T. “Someone else on staff can handle it.”