After seeing Jillian out, Charles returned to the suite, his steps careful, unsure of the air he was about to step into.
Ethan stood by the window, his back to the room, suit jacket draped loosely over one shoulder, the faint glow of the city lights casting long shadows across his frame.
Charles cleared his throat softly. "She's gone."
Ethan didn't turn. "I know."
There was a pause—tense, uncertain.
"I've never seen you let a doctor stay that long," Charles finally said, testing the waters.
Ethan's voice was quiet, almost lost in the hum of the city. "That's because no doctor has ever been her."
Charles blinked, caught off guard. "Do you… know her well?"
Ethan finally turned, his face unreadable. "I thought I did… once."
Charles nodded slowly, sensing the weight of old stories left untold. "She's impressive. The hospital said she's the best."
Ethan gave a faint smile, more bitter than proud. "She always was."
The suite fell silent again, the only sound the soft clicking of Charles' pen as he checked his notes.
"Prepare the press release," Ethan said, suddenly sharp again. "Keep it minimal. No names."
"Yes, sir," Charles replied quickly, bowing slightly before stepping back.
But just before he left, Charles glanced back. Ethan had returned to staring out the window—lost in something deeper than the skyline.
*****
The bright lights of the operating room buzzed softly overhead. Jillian stood at the scrub sink, rolling up her sleeves as the water rushed over her forearms. Her movements were efficient, but her thoughts were scattered—tugged by a voice, a glance, a memory that refused to stay buried.
Inside the OR, her team was already prepping the patient.
You can't afford to lose focus. Not here, she reminded herself.
She stepped in, her expression calm, professional. The nurses glanced at her as she took her place at the operating table. Silence fell as the procedure began. Jillian's eyes locked on the heart monitor, her hands steady even though her mind was fraying at the edges.
Halfway through, Dr. Ren—a junior surgeon—looked up from across the table.
"Rough day?" he asked, light-hearted, hoping to break the tension.
Jillian didn't flinch. She didn't answer.
Instead, she tightened her gloves, eyes sharp beneath her mask.
"Let's save a life," she said coolly, the words clipped and final.
The room quieted again. They all fell into rhythm behind her lead.
But even as her hands moved with precision, her mind whispered the name she wasn't willing to say out loud.
Ethan.
After the surgery, Jillian decided to take a walk home instead of taking a taxi.
The hospital's fluorescent lights faded behind her as Jillian stepped outside into the cool evening air. The city buzzed faintly in the distance, but her street was quiet—lined with dimly lit cafes, shuttered shops, and the occasional hum of a passing car.
She had the option to take a taxi, of course. It would've been faster, easier. But tonight, she didn't want easy.
Her footsteps echoed on the pavement, the clicking of her shoes punctuating the silence. With each step, the rhythm of the surgery room slowly faded, but the conversation in that suite... lingered.
She wrapped her coat tighter around her. Her thoughts drifted—not to the scalpel in her hand hours ago, not to the heartbeat she helped stabilize—but to the look in Ethan's eyes when he said, "I didn't expect you to be the one standing over me again…"
The streets she passed were familiar. They reminded her of simpler times, before reunions and unspoken words. Before success felt like a shield she had to wear every day.
By the time she reached her apartment, her shoulders had relaxed, even if only slightly. She paused before entering—just a breath, just a second.
Then she slipped inside, letting the door close softly behind her.
The sun had barely risen, casting a golden hue over the modern glass exterior of the Shanghai Research Institute. Inside, the cardiology wing was already alive with activity—white coats, low murmurs, and the hum of machines syncing heart rhythms to blinking monitors.
Jillian walked in with her usual grace, a coffee in hand, lab coat crisp. No one would have guessed she had walked home in silence the night before, or that memories she thought buried had stirred back to life.
"Morning, Dr. Smith," a junior researcher greeted her.
She nodded, managing a soft smile. "Morning. Status on the artificial valve trial?"
"We're running final tests this morning. The team's waiting in Lab 3."
She pushed open the door to the lab, greeted by eager faces and glowing screens. It was her space—clean, clinical, in her control. She slipped into the lead seat, pulling up the data interface.
"We're ahead of schedule," one of the researchers said. "We could initiate the predictive model simulation today if you approve."
"Good," she said, scanning the graphs. "Let's go through the parameters first. No assumptions."
The team watched her—admired her. She was sharp, relentless, a leader who made breakthroughs seem inevitable. But as the simulation loaded, for a brief moment, her eyes drifted to the glass window—lost again.
Then she blinked, straightened. "Let's begin."
The lab had quieted. Most of the team had filtered out after a productive session. Jillian sat alone, typing final notes into her report, the soft click of keys the only sound.
Her phone buzzed.
Celeste: "You left too early. You missed the real drama."
Jillian stared at the message, her fingers freezing mid-sentence.
She read it again. Drama?
A long moment passed. She didn't type back. Instead, she locked her phone and turned her chair to the window, watching city lights begin to flicker on in the distance.
But she knew Celeste. She never messaged without a reason—and never about "drama" unless it affected her directly.
A memory flickered. Celeste's calm face at the banquet, her smile too perfect. Her friends' venomous remarks. And the way Celeste hadn't defended her at all.
What happened after I left?
The phone buzzed again.
Celeste: "You should call Dad. I don't think he's taking things well."
Now her pulse quickened.
She stood up, paced the length of the lab once, then finally picked up the phone and dialed her father's number—but it went straight to voicemail.
Something had definitely happened.
Later that evening, the sound of hurried footsteps and beeping machines replaced the quiet of the lab. Jillian had barely changed out of her coat when a nurse caught her in the hallway.
"Dr. Jillian—Code Red incoming. Ambulance is five minutes out. Cardiac failure, mid-30s, collapsed during a corporate function."
Her eyes sharpened. "Prep OR2. Page Dr. Lin. I'll scrub in."
In the OR, she moved like clockwork—gloving up, eyes focused, voice calm. But her heart felt heavy, her mind still chewing on Celeste's cryptic message. Her father. The banquet. What had she missed?
Not now, she told herself.
The patient was wheeled in. Young. Pale. Monitors screamed.
"Vitals dropping fast," a nurse said.
Jillian stepped in. "Intubate. Get me a 10 blade. Open the pericardium—we're going in."
Her hands worked without pause, but her jaw clenched. Her father's silence echoed in her ears. Celeste's message spun on a loop.
But she poured every ounce of herself into the work, letting the chaos drown out the noise in her head.
When the surgery ended—successful—she stepped out of the OR, peeled off her gloves, and leaned briefly against the wall. A long breath. A flicker of fatigue. But she didn't let it last.
She walked away without a word, scrubbing the thoughts from her face.