He Chose Her Rival, I Chose Myself

"You killed him!" The man slammed his fist onto the reception desk. The plastic sign clattered to the floor.

"Mr. Miller, lower your voice," I said, stepping out from behind the counter.

"Don't tell me what to do!" He pointed a shaking finger at my face. "Your surgeons botched the bypass! You promised he'd be fine!"

"I promised we would do everything medically possible," I corrected. "Surgery always carries risks. We discussed the complications yesterday."

"You just want the bed empty for paying VIPs!" he yelled. "You butcher people to make room!"

"That is simply untrue," I said. "We treat every patient equally."

"Liar!" He grabbed a stack of blank intake forms and hurled them into the air. Paper rained down around us. "I'm suing this whole hospital! I'll ruin you!"

"You have the right to seek legal counsel," I told him, keeping my tone perfectly flat. "But screaming in the lobby will not bring your father back. It only disturbs the other patients."

"I don't care about the other patients!"

"You should," I said. "Your father was a kind man. He wouldn't want you terrifying sick people in his name."

That made him pause. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

*CRASH.*

The heavy double doors at the end of the hall slammed open, hitting the wall with a deafening thud.

"Move!" a man in a dark suit barked, shoving a passing orderly against the wall.

"Hey! You can't do that!" the orderly shouted, dropping a tray of bandages.

"Watch me," the suit replied, pushing the orderly further aside.

More men flooded the corridor. Six bodyguards in total. Then came Adam.

He carried Sarah against his chest. Her arms were wrapped securely around his neck, her face buried in his shoulder. She wore a pink leotard and white tights.

"Where is the head of trauma?" Adam demanded, his voice echoing off the tile walls.

"Sir, this is a public ER," the triage nurse said, stepping directly into his path.

"Get out of my way," Adam warned. "I want Trauma Room One prepped immediately."

"We have a pile-up victim in Room One," the nurse argued. "They are in critical condition."

"Move them to Room Two," Adam ordered. "Clear this entire section."

"You can't just buy the emergency room!" Mr. Miller yelled, turning his anger toward Adam. "My dad just died here, you arrogant prick!"

"Watch your mouth," one of Adam's guards snapped, stepping toward Mr. Miller with a hand hovering near his holster.

"Enough," I said sharply.

Adam didn't even look my way. He was entirely focused on the weeping woman in his arms. He knew I worked here. He knew this was my department.

"Get her on a bed!" he shouted to the approaching doctors.

"Adam," Sarah whimpered, her voice high and trembling. "It hurts so much."

"I've got you," he murmured to her, his tone softening instantly. "You're going to be fine, Sarah. I'm right here."

A bitter laugh threatened to climb up my throat. I swallowed it down, turned my back on them, and faced Mr. Miller.

"Let's go to my office," I told him.

"Are you blind?" Mr. Miller asked, gesturing wildly at the spectacle behind me. "They're taking over the hospital! Who is that guy?"

"My office," I repeated. "Now."

I led him away from the shouting and the bodyguards.

"Sit down," I instructed once we were inside my small office. I shut the door, cutting off the noise from the hallway.

He dropped into the chair, burying his face in his hands. "This place is a joke."

"Your father's heart was failing before he arrived," I said, pulling up the file on my monitor. I turned the screen toward him. "Look at the scans."

"I don't know how to read those," he muttered.

"Then listen to me," I said. "His arteries were ninety percent blocked. The bypass was a last resort. We told you that."

"He was talking this morning," Mr. Miller argued, looking up with red-rimmed eyes. "He asked for coffee."

"And his heart gave out this afternoon. It happens quickly."

"So it wasn't the surgeon's fault?"

"No," I said. "It wasn't. The surgical team worked for six hours to stabilize him."

He rubbed his face vigorously. "I'm sorry. I just... I don't know what to do without him. I'm so angry."

"Anger is easier than grief," I said quietly. "Take the paperwork. Go home. Be with your family."

He took the folder, nodded once, and left without another word.

I walked back out to the ER.

The chaos had settled. The usual hum of the hospital had been replaced by a tense silence. Two guards stood outside Trauma Room One, arms crossed.

The door opened. Adam walked out.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me standing by the nurses' station.

His jaw tightened. He quickly dropped his hands to his sides, his posture stiffening.

"Dina," he said, his voice cautious.

"Hello, Adam."

"What are you doing here?" he asked, glancing nervously around the room.

"I work here," I reminded him. "This is my shift."

He glanced back at the door, then took a step toward me. "Right. Listen, don't start."

"Start what?"

"You know what," he said, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper. "Don't make a scene. Not here. I won't tolerate a screaming match in public."

"I have no intention of making a scene," I said calmly. "Is Sarah okay?"

Adam blinked. His brows pulled together in deep confusion. "What did you say?"

"I asked if she was okay," I repeated. "You don't need to be tense. I won't go in there. I won't hurt her."

He stared at me, searching my face for sarcasm or hidden rage. He found none.

"She sprained her ankle," he finally said, sounding almost disappointed by my lack of reaction.

"A sprain."

"Yes. During rehearsal."

"And you needed the trauma team for a sprain?" I asked.

"Her manager panicked," Adam explained quickly, running a hand through his hair. "They called me. I was close by. I just wanted to be sure it wasn't broken. You know how important her career is."

"I see."

"Dina," he said, reaching out to touch my arm. "I promised to return to the family. I told you I would make this work, and I will."

"I know."

"This is a special situation," he insisted, his grip increasing slightly on my sleeve. "I couldn't just leave her there on the floor crying. It's just a medical emergency."

"You did the right thing," I said.

He exhaled a long breath. "You really mean that?"

"Yes." I gave him a brief, polite smile. "You don't need to worry about me."

"Thank you," he said, visibly relaxing. "For understanding. I know our history makes this... complicated."

"I have a surgery in ten minutes," I told him, stepping back so his hand fell away from my arm. "I need to go scrub in."

"Go," he said. "I'll see you at home tonight?"

"Yes. Tonight."

I walked past him toward the surgical wing.

We had divorced once already. He had chosen her over me, tearing our lives apart for a ballet dancer. Then he came back, begging for forgiveness, swearing she was out of his life forever.

I agreed to the second marriage. I promised myself I would be the perfect, flawless wife this time. No more crying. No more fighting over his mistress. I would be a stone wall.

My phone buzzed in my lab coat pocket.

I pulled it out as I pushed through the swinging doors of the scrub room.

An unread message glowed on the screen from an unknown number.

*He kissed my forehead just now. He says my pain is his pain. Are you enjoying the show, Doctor?*