The nurse’s face darkened, her tone laced with anger.
“Fine. If you refuse to sign, I’ll have Dr. Crowther come down and deal with you personally!”
I almost laughed.
When Lucian Crowther first joined the company, I donated a million to his department just so he could have a better working environment and an easier start. Everyone in the hospital — from the director to the nurses — knew how much I doted on him.
And maybe that’s why they all thought they could threaten me with his name.
But now? My love for Lucian was dead and buried.
Threatening me with him was laughable.
That night, I was just about to send the divorce agreement, freshly drafted by the legal department, when I saw Ivy’s IG Stories.
Candlelit dinner. Red wine. Steak. Heart-shaped hand signs.
And then, the one that made my blood run cold — Lucian’s back in the Medical Affairs Office, deleting surveillance footage.
Her caption read:
“Today I made a huge mistake on the operating table. If you hadn’t taken the blame for me, I might never graduate. I can’t repay you, so I can only give you my body ️”
I let out a short, cold laugh and hit “like.”
Screenshot. Saved.
Another piece of evidence for my collection.
Then I casually sent him the divorce agreement.
“Look over it. If you’re fine with it, come back and sign.”
Less than a minute later, my phone rang.
“Seraphine, what do you mean by this?” His voice was sharp, almost angry.
I bit back the chill crawling up my spine and prepared to talk about the divorce.
But he didn’t let me speak.
“Stop framing me! Ivy’s posts have nothing to do with your sister’s death. If you dare come to the hospital, stir up trouble, and ruin her graduation — or worse, jeopardize my position — we’re done! We’ll divorce!”
He hung up on me.
I sat there holding my phone, stunned.
My heart had already gone cold, but it still managed to ache. For one foolish moment, I thought he’d called because he saw the divorce agreement.
But no — he hadn’t even looked at it.
He only called to protect his mistress.
Suppressing my fury, I typed out a message.
“Lucian, I suggest you find out exactly whose sister was on that operating table today before you start barking at me.”
But when I hit send, a red exclamation point appeared.
Blocked.
I laughed aloud, bitter and incredulous.
Fine. If he didn’t care about his own sister, why should I?
That very afternoon, while entertaining an important client at work, I got the call — Helena had been in a car accident.
Without hesitation, I dropped everything and rushed to the hospital.
But when I arrived, the ward was empty — no one from the Lin family was with her.
I called Lucian.
He sounded irritated.
“I’m on leave. Find another doctor.”
When I insisted, he finally agreed to come — dragging along Ivy, of course.
Helena had a cerebral hemorrhage and dangerously high intracranial pressure. She needed emergency decompression.
Lucian swore he would do the surgery himself.
I believed him.
Back then, I thought it was just a simple craniotomy — nothing could possibly go wrong.
