"I've reviewed all your father's indicators. He's nowhere near critical."
"Don't think this self-inflicted suffering act will force me back."
"Harass me again, and I'll transfer you out of the department—you won't even be filing paperwork."
The phone slipped from my hand, cracking against the floor.
My heart shattered with it.
The hospital room door opened. My father stirred awake.
He weakly lifted his hand, pulled off the oxygen mask. His voice was barely a whisper.
"Wendy..."
I lunged forward, grabbing his withered hand, tears streaming down.
"Dad, I'm here. I'm here."
"Don't rush... Dr. Henson..."
He struggled to breathe, forcing a weak smile.
"He's busy... important things first... Dad can hold on..."
"Dad... doesn't hurt..."
I wanted to kill myself in that moment.
My father, even dying, was still making excuses for that bastard. Still worried about putting me in a difficult position.
And that bastard was miles away at some club, ignoring a dying man to chase a pretty face.
At 4:00 a.m., the hospital issued the final notice.
"Dr. Winfield, if surgery doesn't happen before 8:00 tomorrow morning, you need to prepare for the funeral."
I looked at the wall clock.
Four hours.
I couldn't just wait for death.
I wiped my tears, picked up the cracked phone, resolve hardening in my eyes.
If he wouldn't come back, I'd drag him back myself.
The streets before dawn stretched empty and desolate, streetlights casting long shadows.
I floored my beat-up Volkswagen, the engine screaming in protest.
Wind poured through the half-open window, slicing my face, but it couldn't cool the fire burning in my chest.
Summit Private Club.
The city's most exclusive money pit—membership only, for the rich and connected.
I slammed the brakes at the entrance, tires shrieking against pavement.
I shoved open the door and stumbled toward the building.
I was still in my white coat, spattered with blood from resuscitating my father. Hair wild, face ashen—I looked like I'd escaped from a psych ward.
"Stop! What do you think you're doing?"
Two burly security guards blocked my path, looking me up and down with open disgust.
"This is a private club. Anyone not properly dressed is not allowed inside."
"I'm looking for someone!"
My voice came out raw. I tried to push past them.
"Adrian Henson! He's inside! I'm his—his colleague! It's an emergency!"
"Looking for Mr. Henson?"
The guards exchanged glances and smirked.
"Plenty of women come looking for Mr. Henson every day. Your outfit's creative though—playing nurse?"
"Get lost! You're an eyesore. Disturb our VIP guests, and you'll pay for it."
One of them shoved me hard.
I stumbled back, and my left hand slammed into a marble pillar.
"Ah—"
Searing pain shot from my palm through my entire body. The hand that had been pierced through years ago spasmed violently.
Nerve pain crackled like electricity. My fingers curled into a claw.
Cold sweat soaked through my back instantly.
I clutched my hand and crumpled to the ground, gasping for air.
That scene from three years ago flashed before my eyes.
The gleaming blade. The spurting blood. Adrian's dismissive "So useless."
I stared at my trembling left hand, and a wave of desolation crashed over me.
