The recovery room smells like bleach and old blood. I know this smell. I've walked past rooms like this a thousand times. I never thought I'd be the one staring at the ceiling tiles, counting the water stains.
My body is cataloging damage without my permission. Blood loss: moderate, manageable. Pain: severe but localized. Mobility: compromised but functional. My surgeon's brain won't shut off. It's the only part of me still working.
The door opens. Diana slips in, her face white.
'Dr. Phillips.' She moves to the bedside. Her hands are shaking. 'I saw them take you. I didn't know until—' She stops. Swallows. 'I called someone. He's coming.'
'Who?'
'Dr. Alvarez.'
I close my eyes. Matias. Of course it's Matias.
'He's in London,' I whisper.
'Not anymore.' Diana pulls out her phone. Shows me the flight confirmation. 'He'll be here in seven hours. He said to document everything. He said—' Her voice cracks. 'He said to keep you safe until he gets here.'
I nod. It hurts.
Diana squeezes my hand once, then leaves.
I wait until her footsteps fade. Then I sit up.
The room tilts. I grip the bed rail, breathe through it, wait for my vision to clear. My body is screaming at me to lie back down. I ignore it. I've worked thirty-hour shifts with pneumonia. I've sutured my own hand in a supply closet after a scalpel slip. I know how to move through pain.
I find scrubs in the cabinet. Pull them on slowly, carefully. My hands are steady. Surgeon's hands.
There's a supply cart in the hall. I take a scalpel from the top drawer. Slip it into my pocket.
I know where Anaya's office is. I had that office once. Before she took it.
The walk is longer than I remember. Every step pulls at something torn inside me. I don't stop.
Her door is open. She's at the desk—my old desk—typing something on the computer. The nameplate on the wall is new. Bright. **Dr. Anaya Roberts, Department Head, Obstetrics & Gynecology.**
My nameplate is gone.
She looks up when I walk in. Her eyes widen slightly. Then she smiles.
'Rosie. You should be resting.'
I cross the room. My hand finds the scalpel.
'What are you—'
The cut is clean. A single line from her left temple to her jaw. Not deep enough to sever anything vital. Deep enough to scar forever.
She screams.
I step back. Look at my hand. There's blood on the blade. Her blood, this time.
'That's for Nola,' I say quietly.
I turn and walk out.
Security finds me in the stairwell. Two of Colton's men—the same ones who've been following Anaya around like she's someone worth protecting. They don't grab me. They just stand there, blocking the exit.
'Mrs. Kennedy,' one of them says. 'You need to come with us.'
I don't fight. There's no point.
They walk me to a holding room on the second floor. Lock the door. I sit on the plastic chair and wait.
Colton arrives twenty minutes later.
I hear him before I see him—his voice in the hallway, clipped and cold, asking someone where Anaya is. Not asking where I am. Not asking if I'm all right.
The door opens.
He looks at me. I look back.
His gaze moves over my face, my borrowed scrubs, the blood on my hands. He doesn't ask what happened to me. He doesn't ask why I'm bleeding. He just stands there, jaw tight, and I realize he already knows.
He knows what Anaya did.
He knows, and he let it happen.
'You cut her face,' he says.
I don't answer.
'Do you understand what you've done?' His voice is low. Controlled. 'She's pregnant, Rosie. You could have hurt the baby.'
Something inside me goes very quiet.
'There is no baby,' I say.
He blinks. 'What?'
'There was. For six weeks. And then your girlfriend had two men hold me down and rip it out of me without anesthesia.' My voice doesn't shake. It should, but it doesn't. 'So no, Colton. I didn't hurt her baby. There was only ever one baby in this story, and you let her kill it.'
His face doesn't change. He just stares at me like I'm speaking a language he doesn't understand.
'You're lying,' he says finally.
'I'm not.'
'Anaya wouldn't—'
'She did. And you told her to.' I stand. My legs are shaking, but I stand anyway. 'You told her to handle it. So she did.'
For the first time, something flickers across his face. Not guilt. Not remorse. Uncertainty.
'That's not—' He stops. 'You're trying to manipulate me.'
I almost laugh. It comes out as a sound I don't recognize.
'I don't need to manipulate you, Colton. I just need you to leave.'
'You're my wife.'
'No,' I say quietly. 'I'm not. Not anymore.'
He steps forward. I step back. He stops.
We stand there, three feet apart, and I see it finally register: I am not the woman he married. That woman died on a gurney in Procedure Room 7B.
He turns and walks out without another word.
I sink back into the chair.
My hands are still steady. Surgeon's hands.
But inside, where no one can see, I am gone.
