Chapter 13 Happiness Is A Sedative #2
"However," Alistair continues, silencing me with a look. "I have recently developed a keen interest in... what was it?" He looks at Jax.
"Robotic-assisted valve repair in complex trauma presentation," Jax supplies instantly, leaning forward.
"Precisely!" Alistair slams his hand on the table. "My idea. My intellectual property. Maxwell and Dr. O'Connell are merely executing my vision."
Sterling looks like he’s having a stroke. "Your vision? Alistair, you’re a retired Neurosurgeon. You haven't touched a heart in years."
"The principles of micro-surgery are universal, Anthony," Alistair scoffs. "Besides, I’m funding it. I’ll write a check for the endowment this afternoon. Let’s call it... two million? Will that cover the 'misappropriated resources'?"
Sterling’s mouth opens and closes. Two million dollars. He is calculating the budget deficit. He is realizing he is outgunned.
"But... the data," Sterling tries weakly. "We need to see the methodology."
Alistair looks at Jax again. The look in his eyes is pure mischief. He is enjoying this. He is treating the ethics board of St. Jude’s like a game of bridge at the country club.
"O'Connell," Alistair says. "Explain the methodology to Dr. Sterling. Use small words."
Jax doesn't miss a beat. He realizes exactly what Alistair is doing. He sits up straight, adopting the persona of a serious researcher.
"It’s a kinetic feedback loop, Dr. Sterling," Jax says, keeping a straight face. "We’re using the robotic arm to stabilize the valve leaflets during high-velocity trauma simulation. Basically, we’re teaching the robot to think like a sniper. Calm under pressure."
It is utter gibberish. It means absolutely nothing.
Alistair nods gravely. "Brilliant. 'Think like a sniper.' I love it. Very masculine. Very... kinetic. Catherine will hate it."
Alistair turns back to Sterling.
"There," Alistair says. "Methodology explained. Funding secured. Catherine’s blood pressure raised. I’d call that a productive morning."
"Alistair," Sterling says, his voice tight. "You are making a mockery of this inquiry."
"Anthony," Alistair counters, his voice losing its humor and turning freezing cold.
"I built this hospital wing. I hired you.
And I am telling you that if you touch my son or his pet trauma surgeon, I will not only pull the funding, I will tell Catherine that you were the one who seated her next to the radiator at the Gala last year. "
Sterling pales. "That was an accident."
"She doesn't believe in accidents," Alistair says cheerfully. He stands up, grabbing his cane. "Meeting adjourned."
He walks toward the door, then pauses. He turns to me.
"Maxwell," he says.
"Yes, Father?"
"Don't look so relieved," Alistair says coldly. "I didn't do this for you. I did it because your mother called me three times before breakfast to complain about your 'lifestyle choices.' If she wants you miserable, I’m going to make sure you’re successful. It’s the only way to shut her up."
He looks at Jax.
"O'Connell, walk me to the car. I want to hear about that field amputation again. It soothes my nerves."
"Yes, sir," Jax says. He stands up, shoots me a wink, and follows Alistair out.
I am left alone with Sterling.
The room is silent. Sterling is staring at the closed door, his face a mask of humiliation and rage.
He slowly closes the folder on the Ethics Inquiry.
"You think this is funny, Maxwell?" Sterling whispers.
"I think the inquiry is closed," I say, gathering my papers. My hands are shaking, just a little.
"Your father thinks he can buy anything," Sterling says, standing up. He walks to the window, looking down at the parking lot where Alistair is undoubtedly getting into his Bentley. "He treats this hospital like a sandbox for his family feud."
Sterling turns to me. His eyes are dead.
"I have rounds," I say stiffly.
I walk out.
My heart is pounding. We won. We survived the audit.
But as the door clicks shut, I realize we weren't saved. We were just used as ammunition. And Sterling looks like a man who is done playing by the rules.
Victory tastes like cold brew coffee and hubris.
I spend the hour after the boardroom meeting in a state of euphoria I haven't felt since my first solo transplant.
We won. We actually won. My father, a man who usually treats me like a bad investment, had descended from on high and crushed Anthony Sterling like a bug. And he did it while complimenting Jax.
I walk toward the elevators, my phone buzzing.
From: Jax
Did you see Sterling’s face? I thought he was going to cry. Drinks on me tonight. I know a dive bar that serves beer in plastic cups. You’ll hate it.
Plastic cups are unsanitary. We are going to the jazz club on 4th. Wear the suit. Alistair was right; it fits you.
I pocket the phone. I feel invincible. The funding is secured, the "study" is validated, and Alistair York has essentially blessed the partnership.
I head to the scrub room outside OR 1. I have a scheduled mitral valve repair at 2:00 PM. I want to scrub early. I want to feel the water on my hands and revel in the fact that I am still the Chief.
I push through the swinging door of the scrub room.
It is empty, save for the stainless steel sinks and the smell of antiseptic soap.
I turn on the tap. I begin the ritual. Fingertips to elbows.
"Dr. York."
The voice is quiet. It cuts through the sound of the running water like a bone saw.
I turn.
Dr. Anthony Sterling is standing in the doorway. He isn't accompanied by legal counsel this time. He isn't holding a budget report. He is holding a manila envelope.
He steps inside. The room is small, and suddenly, it feels like a coffin.
"I’m scrubbing, Anthony," I say, keeping my voice bored. "If you want to discuss the robotic arm again, take it up with Alistair. I believe he was quite clear. He likes the project. He likes Dr. O'Connell."
"Oh, I know he likes O'Connell," Sterling says. He walks over to the sink next to mine. He doesn't turn on the water. He places the envelope on the dry metal ledge. "Your father has a soft spot for... rough edges. He thinks O'Connell is a war hero."
Sterling rests his hand on the envelope.
"But your father is also a businessman, Maxwell. He tolerates eccentrics. He does not tolerate liabilities."
He slides the contents of the envelope out.
Photographs.
They fan out across the stainless steel like a losing hand of poker.
I look down. The water is still running over my hands, but I can't feel the temperature anymore. I can't feel anything.
The first photo is grainy, taken from a distance. It’s the hospital parking lot. Me and Jax walking in, shoulders brushing, laughing.
The second is clearer. It’s the terrace of the York Estate. Snow is falling. Jax is pulling me into his coat. We are kissing.
But the third...
The third photo makes the bile rise in my throat.
It was taken through the window of Giovanni’s tailor shop. I am on my knees in front of Jax. My hands are on his thighs. From the angle, it is explicitly intimate.
"You had me followed," I whisper.
"I had to ensure the 'research partnership' was legitimate," Sterling says, his voice dripping with false concern. "Imagine my surprise when the private investigator reported that the methodology involved... this."
"Alistair won't care," I bluff, though my heart is hammering. "He likes Jax. He knows we're close. He’ll tell you to go to hell."
"Alistair likes a winner," Sterling corrects sharply. "But you know what Alistair hates? Lawsuits. Public embarrassment. Sloppiness."
Sterling taps the photo of the tailor shop.
"This isn't a relationship, Maxwell. In the eyes of the hospital bylaws, this is Quid Pro Quo. You are the Chief. O'Connell is your subordinate. You just secured funding for him. You saved his job. And now, I have proof that he is sleeping with you."
"It's consensual," I hiss.
"It's illegal," Sterling snaps. "It's sexual harassment waiting to happen. If I release these to the Board, they won't see a romance. They will see a liability. They will see a predatory Chief of Surgery and a trauma surgeon who slept his way into a grant."
He leans in close.
"Alistair might approve of the man, Maxwell. But he won't back a sex scandal. If this goes public, he will cut you both loose to protect the York endowment. You know he will."
I grip the edge of the sink. I know he’s right. Alistair supports strength. If we become a PR disaster, Alistair will destroy us himself just to clean up the mess.
"What do you want?" I ask.
"I want control," Sterling says. "I want you to dissolve the merger. You remain Chief of Cardio in title, but Trauma reports to me. The shared office ends. The 'team' ends."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I file a complaint with the State Medical Licensing Board against Dr. O'Connell."
I freeze. "What?"
"I don't need to fire you, Maxwell. You're a York. You bounce back," Sterling says coldly. "But O'Connell? If I submit these photos with a formal complaint of Unethical Conduct and trading sexual favors for career advancement... he loses his license."
Revoke his license.
"He will never practice medicine again," Sterling says. "He’ll be lucky to get a job driving an Uber."
The trap is perfect. Sterling knows he can't hurt me—my father protects me. So he has targeted the one thing I cannot protect.
"Leave him out of this," I whisper.
"Then fix it," Sterling says. "Prove to me—and the hospital—that this is over. Break it off. Publicly. Brutally. Make it clear that he is nothing more than a subordinate."
He checks his watch.
"If I see you two together again—if I see a smile, a touch, a shared coffee—I file the complaint. If you try to run to your father, I file the complaint. You stay here, under my thumb, and you treat him like an employee."
Sterling puts the photos back in the envelope. He tucks it under his arm.
"You have an hour, Dr. York. Clean up your mess."
He walks out.
I am left alone in the scrub room. The silence is deafening.
I look at my hands. They are clean. They are sterile.
And they are about to destroy the only person I have ever loved.