Chapter 18
The Severance Package
Maxwell
Ileave Jax sleeping in the ICU.
It is the hardest thing I have ever done. He is warm, stable, and finally peaceful, holding the remote control for the TV like a weapon. But I have one last infection to treat.
My phone has been buzzing for an hour.
FROM: A. STERLING
Boardroom. Now. Bring your resignation.
I adjust my tie in the reflection of the ICU glass doors. I am wearing a wrinkled shirt from yesterday and I haven't shaved. I look like a disaster.
Good. Let them see the disaster.
I walk to the elevator. I press the button for the top floor.
I am not afraid. Fear is for people who have something to lose. I almost lost Jax last night. Compared to that, losing a title is nothing. Losing a legacy is a joke.
I walk into the Boardroom.
The air conditioning is set to a frigid sixty-five degrees. The long mahogany table is occupied. The entire Board of Directors is present.
At the head of the table sits Dr. Anthony Sterling.
In front of him, fanned out like a royal flush, are the photographs.
Me and Jax. The kiss. The tailor shop.
Sterling looks up as I enter. He smiles. It is a predatory, satisfied expression.
"Dr. York," Sterling says, checking his watch. "You’re late. And you look... disheveled."
"I was with a patient," I say, remaining standing. "Dr. O'Connell is stable, by the way. Since none of you asked."
"Dr. O'Connell is the subject of this meeting," Sterling says. He taps the photos. "As is your gross misconduct. I have prepared the statement for the press. 'Dr. York resigns due to personal reasons.' It’s clean. It’s generous."
He slides a piece of paper across the table.
"Sign it, Maxwell. And we can bury these pictures before your mother sees them."
I look at the paper. Then I look at the Board members. They are shifting uncomfortably, avoiding my eyes. They know this is a hit job, but they are money men. They follow the path of least resistance.
I reach for the paper.
I pick it up.
And I rip it in half.
The sound is loud in the silent room.
Sterling blinks. "Excuse me?"
"I am not resigning," I say. My voice is steady. "And I am not firing Dr. O'Connell. If you want to release those photos, go ahead. Send them to the Times. Send them to my mother."
I lean forward, placing my hands on the table, a dark smile touching my lips.
"Hell, you can even send them to the Vatican. But you might want to remember that Pope Pius XIV came out of the closet to be with the Italian Prime Minister. Considering he changed two thousand years of doctrine for his own forbidden love, I imagine he’d be our biggest fan."
"But know this: If you fire Jax O'Connell—a man who drove into a blizzard to save two lives, a man who is currently lying in your ICU with four broken ribs sustained in the line of duty—I will burn this hospital to the ground."
"Is that a threat?" Sterling sneers.
"It is a promise," I say. "I will go to every news outlet in the city. I will tell them that St. Jude’s fired a war hero because the Chief of Surgery has a petty vendetta. I will take my grant money, my research, and my donors, and I will walk across the street to Mercy General."
I pause.
"And I will take my father’s name with me."
Sterling laughs. "Your father? Maxwell, please. Alistair protects winners. He won't protect a pervert who got caught with his pants down in a tailor shop."
"On the contrary," a voice booms from the entrance behind Sterling. "I think the tailor shop photos are quite artistic. The lighting is superb. Very Caravaggio."
Sterling spins around.
Alistair York stands in the entrance, the doors thrown askew as he enters with his typical casual arrogance. He is holding a glass of water, but he is looking at it like it’s scotch.
"Alistair?" Sterling pales. "I... I didn't know you were sitting in."
"I own the building, Anthony," Alistair says pleasantly. "I sit where I please."
Alistair walks to the table, leaning heavily on his cane. He picks up the photo of me on my knees in front of Jax.
"Bold," Alistair muses. "Submissive. I didn't think you had it in you, Maxwell. I’m impressed. Then again, it’s always the quiet ones, isn't it?"
"Father," I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose.
"Alistair, look at the evidence!" Sterling insists, pointing a shaking finger. "Your son is sleeping with a subordinate! It’s a liability! Catherine will be furious!"
"Ah, yes. Catherine."
Alistair smiles. It is a smile that contains zero warmth.
"You called her, didn't you, Anthony? This morning? You told her about the scandal?"
"I... I thought she had a right to know," Sterling stammers. "Before the press found out."
"You thought you could use my wife as a weapon against my son," Alistair corrects.
He drops the photo.
"Do you know what Catherine did when you called her?" Alistair asks.
Sterling stays silent.
"She called me," Alistair says. "She was screaming. Not because Maxwell is gay—we’ve known that since 1998."
Alistair chuckles, shaking his head.
"Honestly, Anthony, the boy asked for a subscription to the International Male catalog for his twelfth birthday. He told us he appreciated the 'mesh tank tops' for their 'ventilation properties.' We weren't exactly hiring a private investigator to crack the code."
I feel my face burn. "I was interested in fashion history."
"You were interested in the swimwear section, Maxwell. Let’s be real." Alistair waves a hand dismissively. "The point is, nobody cares. It’s 2025, Anthony. Being gay isn't a scandal. It’s a demographic checkbox."
"It’s not about him being gay!" Sterling shouts, losing his composure. "It’s about the impropriety! The lack of discipline! It’s about... boys will be boys behavior in a professional setting!"
Alistair stares at him. Then he bursts out laughing.
"Boys will be boys?" Alistair wipes a tear from his eye. "Oh, Anthony. You are so delightfully provincial."
Alistair leans in, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
"I went to private boarding school in the sixties, Anthony.
Cold showers, rugby, and Latin." He winks.
"If you didn't have a 'confusing friendship' with the rowing captain that involved a lot of nude wrestling in the dorms, you were considered anti-social.
A little experimentation builds character. It teaches you leverage."
The Board members look horrified. I look horrified and nauseated at the thought of what my father is implying.
"My point," Alistair continues, straightening his tie, "is that I don't care who my son sleeps with, or whose dick is in his mouth. I care that he is the best surgeon in this city. And I care that you annoyed my wife before she had finished her coffee."
Alistair walks closer to Sterling.
"Catherine is a narcissist, Anthony. She doesn't care about the photos. She cares about optics. And do you know what the optics are right now?"
Alistair pulls a tablet from his coat pocket. He throws it on the table.
It’s a news article. The headline reads: HERO DOCTOR SURVIVES BLIZZARD CRASH. "TRAUMA COWBOY" SAVES TWO IN DARING RESCUE.
There is a picture of Jax, looking rugged and bloody, being loaded into the ambulance.
"The public loves him," Alistair says. "Twitter is calling him 'Daddy.' I don't know what that means, but my PR team tells me it is a term of endearment and not a paternity claim. Catherine is already planning a 'Hero’s Gala' to capitalize on the donation spike."
Alistair’s face hardens.
"And you," he points the cane at Sterling’s chest, "want to fire him. You want to fire the golden goose because you have a puritanical stick up your ass."
"I am enforcing the bylaws!" Sterling shouts.
"You are boring me," Alistair says dismissively. "And worse, you are boring my wife. She told me to 'fix it.' And since I delight in proving that I can solve problems you create..."
Alistair turns to the Board.
"I am making a motion," Alistair announces. "Effective immediately, Dr. Sterling is relieved of his duties as Chief of Surgery due to... let's call it 'Lack of Vision.'"
"You can't do that!" Sterling screams. "I have a contract!"
"I have lawyers," Alistair counters. "And I have the checkbook that keeps the lights on in this room."
He looks around the table.
"All in favor?"
The Board members look at Alistair. They look at the headline about Jax. They look at Sterling, who is sweating through his suit.
One by one, the hands go up.
Sterling stares at them. His face turns a blotchy purple.
"This is insane," Sterling hisses. "You’re letting them take over. The inmates are running the asylum."
"The inmates are saving lives, Anthony," Alistair says coldly. "You’re just filing paperwork."
Alistair gestures to the door with his cane.
"Get out. Leave the photos. I want to frame the one in the snow. It’s festive. I might put it on the Christmas card just to give your mother an aneurysm, Maxwell."
Sterling looks at me. He looks at the photos. He realizes he has lost everything.
He grabs his briefcase. He storms out of the room, slamming the door so hard the glass walls rattle.
Silence descends on the boardroom.
Alistair sighs. He sits back down in the head chair—Sterling’s chair.
"Finally," Alistair says. "He breathed too loudly. It was very distracting."
He looks at me.
"Well?" Alistair raises an eyebrow. "Are you going to thank me?"
I look at my father. He didn't do this for me. He didn't do it for Jax. He did it because Sterling annoyed Catherine, and Catherine annoyed him, and firing Sterling was the most efficient way to silence the noise.
"No," I say.
Alistair smiles. A real, sharp smile.
"Good," he says. "I hate gratitude. It’s messy."
He waves a hand.
"Go back to your Cowboy, Maxwell. And tell him if he breaks those ribs again, I’m cutting his funding. I didn't pay two million dollars for a broken asset."
"He’s not an asset, Father," I say softly. "He’s my partner."
Alistair pauses. He looks at me, really looks at me, for a long second.
"Yes," Alistair says, a wicked glint in his eye that tells me he’s still thinking about the mesh tank tops. "I suppose he is."
He taps his cane on the floor, shifting gears instantly.
"Pity about the boots, though. We really must get him proper footwear. Perhaps something Italian? I assume you know a guy."
I turn and walk out of the boardroom.
I leave the photos on the table. I leave the politics.
I get on the elevator. I press the button for the ICU.
The war is over. The bad guy is gone.
And I have a date with a patient who owes me a burger.