Chapter 31
Sebastian
Iscribble my signature on the last line of Cheryl's paperwork, the pen nearly tearing through the page with the force of my hand.
My fingers are steady, but everything else inside me is rattling like loose change in a dryer.
Mia's face when she ran from that room—fuck, I can't shake it.
The shattered look in her eyes, like something fundamental had broken inside her.
It's been forty-seven minutes since she disappeared, and each one feels like another weight pressing down on my chest.
"Make sure the family is notified immediately." I tell the nurse.
The protocol for patient death feels obscene right now, this methodical checklist while Mia is somewhere in this hospital falling apart. Or worse, not in the hospital at all. The thought makes my stomach knot tighter.
"Dr. Walker, are you alright?" the nurse asks.
No. No, I'm not fucking alright. "Fine," I say instead, handing her the clipboard. "Have Dr. Patel handle the rest of Ms. DuBois's paperwork. I have an urgent matter to attend to."
Before she can respond, I'm already moving. The hallway stretches ahead, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like static in my brain. I check my phone again. No messages, no missed calls. Just the lock screen photo of a mountain range I've never actually visited.
Where would she go? The lounge is my first stop, but it's empty except for a first-year resident passed out on the couch, mouth open in an exhausted snore. The women's restroom next—I knock, ignoring the startled looks from passing nurses, then peek my head in when there's no answer.
Empty.
Supply closets. On-call rooms. The MRI suite where she sometimes hides out between cases to gather her thoughts. Nothing. No one. No wild red hair or fierce green eyes anywhere.
My pace quickens with each empty room, my heart rate climbing to match. I pull out my phone again, dialing her number for the seventh time.
"You've reached Dr. Mia Phillips. Leave a message and I'll call you back when I can."
The cheerful greeting turns my blood to ice. I hang up without leaving another message. The previous six are embarrassing enough.
"Come on, Trouble," I mutter, thumbs flying across the screen with another text.
Me: Please tell me where you are. I'm worried.
It joins the others in a pathetic blue bubble parade with no responses.
A group of nurses glance up as I approach their station, their conversation dying abruptly. "Has anyone seen Dr. Phillips?" I ask, working to keep my voice professional.
Head shakes all around. "Not since this morning," one offers. "Is everything okay?"
"Fine," I say again, the word sounding hollow even to my own ears. "If you see her, tell her I'm looking for her."
As I turn away, I hear one whisper, "What's with him? He looks like he's about to combust."
She's not wrong. My skin feels too tight, like it's shrink-wrapped around muscles coiled for action with nowhere to go.
Sweat prickles at my hairline despite the hospital's aggressive air conditioning.
I rake a hand through my hair, not caring that I'm destroying whatever professional appearance I'd maintained after the morning's chaos.
I check the ER next, thinking maybe she threw herself into someone else's emergency to escape her own. The controlled chaos of the department washes over me—monitors beeping, staff calling out vitals, the squeak of gurney wheels—but no Mia.
"Dr. Walker?" The charge nurse looks up from her station, her surprise evident. "We don't have any consults for diagnostics."
"I know," I say tersely. "I'm looking for Dr. Phillips."
"Haven't seen her today. Everything alright?"
I don't bother answering, already turning away. As I head for the elevators, I check my phone again. The screen mocks me with its emptiness.
Floor by floor, room by room, my search grows more desperate.
The analytical part of my brain tries to calculate where she would go, what her next move would be.
But the other part, the part that held her last night, that watched her fall apart this morning over Cheryl's death, that part is spiraling into something dangerously close to panic.
The stairwell door slams behind me as I emerge onto the ground floor.
My temples throb with the beginning of a tension headache, my jaw aching from being clenched too long.
I glance at my watch. It's been almost two hours now.
Two hours since Mia disappeared, since Cheryl died, since everything went to hell.
As a last resort, I head for the cafeteria. The large room is humming with conversation and the clatter of trays. I scan the crowd methodically, section by section, searching for that flash of red hair among the sea of scrubs and white coats.
Instead, my eyes land on Harper, sitting alone at a corner table.
Even from a distance, I can see the smug set of his mouth, the self-satisfied way he's stirring his coffee while scrolling through his phone.
Something about the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips makes my hackles rise.
Before I can analyze why, my feet are already carrying me toward his table. He glances up as I approach, and that smirk widens fractionally, like he's been expecting me.
"Dr. Walker," he says, setting his phone down with deliberate slowness. "Rough morning?"
I ignore the bait. "Have you seen Dr. Phillips?"
He leans back in his chair. "Not since the DuBois situation."
The casual way he refers to Cheryl's death makes my fingers curl into fists at my sides. "If you see her, tell her I'm looking for her."
I turn to leave, but his voice stops me. "Doubt I'll be seeing her anytime soon."
The note of satisfaction in his tone makes me pivot back slowly to face him. "What does that mean?"
Harper shrugs, taking a leisurely sip of his coffee before answering. "She quit." He sets the cup down, watching my reaction with obvious enjoyment. "Couldn't handle a simple DNR situation. Stormed into Henderson's office, dropped her badge on his desk, and walked out."
The world tilts sideways. Quit. She wouldn't. Not without telling me.
"You're lying," I say, but there's a sick certainty building in my gut that he's not.
With a derisive snort, he leans forward. "The hospital's better off without doctors who can't handle the pressure. What use is all that passion if she falls apart the first time a patient dies?"
Something snaps inside me. A clean break, like a bone giving way under too much pressure.
One second I'm standing there absorbing Harper's words, and the next my hands are fisted in his lab coat, my body moving on pure instinct as I haul him up and slam him against the nearest wall.
His head bounces off the painted concrete with a dull thud that some distant part of me registers as potentially concussion-inducing. I don't care.
"What the—" Harper starts, eyes wide with shock, but I cut him off by shoving him harder against the wall.
Around us, conversations halt mid-sentence.
Trays clatter as people jump back from the sudden violence.
A woman gasps. Someone drops a glass that shatters against the tile floor.
The cafeteria transforms from bustling lunchroom to silent theater in the span of a heartbeat, with Harper and me center stage.
"Shut your mouth," I snarl, my face inches from his. "You're not even a fraction of the doctor she is."
Harper's initial shock fades quickly, replaced by something calculated. Even pinned against the wall, he manages to find his footing, his smirk returning like a bad fucking rash.
"Touched a nerve, have I?" His eyes flick over my face, searching for weakness. "Didn't realize she meant that much to you."
I press harder, feeling his breath stutter beneath my touch. "Don't you dare." My voice drops lower, meant for his ears only. "You don't know the first thing about what makes a good doctor. While you're busy kissing ass and padding your resume, Mia's actually trying to save people."
His lips twist into something ugly. "Lot of good that did DuBois, wasn't it? She couldn't even handle a standard end-of-life scenario without breaking down. Is that what we're calling doctor material these days?"
My vision narrows, tunneling until all I can see is Harper's smug face. The pressure in my chest builds until I can barely breathe through it, rage a living thing clawing its way up my throat.
"You think this is about one patient?" My voice sounds alien to my own ears, rough and dangerous.
"This is about every case you've tried to steal from her, every time you've undermined her, every fucking snide remark you've made because you can't stand that she's naturally brilliant while you have to work your ass off just to keep up. "
A flash of genuine anger breaks through his calculated facade and I know I've hit home. But instead of backing down, his mouth curves into a knowing smile.
"Apparently she's got a golden pussy too." His voice is low. "No wonder you're so protective. Tell me, was she worth throwing away professional ethics? Or is fucking the fellows just a perk of your position?"
My fist cocks back before I've even processed his words.
Muscles coiled tight, ready to drive straight into that perfectly punchable face.
I want to feel cartilage give way beneath my knuckles, want to see blood splatter across those expensive teeth.
Want to hurt him the way his words are hurting Mia, even in her absence.
"Sebastian, don't."
A hand clamps around my wrist from behind, stopping my fist mid-arc. I try to wrench free, but the grip is iron-tight.
"Let go," I growl, not taking my eyes off Harper.
"Not happening." Arjun's voice is firm in my ear as he maintains his hold. "This isn't you, man. This isn't worth your career."
I struggle against his grip, muscles straining as anger courses through me like electricity. "You didn't hear what he said. You don't know—"
"I heard enough." Arjun's other hand finds my shoulder, pulling me back with surprising strength. "He's not worth it. And he's definitely not worth losing your medical license over."
Harper uses the distraction to slip from my grasp, straightening his lab coat with exaggerated care.
"You should listen to your friend, Dr. Walker," he says, smoothing down his tie. "Assaulting a fellow is grounds for immediate termination."
My muscles bunch again, but Arjun's grip tightens in warning. Around us, the cafeteria remains unnaturally silent, dozens of eyes watching the drama unfold. I spot several nurses I know, a couple of residents from my department, even Dr. Henderson lingering near the coffee station.
"Calm down," Arjun murmurs, close enough that only I can hear. "You're not helping anyone by doing this."
"I don't need to calm down." The words tear from my throat, raw with emotion I've spent years learning to suppress. "I just need to find Mia."
Harper's eyebrows lift slightly. "Good luck with that. Last I saw, she was heading for the parking lot, crying her eyes out."
It takes everything in me not to lunge at him again. My breathing comes in harsh, shallow pants, each inhale feeling like it's filtered through ground glass. The confirmation that Mia has actually quit—has packed up and left—hurts like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
"If you'll excuse me," Harper continues, clearly enjoying the upper hand, "I should get going. Some of us still have jobs to do."
Around us, conversations slowly resume, the cafeteria's audience turns back to their meals, though I can feel their eyes still flicking in our direction.
"Let me go," I say to Arjun, my voice flat now. "I'm not going after him."
My friend studies my face for a long moment before releasing his grip on my wrist. "You sure about that?"
"Yes." I take a deep breath, willing my heart rate to slow. "I need to find Mia. Now."
I pull out my phone, checking again for messages I know aren't there. "I have to find her before—"
Before what? Before she disappears completely? Before she makes a decision she can't take back? Before I lose whatever fragile connection we've built over these past days?
The realization hits me with stunning clarity as I push through the cafeteria doors. I'm not just afraid of Mia throwing away her career.
I'm afraid of her throwing us away.