Chapter 14
The Golden Parachute
PRESTON
Two Weeks Later
Residency is a lot like being in a fraternity, except instead of hazing you with beer bongs, they haze you with sleep deprivation and other people’s bodily fluids.
It is 2:00 PM on a Tuesday. I have been awake for twenty-six hours. I am currently wearing scrubs that have a suspicious stain on the left pant leg, and I am fairly certain my hair has achieved sentience.
I am leaning against the nurses' station, trying to chart a patient’s vitals while simultaneously hallucinating that the IV pole is judging me.
“York,” a nurse barks. “Bed 4 needs a rectal exam. And Bed 9 is demanding a pillow fluffer. You’re up.”
“I am a doctor of medicine,” I mutter, rubbing my eyes. “I am a healer of men. I am not a pillow fluffer.”
“Tell that to the patient,” the nurse says, slapping a clipboard into my chest. “He says his neck is ‘fragile.’ Go.”
I groan. I take the clipboard. I look across the ER.
Luke is there. He is intubating a trauma patient in Bay 1. He looks focused, competent, and infuriatingly awake. He catches my eye through the glass. He winks.
Despite the exhaustion, my chest does a little flip. We have been disgustingly happy for two weeks. I have learned to eat pizza without a fork. I have learned that "sleeping in" means waking up at 6:00 AM. I am evolving.
But I am also tired. Soul-deep, bone-grindingly tired.
“Dr. York.”
I freeze. The voice comes from behind me. It is cool, baritone, and terrifyingly crisp.
I turn around.
Maxwell is standing there. He is wearing his pristine white coat. He looks like he just stepped out of a cryogenic freezer—perfectly preserved and unbothered by the concept of fatigue.
“Max,” I say. “If you’re here to tell me my tie is crooked, I’m wearing scrubs.”
“Your drawstring is uneven,” Max notes automatically. “Come with me. We’re needed upstairs.”
“I have a rectal exam in Bed 4.”
“Delegate it,” Max says, turning on his heel. “To an intern. The Board is waiting.”
He walks away. He doesn't wait to see if I follow. He knows I will. It is the gravitational pull of the older brother.
I hand the clipboard to a terrified first-year medical student.
“Go forth,” I tell him. “Bed 4. It builds character.”
I follow Max.
We leave the chaotic noise of the ER. We take the elevator up. The air changes. It stops smelling like antiseptic and starts smelling like lemon polish and money.
We walk into Max’s office—the Fishbowl.
Max opens the door.
“He’s here,” Max announces.
Sitting in Max’s guest chair, feet propped up on the mahogany desk, holding a tumbler of amber liquid, is Alistair York.
“Preston!” Alistair booms, swinging his legs off the desk. “My boy! My prodigal son! You look terrible. Is that blood on your pants? Or is it sauce? Please tell me it’s sauce.”
“It’s indeterminate fluid, Father,” I say, staying by the door. “What is this? An intervention?”
“A celebration,” Alistair corrects. He stands up and pours a second drink. “To the long con! I have to admit, I didn't think you had the stamina for it. But you committed to the bit, Preston. You really committed.”
I blink, confused. “The bit?”
Max walks behind his desk and sits down, clasping his hands. He looks… proud. But not the way he looks when I stitch a wound. He looks proud like he just watched me checkmate an opponent.
“We know why you did it, Pres,” Max says gently. “The residency. The medical degree. All of it.”
“You do?”
“Of course,” Max smiles. “It was the breakfast. Three years ago. The Hamptons. I told you that you lacked the ‘grit’ to handle the day to day business of being in medicine. And you took that personally.”
“So you went out,” Alistair interrupts, beaming, “and you got yourself the hardest, grittiest, most miserable job in the building just to prove him wrong. Spite, Preston! It is the purest York emotion. It’s how I know without a doubt you’re mine! I respect the hustle.”
I stare at them.
They think this is a prank. They think my sleepless nights, my anxiety, the lives I’ve helped save… they think it’s all just elaborate performance art to win an argument.
I open my mouth to say: No. I did it because I wanted to be useful. I did it because I wanted to feel real.
But Alistair steps forward. He puts a heavy hand on my shoulder.
“But here is the irony, son,” Alistair says, his voice dropping to a serious rumble. “You proved your point. But you proved something else at that Gala.”
He gestures with his glass.
“You weaponized the Church and the Russian internet in under twenty minutes,” Alistair says, shaking his head in wonder. “You destroyed Harrison Vane without landing a punch. That isn't medicine, Preston. That is governance.”
Max nods, leaning forward.
“Father is right. I can replace a valve, Preston. I can fix a heart. But I cannot fix the endowment. I cannot bully a billionaire into compliance. You have a killer instinct for people that I simply do not possess.”
Max slides a thick expensive looking folder across the desk. It is embossed with gold.
“Vane’s resignation leaves a seat open,” Max says. “And we don't just want you there to end the joke. We want you there because you are the only one who can actually do the job.”
He taps the folder.
“Think about it, Pres. You want to help people? Fine. But look at yourself. You’re exhausted. You’re fluffing pillows. Down there, you can help one patient at a time.”
Max points to the folder.
“Up here? You can fix the clinic budget. You can secure the funding for the new wing. You can protect the staff from people like Vane. You can do more good with a signature in five minutes than you can with a stethoscope in five years.”
I look at the folder.
Triple salary. No night shifts. And—most seductive of all—being told I am good at something. Being told I am not just the Spare, but the Saviour.
“And the residency?” I ask.
“Resign,” Alistair says, waving his hand. “You’ve had your fun. You played doctor. You slummed it with the commoners. Now put on a suit and come help us run the empire. You were built for this, Preston.”
It sounds so easy. It sounds so logical.
And right now, standing here in dirty scrubs, feeling like an imposter who just got lucky, the validation feels like a drug.
“I… I need to think about it,” I say.
“Take the rest of the week,” Max nods. “But we need an answer by Friday.”
I take the folder. I walk out.
I feel sick. I feel like I just sold something vital for a paycheque I don't need.
I walk down the quiet, carpeted hallway. I need air. I need to get out of this building before I suffocate.
I turn the corner toward the elevators, and I slam right into a solid wall of muscle.
“Whoa,” a voice says. “Watch it, suit.”
I look up.
It’s Luke.
He’s wearing his trauma scrubs. He has a smear of blood on his neck. He looks exhausted, sweaty, and incredibly handsome. He’s holding two coffees.
“I brought you a refill,” Luke says, holding up a cup. “I heard the nurses were riding you about Bed 4, so I thought—”
He stops.
He looks at my clean hands. He looks at the quiet, expensive hallway.
Then, he looks at the folder in my hand.
He sees the gold crest. He sees the words Board of Directors: Confidential.
The smile drops off his face.
“What’s that?” Luke asks. His voice is very quiet.
I instinctively try to hide the folder behind my back, which is the guiltiest thing I could possibly do.
“Nothing,” I say. “Just… paperwork. Max wanted to talk.”
“About the Board?” Luke asks. He steps closer. “About Vane’s seat?”
“He… he offered it to me,” I admit.
Luke stares at me. “And?”
“And I’m thinking about it.”
Silence. Absolute, heavy silence.
“You’re thinking about it,” Luke repeats. “So, what? You’re just going to quit? You’re going to drop the residency?”
“Max made some good points!” I say, my voice rising defensively. “I’m good at the politics, Luke! You saw me at the Gala. I fixed the Vane problem. I protected the hospital.”
I step closer, desperate for him to understand.
“Maybe… maybe I don't belong in the ER. Maybe I belong upstairs. Max says I can do more good from the Boardroom. I can fund the clinic. I can protect the staff. Isn't that what we want?”
“Is that what we want?” Luke asks. His voice is cold. “Or is that just what’s easy?”
“It isn't easy!”
“It looks pretty easy from here,” Luke says, his eyes hard. “You had your fun. You came down here, played ‘working class hero’ for a few months, hooked up with the Chief Resident, and proved you could survive without a butler. Bravo, Preston. Great show.”
His words echo exactly what Alistair just said. You had your fun. You played doctor.
And because I am hurt, and because I am scared he’s right, I lash out. I lean into the lie.
“Maybe it was a show,” I snap. “Maybe I proved my point. I showed Max I could do it. I showed my father I have grit. Why should I keep suffering just to prove something I’ve already won?”
Luke recoils. It’s a physical flinch, like I slapped him.
“Won?” Luke whispers. “You think this is a game? You think the patients downstairs are pieces on a board?”
“It’s all a game, Luke!” I yell, waving the folder. “The hospital. The Board. The politics. It’s all just leverage! And I’m finally in a position to win! Why shouldn't I take the golden parachute? Why should I stay down here and drown just because you have a martyr complex?”
The moment the words leave my mouth, I want to recall them.
Luke’s face shuts down. The warmth vanishes. The wall goes up.
“I thought you were different,” Luke says quietly. “I really did. I thought you were… real.”
“I am real!”
“No,” Luke shakes his head. “You’re just a tourist. And I think your visa just expired.”
He drops the extra coffee into the trash can next to him. It lands with a heavy thud.
“Enjoy the boardroom, York. I have real work to do.”
He turns around and walks away. He walks toward the service elevator, back down to the noise and the blood and the fight.
I stand there, alone in the silent, carpeted hallway.
I look at the folder. I look at the trash can.
I proved my point to my father. I protected my pride.
And it only cost me the only thing I actually loved.