CHAPTER 6
Edward
If this laparoscopic anterior resection is anything short of perfection, Daisy Wilson is entirely to blame.
Hardly the mindset I should have while navigating a patient’s abdominal cavity.
And yet, here we are.
My team stands in silent readiness, waiting for the next command.
Distraction is not an option. I will not allow last night’s chaos to compromise my performance.
I adjust the laparoscope with deliberate precision. On-screen, the high-definition monitor magnifies an intricate landscape of flesh and vessels.
Two hours of meticulous dissection have led to this—no turning back. My pulse remains steady, but beneath it, adrenaline hums—a silent current keeping my senses razor-sharp.
“Blood pressure, one-ten over seventy,” Nurse Yang reports.
“Good. Let’s keep it there.” My gaze never leaves the screen. Stability is paramount.
I begin the delicate task of isolating the diseased portion of the bowel. One wrong move could compromise weeks of surgical planning.
“Suction.”
The scrub nurse moves with efficiency, the faint hiss of the device clearing the field.
“Nearly there,” I murmur, blocking out everything but the controlled movement of my hands. “Matthews, prepare the stapler.”
The screen sharpens every detail—the fragile network of vessels, the curvature of the bowel, the precise point of connection.
The stapler locks into place. A quiet click.
A small sound.
Insignificant anywhere else.
Monumental here.
“Anastomosis secure,” I murmur, making one final assessment. Blood supply intact. No leaks. Everything as it should be.
“Dr. Matthews,” I say, my attention still fixed on the screen. “Close for me.”
“Yes, Sir,” Matthews replies.
“Standard closure. Document everything in detail.” I step back, my body moving through the practiced rhythm of post-operative routine.
“Nurse Yang,” I say, glancing briefly at her, “hourly observations for the next four hours. Any deviation—page me immediately. I’ll be in my office finalizing the documentation.”
“Certainly,” she replies, efficient as always, though I don’t miss the flicker of exhaustion in her eyes.
I glance around the theater—subtle cues of fatigue everywhere. The way shoulders slump, the slight delay in movement as instruments are packed away, the quiet sighs that no one acknowledges.
They’ve earned my gratitude. I’ll offer it—properly—later. When there’s space for it.
For now, there’s still work to be done.
One final check of Matthews’s sutures. A brief discussion with the anesthetist about Mrs. Patterson’s post-op pain management—ensuring everything is in place for an optimal recovery.
The snap of latex gloves as I remove them carries its usual satisfaction—a ritual marking the end of another successful procedure.
And then— the paperwork.
There is always paperwork.
Satisfied that Mrs. Patterson is in capable hands, I step out of the theater, the low hum of the hospital swallowing me back into its rhythm. The procedure is over. My focus should shift. My shoulders should relax.
They don’t.
Twenty minutes later, I’m slumped behind my desk, the last of the operative notes typed up.
I lean back, letting out a slow breath that feels like it’s been trapped in my chest for hours. Since last night, to be precise.
The incident.
Daisy.
My fingers tighten around the armrest, jaw clenching as the memory forces its way back—unbidden, unwelcome, infuriatingly persistent.
It’s left me off-balance in a way I cannot tolerate.
Unacceptable. A surgeon’s control must be absolute. Anything less is dangerous.
I press my fingers into my temples, trying—failing—to force order back into my mind.
For the first time since Millie died, I broke my pre-operative routine. Didn’t get enough sleep. Didn’t wake before dawn to run through the procedure in my head, every possible complication, every contingency plan.
A breach so egregious I’d eviscerate anyone else for it—let alone tolerate it in myself.
My patients deserve better than a surgeon distracted by memories of a naked woman sprawled in his bed.
The operation was flawless, yes, but that offers no consolation. The lack of error does not excuse the failure in discipline.
The first woman in my bed since Millie’s death, and she wasn’t even there for me.
Millie would be laughing herself sick at this. If I believed in an afterlife, she’d be up there having an absolute field day.
And with Spencer, of all bloody people.
Of all the men, of all the ways this farce could have unfolded.
I had words with him after Daisy left. Stern words.
Impersonating me? To seduce women?
It’s beyond pathetic. It’s disrespectful. It makes me wonder where I went wrong as an uncle.
Part of me tries to dismiss it as typical university idiocy, the kind of thoughtless, arrogant stunt young men pull.
But the other part—the part that remembers a little boy looking up at me with trust and admiration—feels something heavier.
A pang of disappointment.
I press my fingers harder against my temples, but it does nothing to banish the image of Daisy Wilson sprawled across my sheets.
The way her hazel eyes widened in shock.
The wild tumble of glossy dark hair spilling over my pillows, framing her heart-shaped face.
The creamy curves I had no business seeing.
I close my eyes and let out a groan. It has been a long time since I’ve seen a woman’s body in the flesh. Far too long.
Daisy Wilson. The girl barrels through life like a force of nature, all five-foot-nothing of her radiating chaos.
A part of me—some exhausted, clearly deranged corner of my mind—wonders if Millie orchestrated this from beyond the grave. It would be just like her.
Though even Millie might have drawn the line at our nephew’s head between Daisy’s thighs.
I exhale sharply, shaking the thought loose.
Daisy, who spits out every thought that crosses her mind with absolute disregard for consequence. No filter. No boundaries. No concept of lines that shouldn’t be crossed.
The same Daisy who once tore through my estate with Sophia, a feral little menace, always running, always breaking rules.
Daisy, who pined after Charlie so openly it was painful to witness.
Daisy, who I found in my bed with my nephew. My twenty-year-old nephew.
The audacity of her, to call me Daddy with that insolent mouth of hers. As though she were deliberately testing the limits of my patience, challenging my authority in my own home.
And the worst part?
For half a second, something in me reacted.
The sight of her, thirteen years my junior and unsuitable—the sort of unsuitable that makes “inappropriate” seem like a quaint understatement.
We can hang our walls with medical certificates, park vintage Aston Martins in our garages, sit through operas, and treat The Economist like it’s gospel. But strip all that away and we’re still just animals underneath. Driven by urges that don’t care about refinement.
It’s been two years.
Two years since I’ve felt the warmth of a woman’s skin under my hands, since I’ve caught that heady mix of perfume and female arousal in the air.
I tug at my tie, the fabric rasping against my neck as I yank it free.
The office feels stifling.
I’ll have to get maintenance to look at the damn system.