CHAPTER 22
Edward
What I love about my job is that it leaves no room for distraction.
Your mind cannot stray, not even for a moment, into thoughts of deep hazel eyes and sharp retorts. Absolute focus isn’t just a requirement; it’s ingrained, running through your veins like a second heartbeat.
After Millie’s death, that focus became more than a necessity. It became my salvation. Work was the only place where grief couldn’t follow me—there simply isn’t time for it.
Because when you’re operating on a patient, their life quite literally in your hands, and you see the raw emotion etched on their faces—or worse, on the faces of their loved ones—you don’t have the luxury of dwelling on your own . . . life complications.
You’re too busy holding theirs.
Today’s patient is Ella Bailey.
Six years old. From Brixton. Diagnosed with Crohn’s disease two years ago. She’s endured more than any child should. With pediatric cases, the stakes always feel higher.
I push through the double doors to the pre-op room, rolling down my sleeves as I walk in.
Ella sits cross-legged on the hospital bed, clutching a one-eyed rabbit that looks like it’s fought just as many battles as she has. Her blonde curls tumble over her small shoulders, framing a face lit with curiosity. Her wide eyes flit around the room, taking in every detail.
At six, she understands enough to be cautious but not quite enough to grasp what’s ahead.
Her mother, on the other hand, knows all too well. Shoulders hunched. Eyes heavy with sleeplessness.
I step into their bay, the slight scrape of the curtain drawing their attention.
“Good morning, Ella. Mrs. Bailey,” I say.
Her mother looks up, her lips tugging into a nervous smile. “Dr. Cavendish.”
Ella tilts her head, scrutinizing. “You’re really tall,” she announces, matter-of-factly. As if this is the only detail worth addressing. “Are you the tallest doctor here?”
A faint smile pulls at my mouth.
“I might be,” I say, crouching slightly to meet her gaze. “Though you’re quite the tall young lady yourself.”
She wrinkles her nose, unimpressed. “You’re the boss, aren’t you?”
“That’s right. I’ll be the one taking care of you.”
Her brow furrows, her grip tightening on the rabbit. “Do you know how?”
Her mother flushes. “Ella! Manners, please.”
I hold up a hand, waving away her embarrassment with a small smile. “It’s all right. That’s a fair question.”
Turning back to Ella, I keep my tone light but steady. “Yes, Ella, I do know how. I’ve been fixing tummies for a very long time, and I’ll be extra careful with yours. Does that sound all right?”
She considers this with impressive gravity.
Then she gives a small, solemn nod. “Okay. But if you mess it up, I’m going to tell everyone. Even my headmaster.”
“That’s a deal,” I say. “But I promise we won’t mess it up.”
I nod toward the stuffed rabbit she’s clutching. “And who might this distinguished gentleman be?”
“Mr. Tickles,” she says, lifting him with great ceremony. “He’s only got one eye. He lost it in the washing machine. He still has nightmares, and I have to calm him down. A lot.”
I lean in, inspecting the one-eyed rabbit with the seriousness his plight demands. “I see. Mr. Tickles appears to have endured quite the ordeal. Remarkably resilient. Rather like you, Ella.”
Her lips twitch into a shy smile. “He’s not real, though,” she confesses, as though letting me in on a secret. “But he gets scared sometimes. And he keeps bumping into things ’cause he can’t see properly anymore.”
I tilt my head. “You know what? I think we can arrange something special for Mr. Tickles. How about I ask one of our nurses to find a brave sticker for his sore eye? Something suitably sparkly.” Lowering my voice conspiratorially, I add, “But first, we’ll focus on you. I think Mr. Tickles would understand that you take priority.”
She nods, seemingly satisfied with this arrangement.
“Now, Ella,” I say, “do you have any questions about the procedure? Anything you’d like to know?”
She tilts her head. “Will it hurt? Like . . . a lot?”
“You’ll be asleep the whole time. You won’t feel a thing during the surgery. And when you wake up, you might feel a little sore, but we’ll make sure you’re as comfortable as possible. Mr. Tickles will be waiting for you. How does that sound?”
She nods, little fingers tightening around Mr. Tickles’s paw. But then her wide, serious eyes meet mine, and she asks in a quiet voice, “Okay. But what if . . . what if I can’t be normal after this?”
The question makes my chest tighten but I don’t let it show.
“Ella,” I say, “there’s no such thing as normal. Every young lady is extraordinary in her own way, and you are no exception. This surgery is merely to help you feel better, so you can continue being the remarkable person you already are.”
Her small brow furrows. She’s skeptical.
After a moment, she nods, pressing Mr. Tickles tighter against her chest. “Okay,” she whispers.
I rise to my feet.
With a nod to her mother, I excuse myself and step into the corridor, making my way to meet my team.
Pediatric surgery always has a way of digging into emotions you thought were buried beneath layers of professionalism. These cases stay with you. The tiny bears clutched in tiny hands. The trembling lips, the wide eyes.
The ache that lingers long after the surgical gloves come off.
Today, that particular ache feels more pronounced. It’s yet another quiet reminder of the things I’ve put on hold.
Daisy turned me down. It’s for the best.
Her contempt for me couldn’t be clearer.
Asking her to dinner was a bad choice. Daisy made her position clear. And in doing so, she reminded me just how foolish I’d been to even try.
She’s in her twenties, living life to the fullest. To her, I’m just another stuffy Cavendish—a boring, entitled older man who reminds her far too much of my brother’s less admirable qualities.
And I’m not a man who repeats his mistakes.
“You’re still here, Edward?” Lucia’s voice drifts down the corridor as she approaches.
The blue of her scrubs catches my eye—she might be the only person capable of looking elegant in hospital attire.
“I thought you were supposed to clock off an hour ago,” she says, stopping beside me.
“I was,” I reply, glancing toward the doorway where Ella stirs. Her mother sits close, still clutching Mr. Tickles—the bedraggled rabbit now sporting a sparkly sticker over his missing eye and a gauze patch to match Ella’s own.
“I wanted to monitor her initial recovery,” I say. “She’s just coming round.”
Lucia follows my gaze. “That’s what the nurses and surgical residents are here for. You don’t need to shoulder every burden yourself.” She pauses, studying me. “You’re remarkable with children. I hope you’re aware of that. You should hear how the staff talk about you.”
“I just do what needs to be done.” I clear my throat, glancing away as I roll the tension from my neck. “Thank you for coming to the funeral. I wasn’t expecting it, but it meant a great deal.”
“Of course,” she says simply. She checks her watch. “I don’t suppose you’d want to grab dinner? After today, I can’t face cooking.”
I pause. “I’d like to,” I say, and I mean it. “But I’ve already made plans with Liam and Patrick tonight. Next week?”
She nods, smiling easily. “Next week, then.”
“Excellent,” I reply.
Lucia is everything I should want—intelligent, accomplished, stunning. A fellow surgeon who understands the demands of our profession.
No chaos. No complications.
No turning my world upside down with yoga pants and ill-advised church incidents.