CHAPTER 36
Edward
My grip tightens on the steering wheel, the leather creaking under the pressure exerted by my fingers. My foot presses harder on the accelerator before I catch myself and ease back. The last thing I need is to get pulled over.
From the back seat, Hugo and Daisy chatter away, oblivious to the fact that I am on the brink of losing my patience. She’s sprawled out, talking as if I’m not even here. Like I’m her damn driver.
Or worse—like I’m her father.
“A club, Daisy?” My voice stays level, but only just. “You really need to go to a club? Now?”
“Yes, I do,” she replies, her tone airy but threaded with something tight and defensive. She shifts, adjusting her dress, and crosses her arms over her chest.
I drum my fingers on the wheel. “Any particular reason?”
“I need to let off some steam, okay? I just, that was a . . . long dinner.”
“Daisy,” I say, exhaling slowly through my nose. “I have to work tomorrow. I can’t go gallivanting to a club.”
“You don’t have to go, Edward.”
I draw a sharp breath, forcing my foot to stay steady on the accelerator when every instinct shouts at me to stop the car and demand answers. To have an adult conversation with her about whatever is upsetting her.
Instead, I keep my eyes on the road.
“I’ll keep our Daisy safe,” Hugo slurs, grinning like a fucking idiot.
The bastard has the audacity to drape an arm over her shoulders. My hand twitches toward the indicator like I might suddenly pull over and drag him out onto the pavement.
“Daisy,” I say. “Tell me what’s going on.”
I adjust the rearview mirror. I want a clearer view of her.
“Nothing’s going on.”
“Bullshit.”
“Nothing that needs announcing , anyway.”
Right. So she didn’t like my choice of words earlier. And she’s punishing me for it.
I catch her gaze. Behind the challenge, there’s hurt in her eyes.
Damn it. I didn’t mean to upset her.
“I apologize if anything I said tonight to upset you, Daisy. That was never my intention.”
Hugo snorts, half laughing. “What the bloody hell are you two on about?”
“I believe I may have inadvertently upset Daisy this evening,” I say smoothly. “It’s not your concern.”
I flick my eyes to him in the mirror, a silent command to stay out of it. He’s too drunk to notice, of course.
“It’s fine,” she says, but the tightening of her jaw suggests otherwise. She turns her head to the window, effectively shutting me out.
I force back the frustration. “I’d prefer you didn’t go to the club.”
Hugo groans, head lolling back against the seat. “For Christ’s sake, Cavendish, lighten up. If you don’t want to play chauffeur, just dump us at the nearest station.”
My teeth grind together. Lighten up?
I am too old for this.
Too old for the games, for the reckless decisions, for the sheer nonsense of watching Daisy stagger into some dimly lit, overcrowded club while Hugo—this half-wit—clings to her.
And yet, the thought of her out there, drunk, dancing with him while he paws at her like the idiot he is, twists my stomach into a sick knot.
If my colleagues caught wind of this—if they saw me with Daisy, they’d smirk and slap a label on it.
Midlife crisis.
Sugar daddy.
I might as well roll into the hospital with a Rolex and a red Porsche, and start dating women who call me Daddy without a hint of irony.
I shouldn’t give a damn what anyone assumes. I shouldn’t care about the sideways glances, the murmured gossip, the What the hell is Cavendish thinking? looks.
But I do care about her.
I know Daisy’s antics tonight are reckless but I see the hurt fueling them. She’s probably sensing my hesitation—not about how I feel for her, because that’s a bloody certainty, but about how the hell this can possibly work between us.
The last time I stepped foot in a nightclub, I was in my twenties. The last time I danced was a waltz at my wedding.
Tomorrow’s schedule is grueling; by all rights, I should be retiring directly to bed. I deliberately abstained from drinking tonight for that very reason.
But instead, I press down harder on the accelerator.
The steady beep of the monitors fills the operating room, a constant rhythm that’s as familiar to me as my own heartbeat. But then, the pitch changes.
The beeps become faster, more insistent.
Alarming.
“BP’s dropping,” the scrub nurse reports, her voice tense. “Eighty over fifty.”
Too low, too fast.
I keep my hands steady, my breathing measured. Panic is a luxury I don’t have when a child’s life is in my hands.
But I can’t ignore the monitors. They’re telling me what I already know—Ella’s blood pressure is plummeting. If it gets too low, her organs won’t get enough blood.
I glance at the screen, the numbers painting a grim picture. Her BP is still falling, despite our efforts.
“Give another bolus of fluids,” I order. “Hang a unit of blood.”
The anesthesiologist nods, already in motion. We’re fighting to get Ella’s blood pressure back up. But the monitors keep alarming.
I shift my focus back to the field. There’s too much blood. I can’t see. I need to see.
“Suction,” I command, and the scrub nurse is there in an instant, the suction tip clearing away the blood.
But it’s not enough. The vessel I just repaired is bleeding again, faster this time, pooling dark and thick.
Ella’s little body jerks slightly, her pulse spiking.
Her BP is still plummeting.
“Clamp.” My hand is already outstretched, my fingers closing around the instrument before the word has fully left my lips.
I isolate the vessel, working quickly, methodically, my movements swift but controlled.
Cauterize. Suction. Suture. Every second counts.
The monitors are still beeping, but the pitch is changing. The alarms stop. Ella’s BP starts to climb, slowly but steadily.
“Pressure’s coming up,” the nurse reports, her voice edged with relief. “Ninety over sixty.”
It’s not great, but it’s better. It’s enough, for now.
I release a slow breath, unclamping the vessel. My eyes scan the field, searching for any sign of continued bleeding, any potential weakness in the repair.
Once again, six-year-old Ella Bailey finds herself under my care.
A fistula has formed an abnormal connection between her intestine and her skin, leaking infection.
She cannot afford another complication.
“All right,” I say, my voice steady and sure. “Let’s finish this.”
I sit at my desk, hands tangled in my hair, staring at the ceiling as if it might offer absolution for my own negligence. As if somewhere within these stark, fluorescent-lit walls, there exists a god willing to forgive me for something as unforgivable as walking into that operating theater anything less than my best.
There is no absolution. No forgiveness. Just the cold, undeniable truth:
I was too bloody tired.
The surgery was a technical success. Ella is stable. For now. But stable isn’t good enough.
I should feel relief. Instead, I feel nothing but disgust at my own unprofessionalism.
When her blood pressure dropped, when her artery opened up like a goddamn ticking clock, I felt the weight of every poor decision I made last night come crashing down upon me.
There’s a knock at the door, and Lucia pops her head in, smiling. “Hey,” she says lightly. “You okay?”
I smooth my expression into something neutral. Something that doesn’t scream I’m a goddamn disgrace. “Yeah. Fine.”
She hesitates. “You seemed a little off today.”
My shoulders lock tight, a coil of shame twisting low in my gut. She noticed. Of course she did—Lucia’s too sharp not to clock my exhaustion in the middle of surgery.
I suck a breath through my teeth. “I’m just a little tired.”
Lucia smirks, a knowing glint in her eye. “Oh, I see. The young, gorgeous Daisy keeping you up all night?”
I grimace, not seeing any humor in the situation. “No. Not at all. And I apologize for being off during surgery.”
“You don’t need to apologize.” She waves me off. “We all have bad days.”
I shake my head. “Perhaps. But it’s not like we can decide to leave work early when we’re halfway through a subtotal colectomy.”
She chuckles. “Fair point. Oh, and by the way, you owe me. I’m cashing in.”
“Yeah?” I raise an eyebrow.
“I need a date for the charity ball. Strictly as friends, obviously.” Then, with a conspiratorial gleam. “But you know that famous TV presenter is going to be there—the chef. The stupidly attractive one. And I fully intend to meet him. Come hell or high water.”
I groan, already dreading the tux and the small talk. “You know how much I hate those things. I was planning on skipping it.”
She levels me with a look—one that says I’m going, end of story.
“Fine,” I mutter, exhaling defeat.
“Thank you.” She blows me a mock kiss, strutting out. “Get some sleep, old man.”
“Hey, you’re two years behind me.”
“Exactly,” she tosses back, already gone.
I slump deeper into the chair. What would Lucia say if she knew where I was six hours before surgery? A goddamn nightclub. Watching Daisy lead a conga line.
What would Millie have said? Her birthday’s in a few weeks. Every year I go to her grave and reflect on the year without her. I generally visit when I can, but that day? That day’s non-negotiable. What the hell do I say this year? “Sorry, love, I’ve been a bit distracted by a minx in sequins”?
I’m allowing myself to be carried away by this . . . attraction. And now it’s interfering with my work and with my duty.
Daisy is a whirlwind who fills rooms with light and laughter. She makes everything more vivid. More fun. More alive. And her sexuality . . . Christ, her effect on me is devastating.
But my work is my purpose. It’s not just a job, it’s who I am. It’s the very core of my being.
If I were a bloody accountant, or a plumber, perhaps a bit of distraction could be tolerated. A few late nights, a momentary lapse in focus, would be of little consequence.
But I am not. I am a surgeon.
I hold lives in my hands.
A single slip—one moment’s hesitation, one fraction of a second too slow—and someone’s whole world is gone.
Last night left a bad taste in my mouth.
I followed her to that godawful club because I didn’t want her to be with Hugo. Hugo who thinks she’s single and looks at her like she’s a piece of meat.
So I went. Like a fucking idiot.
I asked her to come home with me, and she refused. Too drunk to listen, her laughter slurring at the edges as she waved me off. She tried to drag me onto the dance floor, and I recoiled, mortified. I can perform microscopic surgeries, but I can’t bob up and down in time to a beat.
So I stood at the side of the dance floor like a fucking bull, watching her spin and sway and laugh.
Until I finally took off, leaving Lizzie with strict instructions to watch her. As if that could somehow make up for the fact that I was leaving her there.
And then I went home and spent the entire fucking night staring at my ceiling. Wondering if she got home safely. If she was warm enough. If some lecherous bastard tried to touch her.
I don’t blame Daisy.
She can do whatever the hell she likes. She didn’t ask me to take her to that club and she didn’t ask me to stay. She has every right to drink and dance and do whatever young women want to do.
Those decisions were mine, and mine alone.
I’m the issue.
This relationship will only succeed if I can allow Daisy to live her life without losing my head every time she pushes a boundary.
I should have left that club the moment I arrived. Better yet, I should never have set foot inside in the first place.
But more than that, I should have been well-rested when I stepped into the operating theater.
I didn’t make a mistake. But what if I had?
What if my fatigue had slowed my reflexes? What if my reaction time had been dulled just enough to matter?
I cannot—will not—let my personal feelings interfere with my work again.
Which begs the damn question, can I really be with Daisy without it coming at the cost of my work?