Chapter 5
Chapter five
Zac
Chloe shouldn’t be here.
My world has tilted, and fuck, I wasn’t ready for it. I can’t focus with her around. I’m the biggest piece of shit admitting that, but she’s a distraction I can’t afford. Worse, she looks like hell—sheet-white, sweat slicking her forehead. She kept swallowing, her throat working over and over.
She’s not fine.
And I hate that I notice. Hate it more that I care. Because I’m not supposed to. I’m supposed to be objective. In charge. The kind of doctor who doesn’t let his judgment become clouded by a woman he once had on her knees. A woman who now works under me.
Fuck.
Has she been sick for long?
I should pull her aside. Call her out. It’s my job.
But I don’t trust myself to ask it like I’m supposed to—with clinical distance, with the detachment this role requires. Because there’s no neutral ground with her.
And the moment I open that door—the one between professional and personal—I’m crossing a line I won’t be able to walk back.
That door doesn’t just creak open. It blows off its hinges. And I need to stay on my side of the line.
For now.
“HELP ME!”
The scream slices through the ward, and I snap back, adrenaline surging, and sprint down the corridor toward bay ten.
Clarke and Kingston materialize at my side.
What the fuck?
A parrot—green and red, the size of a small chicken—sits on an elderly woman’s shoulder, flapping its wings, about to launch into battle. It squawks again, ear-splittingly loud.
“HELP ME!”
“Can you get it to stop?” I ask the woman, yelling over the top of it.
She shrugs helplessly. “Sonny’s been saying that since I called the ambulance. He won’t stop.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, then glance at the others. “I got this,” I mutter.
Clarke and Kingston shuffle out, and Olivia slides in beside me.
“What the actual fuck?” I hiss under my breath.
“A sixty-year-old woman and her emotional support parrot,” she deadpans.
I mouth, A parrot?
She nods. “Emotional support, apparently.”
“Yeah, I got that the first time you said it.” I don’t mean for it to sound sharp, but Olivia takes it in stride; she always does.
Sonny—the demon bird—spins on the woman’s shoulder and flaps hard enough that I have to duck to avoid getting winged in the eye.
“He’s sensitive to energy,” the woman offers cheerfully. “He senses distress.”
“You think?” I reply stiffly.
“He doesn’t like men,” she adds.
“Smart bird,” Olivia comments.
Sonny lets out another shriek, “HELP ME!”
I tip my head back and sigh. “Olivia, figure out how to shut that thing up before I sedate it.”
“Got any bright ideas, Doc? I’m not Doctor Doolittle.”
Closing my eyes, I shake my head. “Just get her seen and discharged as fast as possible. Hand her off to Rhodes.”
“On it.” Olivia disappears, and I turn back to the woman.
“Mrs. Carlisle,” I read off the chart. “I’m Dr. Zac. We’ll get you taken care of and out of here ASAP. If you can do your best to keep… Sonny calm, we’d appreciate it.” I press my hands together, dip my head, and back out of the curtain.
“HELP ME!” the bird shrieks again, and I swear it’s a direct shot to my nerves.
Chloe walks by, her brows pinched.
“A parrot,” I say, answering the question she didn’t even ask.
“What?” she replies.
“Never mind.” I sigh, shaking my head again.
Fuck. Now I’m explaining myself to interns.
Olivia yells out from Central, “Car crash en route—two victims, ETA one minute.”
I turn, adrenaline surging through my veins once more. “Dr. Rhodes, Dr. Wells—trauma incoming. You’re with me.”
They drop what they’re doing and join me at the ambulance bay.
“Finally, some action,” Rhodes mumbles behind me as we suit up in PPE.
I fix her with a stare. “Need I remind you, Dr. Rhodes, these are real people in pain, not just practice for your résumé.”
“Of course, Doctor,” she says, contrite.
But I’ve seen enough interns like her—full of bravado after one good rotation, convinced they’re gods.
Wells is harder to read, but he seems solid.
Chloe’s still an enigma, professionally.
But I know personally, she’s got that rare mix of empathy, intelligence, and steel.
The kind of doctor you’d want in your corner.
The ambulance doors swing open, and the paramedics spill out with two stretchers. A pregnant woman, unconscious, and her eight-year-old son, wide-eyed and silent.
Clarke joins me. “What’ve we got?”
“Take the kid. We’ll handle the mother.” I steer the gurney into Trauma Two.
“BP’s low, O2’s tanking,” a nurse rattles off.
“She needs intubation.” I lift my chin at Rhodes. “You’re up.”
“Really?” She grins as if she’s just been handed front-row seats to the Super Bowl, rather than a pregnant woman whose life hangs in the balance.
“Let’s go, show me what you got.”
She slides the scope down the woman’s throat, hesitating briefly.
“Easy now, watch out for the vocal cords.”
She gets it in on her second attempt, attaches the bag, and starts to pump.
“O2 improving—up to ninety,” the nurse states.
“Good,” I reply.
“That was freaking awesome!” Rhodes exclaims in an excited rush.
I ignore her. “Wells, diagnosis?”
The kid’s fresh-faced, curly hair flops into his eyes, but he’s sharp. “Internal bleeding?”
“From where?”
“Leg’s busted, but no external hemorrhaging,” he says.
I nod again. A nurse moves the ultrasound probe over the mother’s stomach, frowning.
“Heartbeat’s strong,” she says. Relief blooms in my chest, but it’s short-lived.
“Fetus looks small, though,” she adds, sliding the probe lower.
Rhodes leans in, brow furrowed. “Placental insufficiency?”
“No,” Wells offers, hesitant. “Maybe she’s earlier along than she looks?”
“Let me.” I take the probe from the nurse, but my gut knows. Something’s wrong. The measurements are off. Way off.
I move it around and measure. “Baby’s about fifteen to twenty weeks.”
“How is that possible? She looks almost full-term,” Rhodes asks, blinking.
“Exactly.” I shift the angle. Adjust the pressure. There. I freeze the image and flip the screen toward them. “What does that tell you?”
Wells’ eyes widen. “That’s not the baby.”
“No, it’s a mass. And it’s ruptured.”
There’s a sharp intake of breath. A beat of silence.
“That’s the source of the bleed. Call Dr. Rosenberg—she needs emergency surgery.”
Everyone moves like clockwork around me, falling into the rhythm of the trauma room.
“This is so cool,” Rhodes breathes out in wonder.
“Stay with the patient until Rosenberg takes over,” I tell her. “Your job’s to keep her and her unborn baby alive until she hits the OR.”
“You rang?” Right on cue, Rosenberg pushes through the double doors, and that’s my signal to step out as the nurses and interns give him the rundown.
I head next door to check on the kid.
“He’s good—just a few broken ribs, no head injury,” Clark reports.
“Keep me posted,” I say, and head back into the chaos.
“HELP ME!” the parrot shrieks again.
I groan. “Fuck’s sake! Olivia, why is the damn bird still here?”
She sighs. “Waiting on Rhodes to finish with the car crash patient, remember?”
“Shit. Put Ellis on it.”
“Fine, but stop barking at me, old man.”
“I’m not old—I’m… seasoned.”
“Yeah? Well, you’re starting to look like jerky, boss,” she says with a grin.
Despite the banter, I know I’d be lost without her.
Olivia keeps this place running like a finely tuned orchestra—every note, every instrument, in perfect sync.
Without her, the whole operation would fall into pandemonium.
She’s been here longer than I have and knows every inch of this department and everyone in it.
She’s the best multitasker and manager I’ve ever seen—a conductor keeping us all in harmony.
In a place where one slip could cost a life, she’s the steady hand we all rely on.
“I’m taking a piss,” I mutter.
“Have fun with that,” she calls after me.
I’m almost to the staff bathroom when I catch a flash of movement—Chloe, slipping into the women’s, trying not to be seen.
The hair on the back of my neck stands up, so I follow.
The second I push the door open, I hear it—ragged breathing, then the unmistakable sound of her knees hitting tile, followed by violent retching.
“Shit,” I whisper, stepping inside, instinct overriding protocol.
I drop beside her just as her body folds forward, caught in another heave. The smell hits me—sour bile and sweat. This isn’t the first time today. Her whole frame trembles. I gather her hair, my other hand pressing to her forehead.
She flinches at my touch.
“Hey,” I say, gentler now. “It’s just me.”
She sags a little but keeps her eyes shut, panting.
I wait until the worst of it passes, then quietly ask, “When did it start?”
She swallows hard. “Last night. I ate pizza. I’m fine.”
“The fuck you are,” I growl, checking her pulse. It’s racing. She’s dehydrated—pale, sunken-eyed, and clammy.
She wipes her mouth with toilet paper, flushes, then takes my hand and lets me pull her up.
I should send her home. I have to. Because she isn’t just a patient. And that’s the fucking problem.
“Don’t. Please don’t do this,” she says, her eyes begging.
“This is my ER. You’re under my watch.” I keep my tone low, even, but inside I’m raging.
“Please. Don’t bench me. It’s my first day—I can’t leave after two hours. They’ll think I’m weak. I can do this. I’m used to it.”
“You’re sick, Chloe. One slip-up, one mistake—it’s someone’s life.”
“I won’t fuck up,” she insists. “You have my word. I’ve got this. Please.”
Fucking hell.
I need to send her home. That’s the right call. For her wellbeing, for her patients, for everyone in this department. She’s shaking, barely staying upright—and still, I hesitate.
Because the second I say it, I know she’ll walk out of here thinking she failed.
And I refuse to be the one who knocks her down.
I rake a hand down my face. Close my eyes. Breathe.
This is a bad call. I know it. But I also know she won’t last another hour out there without something to hold her up.
My voice is rough when the words finally come out.
“Fine.” I rub my eyes again. “But my way. No arguments.”
She nods, relief and gratitude flashing across her face—and just like that, I’ve crossed another line I won’t be able to uncross.
Jesus, this day…
“Meet me in Trauma Four,” I instruct. “I’ll put in a cannula and draw blood.
Once the results are back, you’re going upstairs to my office for a bag of saline and rest. When you’re feeling better, you can come back.
If anyone notices, I’ll tell them you’re doing a special assignment for me. Got it?”
“Thank you,” she whispers.
I fold my arms. “So much for not giving you special treatment.” It’s a dickish thing to say, especially when she’s not well, but anyone else would be gone already. This is why she can’t be here—because I’m in so deep I can’t see daylight.
“Let’s go.”
I don’t wait for her—she follows because she has no choice. In Trauma Four, I motion to the bed.
“Sit,” I order.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know,” I cut her off. “Sit.”
I prep the supplies, tie the tourniquet, and focus on the back of her hand. My fingers find the vein and I still for a moment, bracing myself.
“You’re not pregnant, are you?” I don’t dare look at her. If she is, it’s mine. God knows I’ve pumped her with enough of my cum to fill a milk carton. It wouldn’t be hard to imagine that one of my sperm found its destination.
“No,” she replies, quiet and sure.
I release my breath and slip the needle in, draw the blood, then insert the cannula before taping it off.
“No patients alone until I get the results,” I tell her.
“Got it.”
I meet her eyes for a heartbeat, and I see the fight in them, but also the exhaustion. She’s pushing herself. Hard.
I leave her there and drop the tubes at Central, telling them it’s urgent.
How am I supposed to keep on pretending that I’m not already in too deep with this woman?
I’m the one in charge. I’m the one who’s supposed to protect her, or remove her, or do whatever it takes to keep this place safe.
But when it comes to Chloe Monroe, I don’t trust myself to do the right thing.
I already haven’t.
And something tells me, next time I screw this up, it’s going to blow up in my face.
This fucking day.