Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
Chloe
Present, noon
Physically, I’m fine.
Emotionally? I’m one breath away from eating ice cream in the supply closet and calling a therapist.
The nausea’s gone, the headache’s fading, and thanks to saline, pain relief, and an apple juice, I’m practically human again—like Popeye after a hit of IV spinach.
But the real ache? That started the second I saw that photo on Zac’s desk.
One image. One tiny frame. And my stomach dropped. Not cute little butterflies fluttering around, more like bowling balls bouncing.
Did I seriously let a married man come in my underwear? Am I casually walking around with his cum soaking into my panties like some deranged souvenir?
My gut says he’s not married. But if I’m wrong? Then I’ve fucked up.
I press a hand to my forehead and groan quietly.
Nope. Not going there right now.
I shake off the thought, trying to recalibrate as I round the corner—and catch sight of trouble.
Bay eight. Mr. Abbott. The human embodiment of a hemorrhoid.
He spots me and glares, eyes like heat-seeking missiles.
Damn it. No escape.
I grab a fresh set of gloves and push the curtain aside, stepping into his bay.
“Where the fuck have you been?”
“Sorry, Mr. Abbott. I had a medical emergency to attend to.”
“This is an ER! Everyone here has a fucking emergency!”
God, if eye rolls could kill, this man would be a chalk outline.
“I understand, but some patients need urgent intervention.”
“You said you’d be gone a minute. That was over an hour ago!” he shouts.
“HELP ME!” someone screams nearby.
“And who the fuck is screeching like that?” He grips his hair like he’s about to tear it out. “I’m losing my goddamn mind.”
“Calm down, Mr. Abbott. I’m here now. You’ll be done in twenty minutes.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down! I’m leaving this place the worst fucking review.”
Like the ER’s on Tripadvisor. “You do that,” I say, the sarcasm in my voice so baked in, it startles even me.
I suit up and get back to work on his leg.
At least he’s quiet now—silent fuming is a massive upgrade.
I know waiting in the ER sucks. I’ve done my time in here on the other side, clocking hours on hard plastic chairs while staff dashed past, juggling meds, charts, and whatever fire needed putting out.
Once, I waited nine hours for a set of bloods.
The staff were slammed, one urgent case after another.
It wasn’t their fault—they were doing their best under the circumstances.
That’s why I’m making it my mission to see every patient as quickly as I can.
But this dude? Zero sympathy.
He probably yells at baristas and writes Yelp reviews like it’s his civic duty.
And the fact that I’m sitting with Zac’s cum between my legs while I dig gravel out of this asshole’s shin? Poetic justice.
He hisses as I pull out a particularly deep piece. The anesthetic’s wearing off, but I’m not going to wait another twenty minutes for numbing cream to finish the last stretch of his leg. Not for the last fifteen minutes. He can suck it up.
My hands keep working, but my mind drifts—of course, straight to Zac.
The way his hand cradled the back of my neck. The way he took care of me in his office.
Have I misread everything? Were there signs—subtle cues—that he had a partner, and I refused to see them?
But then I think about the way he looked after me at my place a few months ago when I was sick. Sat with me when I couldn’t even move. That doesn’t scream married man sneaking around. That’s someone who cares. Isn’t it?
Unless he’s just really good at compartmentalizing. Some men are experts in double lives. I see it all the time at Eden.
Maybe I’ve deluded myself into thinking he could be mine.
I should’ve just asked—Is there someone waiting for you at home?
I had the perfect chance today, alone with him in his office, his attention solely on me.
I got too wrapped up in how good it felt to be wanted, to be looked after.
Instead of talking, I caved to his touch.
I want to know the truth. My feelings toward him haven’t changed. But I need to know. Or I’m just going to keep driving myself in circles, obsessing, spiraling. I don’t think I can wait until the shift is over.
I adjust in my seat, aware of the wetness between my thighs—his and mine mixed together. My pussy clenches around nothing at the memory.
Get it together, Chloe.
“Hey, I’m talking to you.”
I snap out of it. “Sorry, what was that?”
“How much longer is this going to take?”
“Almost done. A nurse will flush the wound, clean it, and bandage it. She’ll also go over care instructions. I’ll prescribe antibiotics to prevent infection.”
I pull out the last two fragments.
“All done.”
“About fucking time.”
This fucking guy.
“Alrighty then. Take care, Mr. Abbott.” I snap off my gloves, strip off my gown, and ditch the headlamp. “The nurse will be in shortly.”
I don’t wait for a response, just hightail it out of there. Out of the bay. Out of that energy. Out of the mess inside my own damn head.
Back at Central, I drop off Mr. Abbott’s chart, but I can’t help my thoughts looping back to that photo. What it means.
I need to know.
“Hey, Olivia, can I ask you something?”
“Shoot. What do you need?” She looks up from behind her computer screen, grabbing a protein bar and tearing it open.
I hesitate, scanning the triage board for cover. There are more patients than when I started. It’s a Hydra—cut one head off, and three more take its place. Healthcare edition.
Before I can ask, Sienna and Hannah stroll over.
I grab the next file: abdominal pain.
“Ugh, abdominal pain? Boring,” Sienna groans, peeking at the file in my hand.
“Better hope Dr. Zac doesn’t catch you cherry-picking,” Olivia chastises around a mouthful of protein bar.
“Ooohh, I’m taking nosebleed guy!” Sienna lights up, snatching the chart and strutting away.
Hannah shakes her head. “She’s going to learn the hard way.” She grabs the next file and trails after her.
“Seriously, though,” I continue, quieter now. “Can I ask you something? How long have you known Za—Dr. Zac?”
“A long time now, over ten years, I think. Why?”
I hesitate again. My fingers toy with the edge of my sleeve, twisting the fabric tight.
She gives me her full attention, taking another bite of her bar. “If you want to ask something, just ask it. If I can’t answer, I’ll say so.”
Right.
I take a couple of seconds to contemplate how to ask what I want to know, while she takes a sip of her water and waits.
“Do you know why he left cardiothoracic surgery for emergency medicine? I mean, ER’s cool and all, but if I had the kind of talent he clearly does, I wouldn’t be down here in the trenches.”
She smiles gently. “He was one of the best—top cardiothoracic surgeon in the country, maybe even the world. Chief of Surgery. Then, a few years back, he walked away. Switched to Emergency when the position opened.”
“Why?”
“People burn out. Lose the spark. Or they run from something.”
Before I can reply, her phone buzzes. She picks up.
“Trauma. Two minutes out. Crushed foot, cement truck,” she yells out.
Zac emerges from a bay. “I’m on it. Dr. Monroe, you’re up.”
Crap. No time to think about framed photos or ex-surgeons. It’s showtime.
“You too, Dr. Wells,” Zac calls as Jaxon passes us, pushing a patient in a wheelchair.
“Right behind you,” he says.
On cue, the medics barrel in through the double doors, rolling in our patient.
“Male, mid-thirties, construction worker, cement truck rolled over his left leg.” They call out vitals as we wheel him into a trauma room.
My stomach gurgles at the sight of his leg—or what used to be one. From the knee down, it’s a pulp of flesh, muscle, and blood at an awkward angle. Unrecognizable. I gag, bile rising, but swallow it down. It’s one thing to study this in textbooks; it’s another to see it up close.
“O2 dropping. Heart rate falling,” a nurse warns.
“Monroe. You’re up. Intubate,” Zac orders.
I nod, throat tight but hands steady. Confident. Capable. In control.
I move to the head of the bed. The equipment’s ready and the nurse has already administered the sedative.
Scope in. Cords in sight. Tube threaded in under twenty seconds.
“I’m in.” I attach the bag and start oxygen.
“O2 stabilizing,” someone confirms.
My hand twitches with the urge to fist pump the air, but I rein it in—professionalism barely winning out.
“Nice work, Gigi.”
Oh.
Fuck.
Me.
The name hangs in the air like a dropped grenade.
My eyes flick around the room in a quiet panic.
Two nurses trade loaded glances. Another coughs quietly.
Jax frowns, confused. And I freeze, my heart tripping over itself.
I don’t dare look at Zac; I’m not ready to see whatever’s written on his face.
“Heart rate still dropping,” a nurse calls.
Thank God for distractions.
“Let’s save this man’s leg.” Zac climbs onto the table, grips the crushed limb, and realigns the knee with a sickening crunch. I wince, but I’m wholeheartedly impressed. The strength, the precision… the sheer command of saving the patient’s limb.
Then, a thud.
I glance down. Jaxon. Out cold on the floor.
My instinct is to call out, but I stop myself. This is a trauma room, and we’re trying to save a life. A fainting doctor isn’t the emergency here.
“Check his head,” Zac instructs one of the nurses, barely missing a beat.
No one else pauses. No fuss. Triage instinct kicks in. I’m glad I kept my mouth shut.
“Diagnosis, Monroe?”
“Surgical repair, definitely. But why was he run over?”
“Exactly. Did he faint? Trip? Context is critical, let’s find out.”
“I’m on it.” One of the nurses leaves, no doubt to talk to his buddy who came in with him.
“You want me to take over?” asks the nurse who just checked on Jax.
“Please.” I hand off the bag, the transition seamless.
“We’ll call if anything changes,” she says.
“Thanks.” I smile and squat next to Jax to check his pulse. Strong and steady. I give him a sternum rub, and he comes to with a groan.
“What happened?”
“You fainted.”
“Oh no…”
“Come on, I got you.” I help him up.
“Take a fifteen-minute break, get something to drink, and stabilize your sugar levels. It happens to the best of us.” Zac squeezes his shoulder.
“Sorry, Dr. Zac.”
“It’s fine.” Zac waves him off.
I still can’t bring myself to look at him. I can’t believe he let that slip—in the middle of a trauma, no less.
Heat climbs my neck as I steer Jax toward the staff lounge.
“You okay?” I ask him.
“Yeah. Except for my bruised ego,” he mutters, flopping onto the couch, knees splayed, head hanging low.
“It was pretty gross,” I admit. “I nearly puked.”
“At least you didn’t face-plant in front of everyone,” he groans, pressing his thumbs into his eye sockets.
I twist my lips to hold in the snigger.
Poor guy.
Humble pie always tastes worse with an audience.
“Whatever you do, don’t say anything to Sienna. She’ll never let me live it down.”
“Your secret’s safe with me. But… four other people saw.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me.” He drags his hands down his face, pulling at his cheeks in defeat.
“Hey,” he says suddenly, “why did Dr. Zac call you Gigi? That’s not your name, is it?”
My stomach drops. I keep my face neutral, but it’s like someone yanked the curtain back on my double life.
“Nope. It’s Chloe.”
“Thought I was losing it.”
“You weren’t,” I assure him.
“Still… weird.”
“Totally.” I bite my lip.
The door bursts open. Sienna storms in, grinning.
“Napoleon, I heard you stacked it. That’s priceless.” Her eyes are bright. She’s ready to eat him alive.
“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” he replies dryly.
“I should start calling you Stacks.”
“It’s Jax. Like I’ve told you before.”
“Come on, we’re friends! That’s what friends do.” She winks at him. “Sounded like a wicked case, shame I missed it.” She sighs dramatically. “Anyway, I’m off. You snooze, you lose.” She leaves the staff lounge room the same way she entered it, in a whirlwind.
“She’s a psycho, right? It’s not just me?” Jax groans.
“She’s definitely… something.” I grin. “See you out there in ten?”
“Yep,” he exhales, sinking into the couch, eyes on the ceiling like he’s questioning every life choice that led him to med school.