Chapter 3
CATHERINE
The first sliver of dawn crept through the blinds, painting the room in muted shades of gray.
Catherine Harrington opened her eyes as her alarm chimed softly.
She didn’t need it; her body was already attuned to the demands of her life, her internal clock as precise as the instruments she wielded in the operating room.
She rose immediately, her movements deliberate and efficient.
There was no room for hesitation in her routine.
The floor was cool beneath her feet as she crossed the room, grabbing her neatly folded workout clothes from the chair by the window.
A quick session on the treadmill was a necessary start to the day, her version of meditation, though she would never call it that.
It was more about preparing her body for the grueling hours ahead than clearing her mind.
The kitchen was silent except for the quiet hum of the coffee maker.
Catherine poured the dark liquid into a plain white mug, forgoing cream or sugar.
She didn’t indulge in unnecessary comforts.
As she sipped, she reviewed her schedule for the day on her tablet.
Her gaze flicked over the tasks: a challenging bypass surgery, rounds with residents, and an inspection of the new equipment delivery.
Each item was slotted into its place, her day a carefully constructed machine.
The coffee was gone in three swallows before the mug was rinsed and placed neatly in the sink.
By 6:30 a.m., Catherine was out the door, her tailored coat hugging her shoulders as she stepped into the cool morning air.
The city was waking up around her, but she barely noticed. Her mind was already at the hospital.
The hospital doors slid open, and Catherine stepped inside, a gust of chilled air brushing past her. The building was alive with movement—nurses darting between stations, patients speaking in low tones, and the occasional beeping of machines breaking the hum of activity.
Catherine moved through it all with the precision of a scalpel, her steps measured, her expression unreadable. Heads turned as she passed, conversations halting mid-sentence. It wasn’t fear she inspired, not entirely. It was something closer to awe, tempered with a healthy dose of wariness.
“Dr. Harrington,” a nurse greeted her at the elevator, her tone polite but clipped.
Catherine nodded once, acknowledging her without breaking stride. There was no need for small talk.
Her first stop was the surgical ward, where a cluster of residents hovered around a patient’s chart, their hushed voices blending into a nervous buzz. Catherine’s arrival was like a blade slicing through the noise.
“Dr. Harrington,” one of the residents began, turning to her with a faint flush of nerves on his face. He held the chart out as if it were a shield. “We were reviewing the pre-op notes for Mr. Sandoval, and I thought—”
“You thought wrong,” Catherine said, cutting him off before he could finish. Her voice was calm, almost cool, but the weight of it landed like a reprimand.
The resident froze, the color in his cheeks deepening.
Catherine stepped forward, taking the chart from his hands. Her sharp eyes scanned the page, her brow furrowing slightly. “You missed the discrepancy in his lab work. If you’d gone forward with this assumption, you would have jeopardized the patient’s recovery.”
“I—” he stammered, but Catherine held up a hand to silence him.
“Do it again,” she said, handing the chart back to him. “And this time, don’t guess. Learn.”
The resident nodded quickly, his head down as he retreated to correct his mistake.
As she continued down the hall, the tension left in her wake was palpable, but Catherine barely noticed.
Her focus was already shifting to the next task, her mind cataloging every detail with clinical precision.
She wasn’t there to coddle or comfort; she was there to ensure excellence. Anything less was unacceptable.
To others, her demeanor might seem cold, even unkind. But Catherine didn’t care about their opinions or if they liked her. Her role was to ensure that every person under her watch became stronger, sharper, and more capable.
As she turned the corner toward her office, her heels clicked against the tile floor, the sound echoing faintly. She adjusted the cuff of her blazer, her lips pressing into a thin line.
The day was just beginning, and Catherine Harrington had no intention of letting anything slip through the cracks.
The morning’s rush had subsided, leaving the halls quieter but no less bustling with purpose.
Catherine stood in the hospital’s receiving area, her sharp gaze fixed on the crates of equipment being unloaded from the delivery truck.
The faint smell of industrial cleaner mingled with the crisp scent of cardboard and packing foam.
A representative from the medical supplier hovered nearby, a clipboard clutched in his hands like a lifeline. His nervous energy radiated as he spoke, trying to mask his unease with enthusiasm.
“Dr. Harrington,” he began, “we’re confident this equipment will meet your exacting standards. State-of-the-art imaging capabilities, enhanced ergonomics—”
“I’ll determine if it meets my standards,” Catherine cut in, her tone neutral but firm. She stepped forward, her heels clicking against the polished floor as she approached the first crate.
The representative fell silent, trailing behind her like a chastened shadow. Catherine began her inspection, her movements efficient and deliberate.
She examined each piece with meticulous care, running her fingers along the edges, opening compartments, and testing the feel of the controls. Every detail mattered.
One of the surgical lamps was slightly out of alignment, its tilt less than perfect. Catherine pointed at it with a gloved hand. “This needs to be recalibrated. I expect it to be corrected by the end of the day.”
“Of course,” the representative stammered, making a frantic note on his clipboard.
A nurse passing by paused, clearly intending to make small talk, but one look at Catherine’s expression sent her on her way.
“Wow, all this fuss for a few gadgets,” came a familiar voice from behind her.
Catherine turned to see her sister, Olivia approaching, her honey-blonde hair pulled into a loose ponytail and her expression warm. Olivia carried a clipboard, though she held it more as an afterthought than a necessity.
“New equipment,” Olivia continued, her tone light. “Looks fancy.”
“It’s necessary,” Catherine replied, turning back to her inspection. “Fancy doesn’t matter. Functionality does.”
Olivia tilted her head, studying her older sister. “I know the new equipment is exciting, but you look like you haven’t slept in days. Maybe take a night off?”
Catherine straightened, brushing an invisible speck of dust from her blazer. “A night off doesn’t save lives, Olivia. And neither does small talk.”
Olivia’s smile faltered slightly, but she pressed on. “I’m just saying, you can’t pour from an empty cup. Even you need to breathe once in a while.”
Catherine fixed her with a cool stare. “And I’m saying that we don’t have the luxury of indulgence. This work demands everything, Olivia. Anything less isn’t good enough.”
Olivia sighed, stepping back. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
“And yet, here I am,” Catherine replied, turning away to continue her inspection.
Olivia lingered for a moment longer before retreating, her footsteps fading into the hum of the hospital.
As Catherine moved to the next crate, her thoughts lingered briefly on Olivia’s words. She didn’t dislike her sisters. Quite the opposite. She admired Olivia’s warmth, Roz’s fire, and even Lillian’s determination to prove herself.
But softness didn’t survive in their world.
She wasn’t unkind; she was preparing them. Strength came from pressure, and Catherine saw herself as the forge. Better they resent her now than falter later when the stakes were life and death.
Her mother had taught her that lesson well, though Catherine would never say it aloud. Evelyn Harrington’s expectations had been brutal, but they’d shaped Catherine into who she was.
Softness was a liability. She had no room for it, not for herself and not for her sisters.
Later, in the sanctuary of her office, Catherine allowed herself a rare moment of stillness. She stood by the window, her arms crossed as she gazed out at the city below.
The view was stark—gray buildings stacked shoulder to shoulder, their windows dull in the overcast light.
It wasn’t beautiful, but it had a kind of order to it, a predictability that felt almost safe.The silence wrapped around her like a familiar cloak, but her mind refused to settle.
Thoughts of the day’s surgeries, the new equipment’s calibration, and the ever-present expectations of the Harrington name circled relentlessly.
There’s no room for weakness, she thought, her jaw tightening. Not in this family. Not in this life.
She straightened, brushing off the fleeting moment of introspection as though it had never happened.
Catherine sat at her desk, her pen scratching against the clipboard as she finalized notes from the equipment inspection. The quiet hum of the hospital filtered faintly through the closed door, a familiar backdrop to her focus. She was nearly finished when there was a soft knock.
“Come in,” she called, not looking up.
The door opened, and a nurse entered hesitantly, an envelope clutched in her hand.
“This was left for you at reception, Dr. Harrington,” the nurse said, her voice careful, as though Catherine might bite.
She glanced up, her sharp eyes flicking to the item. “What is it?”
“I… I’m not sure. It’s addressed to you personally,” the nurse said, placing it delicately on the edge of the desk.
Catherine’s brow furrowed. Personal correspondence was rare; she made it clear she had no time for such distractions.
“Thank you,” she said curtly, dismissing the nurse with a slight nod.
The door clicked shut, leaving Catherine alone with the envelope. She stared at it for a moment, irritation bubbling beneath her calm exterior. With a sigh, she picked it up and tore it open, unfolding the paper inside.
Her eyes scanned the messy, slanted handwriting:
Dr. Harrington,
I’ve never met anyone who looks less like they belong at a party and yet somehow owns the room. Consider this your official invitation to my art show. Bet you won’t show up.
– Sloane Bennett
Catherine’s first reaction was a flicker of surprise, her lips parting slightly before she clamped them shut. The words were bold, brimming with audacity.
The surprise quickly gave way to dismissal. With a flick of her wrist, she crumpled the note and tossed it into the wastebasket. It landed among discarded printouts and used Post-Its, a small ball of chaos in her otherwise orderly space. She followed it swiftly with the card that was in there too.
She straightened, her hands smoothing over her desk as if erasing the brief interruption. But even as she resumed her work, the words lingered, unwanted and persistent, like a spark catching dry kindling.
“Bet you won’t show up.”
The challenge was infuriatingly clear, and for reasons Catherine couldn’t yet name, it refused to leave her mind.
Her gaze drifted briefly to the wastebasket, the note still visible amid the clutter. She forced her attention back to her clipboard, but the knot of irritation in her chest remained.
As she picked up her pen again, her grip tightened slightly.
She wouldn’t show up. Of course, she wouldn’t.
But for the first time in a long while, something other than work managed to disrupt her focus.