3. Boardroom Ghosts
CHAPTER 3
Boardroom Ghosts
T he fluorescent lights cast their usual sickly glow across empty hallways, night shift's exhaustion bleeding into that dead zone before dawn. Usually these quiet hours felt like home, but today everything seemed off-kilter, like a heart beating with an extra thump where it shouldn't be.
I stared at my tablet, trying to lose myself in overnight reports. Mrs. Chen's vitals holding steady. Yesterday's construction victims scattered across various states of almost-dead: Jenkins finally stabilizing in ICU, his chest tube not trying to drown him anymore. Rodriguez hanging on after that brutal thoracotomy. Thompson's brain deciding not to herniate after all. Patterson's infection numbers crawling down. Data. Facts. The kind of certainty I could trust when everything else felt like quicksand.
But my eyes kept drifting to those fucking architectural renderings saved in another folder. The courtyard design caught me again - light and shadow playing across glass and stone in patterns that made my head hurt with their familiarity. Michael would've been all over this shit. “Light's its own kind of medicine,” he used to say, going on about transforming spaces from sterile to healing.
Three seconds for that memory. Except... it felt wrong somehow. Layered. Like Michael's voice carried echoes of other voices, other times, saying the same damn things about light and healing and-
No. Focus on what's real.
Room 204. Mrs. Rodriguez post emergency lap chole. Pain scores climbing higher than I liked. I adjusted her meds with mechanical precision, bumping up the scheduled Tylenol and adding some dilaudid for breakthrough pain. The familiar dance of numbers and dosages should've felt like solid ground.
Instead, Alex's face ambushed me again. Those blue eyes cutting through my bullshit across the boardroom table like they knew every secret I'd ever tried to bury. My hand clenched around the stylus until it creaked in protest.
Three seconds. That was the fucking rule. But how do you time-box something you can't even name? This... recognition that made zero sense. The dreams that had chased me all night, full of stone hallways and oil paint smell and-
“Dr. Monroe?” An intern's voice yanked me back. Katie Chen, one of our promising first-years, clutching her tablet like a security blanket. “Got a post-op in 216 showing DVT signs.”
Work. Thank fuck. This I could handle.
“Show me the ultrasound,” I ordered, voice steady as a surgeon's hands.
I lost myself in morning rounds, drowning in the rhythm of patient checks and treatment tweaks. Each note detailed to death, every order triple-checked like OCD was my religion. The sun had crawled its way up by the time I hit the doctor's lounge, hiding behind a mountain of charts that needed reviewing.
Coffee materialized at my elbow, expensive shit that Sofia insisted on. She claimed her chair with that careful casualness I knew too well - same way she'd approached me those first weeks after Michael died, when grief had hollowed me out like a corpse.
“You're not gonna talk about it, are you?” Her voice mixed exasperation with worry .
I kept staring at my chart like the words weren't dancing. “Talk about what?”
“Rothschild.” His name sent electricity down my spine. “Yesterday. I saw how he looked at you. Like he-“ She paused, fishing for words. “Like he knew you from somewhere.”
My pen dug into paper like it had a grudge, leaving an angry blot. “He's just another developer with a pitch,” I said, voice flat as Kansas. “Nothing more.”
The silence stretched between us, heavy with twenty years of friendship and all the shit we'd seen together. Sofia had been there through it all - residency hell, my wedding, the funeral. She could read my tension like a CT scan.
Finally, I looked up. Her face played at neutral, but I knew that look. Same one she wore when she found me in the ER that night, still wearing Michael's blood, refusing to leave until-
Three seconds. Lock it down.
“Vale's circling like a shark,” she said quietly, eyes sharp with warning. “Don't give that bastard ammunition.”
“The project could fuck with response times,” I deflected. “My job to make sure that doesn't happen.”
“Sure it is.” Sofia's voice went gentle but firm. “Just like reviewing those cardiac unit proposals last month. But you didn't look at those developers like they were ghosts walking around in suits.”
Ghosts in suits. Too fucking close to the truth I was trying not to see - how Alex's presence felt foreign and familiar at once, like a song you forgot you knew until it started playing.
“Got patients waiting.” I gathered my charts like armor, needing to escape before Sofia's x-ray vision saw through to bones I wasn't ready to expose.
“Eli.” Her hand caught my wrist, anchoring me to now. “Just... watch your ass. Whatever this thing is, whatever's got you spooked-“ She chose her words like surgical instruments. “Vale's been gunning for you since you destroyed his boy at M&M. Don't give him an opening. ”
I managed a stiff nod, words stuck in my throat.
Sirens split the morning like a headache, ambulances screaming to a halt outside. Multiple vehicle pileup on the FDR, dispatch warning of four critical incoming. My pager started its dance as I was already moving, wrestling with a fresh trauma gown.
“Major crush injuries, chest and abdomen,” the first medic barked, wheeling in their human wreck. “BP in the toilet, bleeding somewhere inside.”
The ER erupted into beautiful chaos - my kind of chaos. Orders flew from my mouth on autopilot: “Type and cross four units!” “Get me a chest tube tray!” “Where the fuck is my surgical consult?”
Blood made my gloves slick as I worked, hands finding rhythms learned from thousands of similar dances with death. But between each critical move, each life-or-death call, something else flickered at the edges:
Hands stained with paint instead of blood.
Pine air and rushing water.
Music that felt older than time.
I shoved the weird shit aside, focusing on the body under my hands. Ultrasound showed free fluid in the belly - internal bleeding, just like I'd called it. “OR Two's ready,” a nurse shouted. “Surgery's incoming.”
My hands stayed steady placing lines and tubes, but those foreign sensations kept ambushing me. Oil paint smell mixing with antiseptic. Monitor beeps morphing into music I couldn't possibly know.
“BP's coming up,” someone called. “OR's waiting.”
I stripped off the bloody gloves, my wedding ring catching fluorescent light like an accusation. Just stress, I told myself. Stress and fucked-up dreams.
Because the alternative - that Alexander fucking Rothschild had woken something impossible in me - threatened to tear down every wall I'd built since Michael died .
“Good catch, Dr. Monroe.” Yang handed me fresh labs, hungry for approval like all the new residents.
Numbers don't lie: hemoglobin tanking at 8.2, lactate screaming at 4.1. Clear signs of shock that didn't need any mystical interpretation.
“Follow them to the OR,” I told Yang. “I want every bloody detail from that surgery.”
Heading to check another post-op, I tried processing the weird shit from the trauma bay. Those flashes felt more like memories than imagination - but that was fucking impossible. I was a surgeon, a scientist. I dealt in facts you could measure, not some metaphysical past-life bullshit.
“Dr. Monroe.”
Vale's voice hit like ice water. He slid out of a side corridor smooth as a snake, smile all teeth and no warmth. I'd been waiting for this - Vale never missed a chance to go for the throat.
“Got a minute?” He nodded toward an empty consult room, making it clear it wasn't really a question.
I followed him in, keeping my distance like he was contagious. “What can I do for you?”
“Been reading your department's emergency protocols.” He leaned against the desk, casual as a loaded gun. “Fascinating stuff, given recent... developments.”
“We update quarterly,” I kept it neutral. “As you know.”
“Indeed.” His smile tightened like a garrote. “Couldn't help but notice you're awfully invested in this Rothschild project. Interesting, given your... history with construction oversight.”
My chest seized at the deliberate hit. Before the crash, Michael had run Presbyterian's historical preservation, making sure construction didn't fuck with the hospital's heritage. Vale knew exactly what nerve he was stabbing.
“You got a point hiding in there somewhere?” My voice stayed professional, barely.
“Just making observations.” Vale straightened, adjusting his perfect fucking sleeve. “We all want what's best for the hospital. No... distractions.”
Something in that last word made my gut twist. It carried weight beyond normal hospital politics, though I couldn't say why. As he slithered toward the door, every instinct screamed I was missing something bigger - something deeper than Vale's usual power plays.
“The board takes ER access seriously,” I said to his back, pretending this was just about hospital bullshit.
He paused, turning just enough to flash that predator's smile. “Almost as seriously as they take their Chief of Emergency Medicine's... stability.”
The threat was clear as a gut wound, but something darker lurked under it. Vale's stare felt older than our rivalry, deeper than hospital politics. Like Alex's penetrating gaze, it echoed with something I couldn't - or wouldn't - understand.
My pager buzzed again. Another trauma incoming.
Saved by the fucking bell.
Midday sun sliced through my office windows while Sofia spread development plans across the table like she was plotting a military campaign. Martinez from Legal arranged her shit with that OCD precision lawyers love, while Chen from Traffic pulled up his fancy simulation models.
“Initial impact studies look promising,” Sofia started, keeping it neutral. “Emergency response times could actually improve with the proposed routes.”
My hands moved over the blueprints like they had a mind of their own, sketching modifications in the margins with a certainty that scared the shit out of me.
“If we tweak the ambulance bay here,” I pointed at the plans, “we can cut the congestion during rush hour.”
Sofia gave me that look - the one she'd perfected during residency when she knew I was hiding something. “You've already thought this through.”
“Just good planning,” I bullshitted, the lie tasting like ash. These designs, these perfect little adjustments - they came from somewhere I couldn't explain and didn't want to think about.
“Rothschild Group's got an impressive track record,” Rachel noted, scrolling through her tablet. “But this sudden hard-on for healthcare infrastructure is... weird.”
“The proposal's solid,” I said. “Hospital needs the expansion.”
“And the fact that Alexander Rothschild specifically asked for you to run medical coordination?”
“I'm Chief of Emergency. Makes sense.”
After the meeting wrapped its boring-ass discussions of zoning and timelines, I found myself drawn to the hospital chapel like a moth to flame, needing its quiet.
I sank into the back row, letting the chapel's silence wash over me. Colored light played through the windows like nature's screensaver, reminding me of those courtyard renderings, the way sunlight would dance through that proposed glass ceiling.
I closed my eyes, trying to get my head straight, but instead...
A studio in Florence materialized - paint-stained hands creating worlds while his voice guided every stroke.
Marble floors in Athens appeared - cool stone under my feet as I rushed to the wounded, his eyes finding mine across the chaos.
A smoky jazz club in Paris emerged - music wrapping around us while he watched from the bar like a predator sizing up prey.
My pager's buzz yanked me back to reality. Non-urgent consult needed at the ER desk. I straightened my tie like armor and headed down.
Instead of another bloody trauma, I found Rothschild waiting by the entrance, looking like a GQ cover shot dropped into a war zone. His perfect suit somehow repelled the ER chaos around him. Just seeing him sent another jolt through my system like a defibrillator set too high.
“Dr. Monroe.” His smile bypassed all my professional defenses like they were made of tissue paper. “Was in the neighborhood. Thought we might nail down that tour schedule.”
Bullshit excuse - nobody just “happens by” Presbyterian's ER unless they're bleeding or dying. Every instinct honed through years of keeping people at arm's length screamed to keep this brief and boring.
But that pull was back. That fucking recognition that made everything else feel like a dream I was about to wake up from.
“Mr. Rothschild.” My voice stayed steady through sheer willpower. “This isn't really the time for?—“
“Alex,” he cut in, soft but firm. “Please.”
A dimly lit tent flashed through my mind, his voice saying my name while I stitched his wounds.
“The ER isn't exactly the place for this,” I managed, fighting against memories that couldn't possibly be mine but felt realer than yesterday.
“Then maybe somewhere more appropriate?” His suggestion sounded professional enough, but the undertone made my pulse race like a rookie in their first trauma.
Three seconds to remember Michael's laugh over shitty hospital coffee. Three seconds to feel my wedding ring's weight. Three seconds to list every logical reason to tell him to fuck off.
“Ten minutes,” I heard myself say instead, like an idiot. “Got rounds after.”
His smile deepened like he'd known I'd cave. Like he'd always known me better than I knew myself.
“Perfect.” He gestured for me to lead. “We can discuss the site inspection timeline.”
The nurses' heads swiveled as we passed, hungry for fresh gossip. Even in the controlled chaos of the ER, Alex commanded attention without trying. His movements carried a grace that should've looked out of place between crash carts and IV poles, but somehow felt right.
“Patient flow during construction is our big concern,” I said, clinging to safe topics like a lifeline. “Especially during peak trauma hours.”
“Of course.” His understanding felt deeper than just professional courtesy. “We'll adjust the schedule to minimize impact.”
Our shoulders brushed rounding a corner, shooting electricity through my system. My body reacted to him in ways my brain refused to process.
“Your emergency protocols are impressive,” he continued smooth as silk, ignoring my stumble. “I've studied similar systems nationwide, but yours stands out.”
More stares followed us down the admin wing. Chen nearly ate shit dropping her charts. Rodriguez whispered to her work wife like teenagers at lunch. Couldn't blame them - Alex moved through our sterile halls like a Renaissance painting come to life, his bespoke suit and commanding presence making everything else look cheap and temporary.
My office door offered a moment's sanctuary. Alex studied the space like he was memorizing every detail: Michael's photo on my desk, the framed map of Oakwood Grove where we'd planned our dream house, medical texts arranged by specialty because I'm that kind of anal.
“You've built something remarkable here,” he said, words heavy with meaning I didn't want to decode.
Our eyes met in the window's reflection, and reality did that sideways slide again. Late afternoon sun painted everything amber, turning my sterile office into something almost holy. More memories hit like punches:
Candlelight dancing on marble while we studied ancient texts. His laugh echoing through high-ceilinged studios as I fucked up another color mix. Jazz wrapping around us like smoke, his eyes locked on mine from across the room.
“Mr. Rothschild,” I managed, voice shaky as a first-year resident.
“Alex,” he insisted, gentle but firm. “Please.”
The way he said it - like a prayer, like he'd been saying it for centuries - made my chest ache with recognition I couldn't explain. His name hung between us like a loaded gun.
“The construction timeline,” I started, desperate for solid ground. But Alex had moved closer, his presence making it hard to think about anything except how familiar he felt.
“Can wait,” he murmured. “Some things matter more than timelines.”
His voice saying those exact words in a torch-lit room, centuries ago.
“I don't—“ I choked on whatever bullshit denial I was about to try.
Vale's voice cut through the moment like a scalpel. “Dr. Monroe? About those protocol revisions?”
Reality crashed back like a bucket of ice water. I stepped away from Alex - when the fuck had we gotten so close? - trying to wrap myself in professional distance like a shield. My office door had been wide open the whole time, and Vale's snake eyes had seen plenty. The space I'd put between us felt like a confession.
“Of course,” I called to Vale, grateful for the interruption even as something deep inside screamed against it. “Just a minute.”
“I should go,” Alex said, perfect composure intact despite the electric tension in the air. “We'll discuss inspection details another time.”
He moved toward the door with that impossible grace, but paused at the threshold. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Monroe.” His eyes met mine one last time, loaded with centuries of meaning I couldn't process. “Until tomorrow.”
Vale slithered in as Alex left, his calculating gaze dissecting my slightly disheveled state like a tumor sample. I busied myself with papers that didn't need sorting, trying to get my pulse back to something approaching normal.
“Interesting company you're keeping,” Vale's voice dripped poison honey. “Trust you remember our chat about... distractions. ”
I met his stare head-on, even though everything inside felt like it was coming apart. “Something specific you needed, Dr. Vale?”
But even as I fell back into our usual passive-aggressive bullshit, my carefully built world was cracking like cheap drywall. The impossible memories lingered like smoke. That pull toward Alex stayed strong as gravity. The feeling that everything I thought I knew about myself might be built on quicksand grew with every heartbeat.
“The protocols,” Vale droned on, his voice distant under the blood rushing in my ears. “About the new trauma response system...”
I nodded in the right places, made notes I'd never read, played my part in this familiar dance of hospital politics. But everything had shifted sideways. The foundation I'd rebuilt after Michael died was crumbling beneath my feet, and I couldn't tell if what waited underneath was solid ground or a bottomless fucking pit.