SEVENTEEN
CALLUM
Sunday was a write-off.
The whole day was spent in sweet, horizontal nothingness. I barely moved. Ordered in. Didn’t think too hard about anything.
Now it’s Monday, and I’ve spent the morning running errands. Groceries, fresh sheets, a quick clean of the apartment.
Tonight, the kitchen is warm with the scent of butter and thyme. Filet mignon rests under foil on the counter, just off the pan. The red wine jus is almost reduced, and the pear and walnut salad is chilling in the fridge.
A bouquet of lilies, Claudia’s favorite, sits in the center of the table. A welcome home.
Claudia’s flight landed forty minutes ago. She was meant to text for a pickup.
Instead: Carpooling with a colleague.
It was fine. More time to get everything right.
The cork eases free from the bottle of Shiraz, deep and full-bodied, the kind she loves.
The front door clicks open. A rustle. Heels against the floor, the shuffle of luggage wheels over hardwood.
Claudia stands in the entryway, suitcase at her side, that sheen of travel-weariness clinging to her.
Her gaze sweeps over the table. Dinner. Wine. Flowers.
She smiles, almost hesitantly. Like she wasn’t expecting this. Like she doesn’t know what to do with it.
I step forward, hands settling at her waist and pulling her in. “Wǒ xiǎng nǐ.”
Her arms loop around me. Familiar warmth. Familiar weight.
“I missed you too,” she says, and her voice catches like a pebble in a stream.
I kiss her, slow and easy. My fingers slide along her spine. For a second, she melts into me, her body relaxing, her hands settling at the base of my neck. But then, just as quickly, she pulls away.
“Dinner smells amazing,” she says.
I gesture toward the table, pulling out a chair before heading to the kitchen. “I wanted to do something nice.”
“You didn’t have to go through all this effort.”
I pour the wine, setting her glass in front of her. “Figured we could just slow down tonight.”
She hums, low and thoughtful, fingers tracing the rim of her glass before she finally settles into her chair.
We eat, talk—mostly about her trip. Conferences, meetings, new data. I listen, ask, and engage. She doesn’t ask about me. Not about my cases or my week. Not about the cyclone or how the disaster team fared.
I keep the mood light. Tell her about Trevor’s call, congratulating me on my handling of the cyclone prep. “He thinks it could be a nice boost for the Associate Director position.”
Claudia just nods, taking another sip of wine. “That’s great, Callum.”
Like I’d just told her I found five bucks in a jacket pocket.
I reach for her hand across the table. “I was thinking, maybe we should get away for a weekend. I was looking at the Atherton Tablelands.”
Her hand stiffens in mine.
“We could visit the Hou Wang Temple. I also heard the Talaroo Hot Springs are—”
“I accepted a research position in Leeds.”
Her voice cuts through mine.
“Leeds?” I ask.
The single word feels like it shifted everything. A fault line cracking under my feet.
Claudia only nods.
“What about your grant here in Townsville?”
“It’s interdepartmental,” she says carefully.
Her tone is filled with something—hesitation, resolve, something I can’t quite place.
“Leeds Institute of Biomedical Research has been collaborating with us for months. They’re scaling up the trial.
The next phase is to move there. They want me to lead it. ”
I stare at her, trying to process. “So, you’re being sent there?”
“More so . . . strongly encouraged. It’s an opportunity I can’t pass up, Callum.”
“And when were you going to tell me?”
“I found out a few weeks ago.”
My eyes go wide.
“I wanted to wait for the right time,” she adds quickly.
“Oh, now is the right time?” I gesture toward the table.
She flinches, “I didn’t know how to bring it up.”
“You could’ve started with: I’m leaving the country.”
“Honey, you could come with me. I wouldn’t have to travel as much and—”
I let out a sharp breath, shaking my head. “Claudia, that would set my career back a decade.” She starts to speak, but I cut in. “Besides, I’m contracted here for five years.”
“There are ways around a contract, Callum.”
I scoff. “You want me to abandon everything? My director track, my reputation, my established anesthetic connections. I would have to start from scratch.”
“Callum—”
“And my parents?” The words come fast, unrelenting. “It was hard enough leaving them in Sydney for Townsville. Now you want me on the other side of the world?”
She drops her gaze, fingers tracing the stem of her wine glass. “Your parents will be fine.”
Something cold settles in my stomach. “My parents aren’t an afterthought. You know how important family is to me. To us. We don’t abandon our elderly parents, Claudia.”
She swallows, but she doesn’t argue.
Instead, she says, “Leeds is our chance to finally settle down.”
“No. Leeds is a chance for you. I rearranged my life for you. Gave up Westmead for us. I took a huge pay cut. And now the only way we stay together is if I give up more?”
Her throat bobs as she swallows. “Callum, I—”
“What does this mean for us, Claudia?”
Silence.
My heart pounds. I already know the answer, but I need her to say it.
Finally, she meets my gaze, and I see it—the decision already made, the words forming before she even speaks them.
This isn’t working anymore.
This isn’t fixable.
This isn’t “just a rough patch.”
Her voice wobbles, “I’m sorry.”
I nod, jaw tight. “Yeah. Me too.”
I stare at the table, at the flowers I bought her, at the Shiraz I picked because I knew it was her favorite. Finally, I exhale, pushing my chair back. The scrape of wood against the floor fills the silence between us. I reach for my wine, drain my glass, and set it down.
“Take the wine.” My voice is steady. Even. “It pairs well with leaving.”
Then I walk out.
Tuesday.
Technically, I’m not due back till tomorrow, but I go in anyway.
Because watching Claudia pack up the archaeological layers of our life together is about as appealing as an unmedicated root canal performed by a med student with the manual dexterity of a drunk crab.
So, I do what I always do—bury myself in work.
Every inefficiency feels egregious. Every minor delay, an affront to the basic principles of order. The intern flipping charts like they’re the cure for cancer is buried in a discharge summary.
The PACU nurse chatting about her weekend while I’m left waiting—waiting—for handover like a chump.
Still, I shove it down. Keep going.
Wednesday.
Apparently, the hospital grapevine is faster than modern telecommunications.
By midday, everyone knows. Not the truth, of course. Just a selection of theories from the Department of Impressive Fiction.
“She left him for someone in Leeds.”
“He couldn’t handle her flying out all the time.”
I also heard that she cheated with her boss and, my personal favorite, that I went on a drunken tirade and threw a chair through a window.
(I have not, in fact, thrown any chairs. Yet.)
Nobody asks me what really happened.
Probably because I’m sporting a scowl hot enough to sterilize surgical instruments.
Thursday.
8 a.m. sharp: QI project review. My RSI protocol for ED. Months of data. Flawless safety metrics. A cleaner first-pass success rate than 80% of published literature.
Instead, it gets a funeral.
“It’s just not aligning with current funding priorities, Dr. Han.”
“We’re concerned about feasibility.”
And then, clear as day:
“There have been concerns about cross-departmental dynamics.”
Cipher for: Hart is fucking butt-hurt.
I should’ve seen this coming.
“We’re not saying no,” the chair tries, all diplomacy. “Just . . . maybe a pivot.”
Right. As if months of work can just be repackaged overnight.
“Got it.” I push my chair back. “Thanks for your time.”
I walk out before someone offers a participation ribbon.
Friday.
My case is already behind schedule. A complex anesthetic—restricted neck extension post-C-spine fusion, borderline Mallampati score. Bitch of an intubation on a good day.
Today is not a good day.
“Sorry, Dr. Han,” the theater coordinator says, clipboard hugged to her chest like a riot shield. “We had to reassign your anesthetic nurse. Emergency neck stab. I had to send our most experienced.”
My jaw ticks, but I nod. Fine. It makes sense. If anyone should be in critical airway, it’s Jordie. She’ll stabilize the patient, then be in my theater before the propofol even takes hold.
“Alright,” I say, shaking off the irritation. “Let’s get started.”
I walk the team through the airway plan. Stylet preloaded. Bougie ready. Second-line adjuncts prepped.
We’ve got this.
Except we don’t.
Because the stand-in nurse is James. And James is . . .
“Nurse, suction,” I say.
James doesn’t move fast enough. I have to glance up to check if he’s even registering my order.
“Suction!” I repeat, sharper this time.
The patient is paralyzed, oxygen reserves depleting, and my window to secure the airway is closing. James finally suctions. I push forward. Blade in. Shitty partial glottic view.
“Cricoid pressure,” I order.
He applies it like he’s afraid he might bruise the patient’s neck.
“Harder. You won’t break him!” I bark.
I adjust. Re-angle.
There.
“Tube with stylet.”
The tube lands in my palm—and the fucking stylet is poking out the end. The angle is completely off.
“This isn’t prepped.” It comes out flat. Cold. Rage in lowercase.
I have to back the blade out half a centimeter to reset, and the cords vanish.
Bloody hell. Why is no one in this room Jordie fucking Mitchell?
I sigh, trying (read: failing) to unclench my jaw. “Update on the neck stab,” I say.
“Airway’s in,” someone answers. “Stabilizing now.”
Good.
Which means she should be here. Now.
I force focus.
“Bougie,” I say, hand out.
James knocks something over. I don’t even look, but I hear a clatter, a sharp “fuck—sorry.”
My patience implodes in a way I can’t reel back.
“Bloody hell,” I exhale sharply. “Mitchell’s supposed to be here.”
The whole theater goes quiet.
“Where,” I punctuate, “the fuck is Mitchell?”
A long pause. That particular kind of silence that means everyone has an answer, but no one wants to be the one to say it.
Finally, someone speaks. “Dr. Han, Jordie’s not here today.”
I freeze.
“What? Then who’s doing the Cat A case?”
“Heather.”
My brain lags, pieces clicking together too slowly.
Heather. Not Jordie.
Another nurse clears her throat. “Jordie’s called in sick all week.”
Something curdles in my stomach. Something unsettled. A memory of Jordie the past few days—
Except there isn’t one. No smart-ass comments. No banter. No telling me what to do.
Just . . . absence.
I swallow and shove everything down, pushing through the intubation with single-minded focus.
I secure the airway. Stabilize the patient. Get my registrar to take over.
Then, the second I strip off my gloves, I walk straight out of theater—before I really lose my temper.
The walk back to my office is heavy.
Each step echoes off the tiles, clipped and precise. The weight of the day settles between my shoulder blades, thick as concrete, lodged where anger lives when it doesn’t have a name.
Trevor’s voice loops in my skull like a scratched record:
“We understand things have been difficult. Claudia leaving. The QI project—”
“I’m fine, sir.”
“Good. Just remember. Your personal life stays outside these walls. Don’t let it bleed into your work.”
Ah yes. A warning disguised as empathy. Classic upper-management playbook.
Page one: Smile.
Page two: Threaten nicely.
I nodded. Stiff. Professional. Left the room before I could say something they’d one day quote in a disciplinary meeting.
My plan is simple:
Get to my office.
Grab my bag.
Go home.
Drown the entire week in a bottle of something that doesn’t taste like compromise.
I round the corner, already loosening my collar and telling myself the world can wait until Monday—right as my secretary bolts to her feet.
“Dr. Han, you have a call. Line one.”
“I’m off shift now. Take a message.”
She winces. “He’s been calling non-stop.”
I pause. “Who?”
“Mr. Leithon Morgans.”
I stop. Frown.
Jordie’s Leith. The billionaire best friend. Known for dramatic helicopter entrances, tailored suits, and a resting face that says, “You don’t earn this jawline by tolerating peasants.”
What the hell could he possibly want from me?
I sigh. Muted. Tired. I step into my office and jab the flashing button.
“Mr. Morgans, I think you’ve called the wrong department. Donations go through—”
“Callum Han. Brilliant.” The voice on the other end is smooth, edged with irritation. “Look, I don’t make a habit of calling people I’ve met once and barely tolerated, much less groveling for help, so consider that your first and only clue that this is important.”
“What do you want?”
A beat. A breath.
Then, “Callum, I need you to do me a solid.”
Of course. Of course this is how my week ends.