FIFTY-SEVEN
CALLUM
Everything is ready. Surgeons scrubbed. Instruments lined. Sign-ins done. Checks complete.
Now it’s me.
I have to paralyze her. Tilt her head back. Pass the tube.
It should be muscle memory. Something I’ve done thousands of times.
But never like this. Never to someone I love.
I feel the smallest tremor in my hand. A betrayal of everything I’m trying to suppress. Grief. Panic. Love.
“Dr. Han, I can tube her if—” Amanda offers, voice gentle.
“No.” My reply is too sharp, too fast. I hear it. So does she.
The laryngoscope might as well be welded to my hand. But I don’t move. My eyes stay fixed on Jordie; her face pale beneath the mask.
She looks peaceful. Serene, even.
But I know better. Beneath the anesthetic calm, she’s terrified. Her fear matching mine, heartbeat for heartbeat.
“Give me the scope, Han.” Trevor’s voice cuts through my fog.
I grip the scope harder. Because if I give it up, if I let someone else take this from me—then I’m just a bystander to whatever happens next. And I can’t be just a bystander.
Trevor’s tone shifts. “You called me in because you trust me. So, trust me now.”
I finally meet Trevor’s eyes.
“I will take care of her,” he assures me, every word unwavering. A promise from one anesthetist to another.
I pass the scope to him, fingers trembling. The metal leaves my hand and takes a piece of me with it.
“Wait outside,” Trevor says. Not a suggestion.
I lean in and press my hand to Jordie’s forehead. Let my knuckles graze her cheek.
I don’t know what herculean strength lets me leave—but I finally do.
The doors swing shut behind me.
The hallway outside the theater feels like a void—silent, cold, suffocating. Fluorescent lights glow, stretching over the empty corridor.
I pull off my scrub cap and sink to the floor, elbows on my knees, hands cradling my face. Holding myself together because falling apart isn’t an option.
I should call Leith. But not yet. Because he’d lose it. He’d pace the corridor like a storm looking for walls to break. He’d rage and unravel, and I can’t carry his panic on top of my own.
Thoughts spiral, relentless, dragging me deeper into one truth: how much I love her. How much I can’t lose her—not this way. Not in any way.
My hand trembles as I pull out my phone, scrolling to the one number I know by heart.
It rings once. Twice.
“Wai?” My father’s voice comes through, groggy.
I press the heel of my hand into my eyes, trying to keep the tears in check. But the moment I hear him, something inside me splits open.
“Bà.” My voice splinters.
The dam breaks, tears falling, shoulders shaking under a weight I can’t carry alone.
“Hán Wěi!” His voice sharpens, worried. “Nǐ hái hǎo ma?”
No. I’m not alright.
I’ve been sitting here, rooted to the cold floor. Twice now, someone’s rushed out of the theater, disappeared down the hall, returned moments later with blood coolers. Both times, they glanced at me. Both times, they looked away just as fast.
Footsteps echo faintly, pulling me out of the haze.
I look up to see Alec striding toward the theater.
My heart stumbles as I push myself to my feet. “Alec!”
He stops, turning sharply, expression grim. “They called for General Surgery,” he says. The words drop like stone, his tone measured. “Mess of adhesions. They’re struggling to get to the bleed.”
Alec moves to push past me, heading for the doors.
My hand shoots out. Clamps onto his elbow. “Carter—”
He pauses. Looks down at my hand, then up at me. There’s no irritation in his eyes. No arrogance. Just something still. Solid.
“Callum,” he says, voice steady, “I was a shit boyfriend. And a worse ex.” Then, quieter. Sharper. “But I’m a goddamn excellent surgeon.”
I meet his gaze, searching for doubt and finding none. My hand drops away, fingers trembling as I let him go.
A final glance, assured and clear, and he disappears into the theater.
And all I can do is stand here, useless. Waiting. Hoping. Praying.
Because the woman I love is bleeding out on the table—
And the man she once loved might be the only one who can save her.
Alec steps out.
His scrubs are wrinkled, exhaustion shadowing his face.
Without a word, he leans back against the wall and slides down beside me, his scrub cap loose in his hand.
I don’t ask. I can’t. The question hovers, lodged in my throat, too heavy to speak.
“She’s going to be fine,” Alec says at last, voice rough but steady. “Gynecologists are back on lead.”
My lungs finally expand. A shallow, fragile breath.
“Okay,” I murmur.
Silence stretches between us—tight, uncomfortable. Every second feels like a conversation we’re not having.
Then he speaks again. Quieter now. “She told me I ruined her.”
I turn my head toward him, stunned. “What?”
“After the cafeteria incident.” He doesn’t look at me—just stares at the floor like it’s holding all the answers.
“She locked herself in a cleaner’s closet.
Fell apart.” He rolls the scrub cap in his hands like it’s a nervous tic he can’t shake.
“I knew I’d hurt her,” he says. “But I never stopped to think I . . . broke her.”
The words shouldn’t surprise me—but they do. Because hearing them out loud makes it real. What she’s been carrying. What he left behind.
“Why are you telling me this, Carter?”
Alec meets my eyes, and this time, there’s no smugness, no armor. Just guilt. “Because it’s my fault. When she pushes you away. When she shuts down. That’s me. I did that.” He swallows. “Don’t hold it against her.”
Before I can respond, hurried steps echo down the corridor.
Leith rounds the corner. His breath is ragged, and the second he sees me, he sprints the final few steps.
“What happened?” Leith demands, voice cracking as he grabs my arm. “Is she—?”
I can’t answer. Not properly. The words are too tangled, too heavy, stuck somewhere in the back of my throat. I manage, “She’s still in theater.”
Alec steps in, thank God, brushing down his scrubs and slipping into that calm surgeon tone that somehow makes the unbearable sound procedural. He tells Leith everything—diagnosis, cyst rupture, the blood loss, the adhesions, the moments they almost couldn’t stop the bleeding.
Leith listens like he’s bracing for impact.
“Did they . . .?” His voice falters. “Her ovary. Did they have to take it?”
Alec shakes his head. “No. Dr. Krishna was able to spare it.”
Leith exhales—shaky, shallow. His shoulders sag as if someone just cut the strings holding him upright.
“She’s tough,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “But damn, I wish she didn’t have to keep proving it.”
Alec nods, his expression softening. “She’s going to be okay. Especially with people like you looking out for her.”
Leith steps forward and, somehow, despite everything, offers Alec his hand.
“Thanks,” Leith says, quiet but genuine. “Mate.”
Alec clasps it. A silent handshake.
Then Alec turns to me.
Resting a hand on my shoulder, he says, resolved now, “Don’t let her be the one that got away.”
His words cut through every excuse I’ve ever made for holding back.