Chapter 1 Prescription for Disaster
Arjun
The fluorescent lights of the paediatric intensive care unit buzz with a low, relentless hum that I usually find comforting. Today, it just feels like a bone drill pressing directly into my temple.
"The resection of the cerebellar astrocytoma was a complete success, Mrs. Hayes," I say, keeping my voice modulated to a low, even cadence.
"His neurological baselines are stable, and the motor function in his extremities is completely unobstructed.
The post-operative MRI shows optimal tumour clearance with zero damage to the surrounding healthy tissue.
Barring any unexpected swelling, the intracranial pressure is completely normalized. "
Mrs. Hayes stares at me. A tear spills over her lashes, tracking down her exhausted face.
She looks from me, to the machines blinking around her son, and back to me.
"But... but is he going to be okay? He’s not going to lose his memory, is he?
Or his coordination? He loves to play soccer, Dr. Kapoor. "
I blink, adjusting my grip on the clipboard.
It was a grueling, twelve-hour microscopic surgery.
My shoulders are burning, and my eyes feel like they are filled with sand.
"As I stated, his motor functions are unobstructed.
The structural integrity of his cerebellum is sound.
Strenuous cardiovascular activity will need to be monitored, but the statistical probability of a full neurological recovery is well within the ninety-fifth percentile. "
She lets out a shaky sob, burying her face in her hands. She doesn't look relieved; she looks overwhelmed and entirely isolated and I find myself feeling uncomfortable at her reaction.
Before I can attempt to rephrase the statistical probability to sound more accommodating, a manicured hand clamps down onto my shoulder with the force of a vice grip.
"What Dr. Kapoor means to say," a smooth, richly theatrical voice purrs beside me, "is that your little champion is going to be absolutely fine, Mrs. Hayes. He’s going to be running circles around you on the soccer pitch by summer."
I stiffen as Dr. Gabriel Moretti, the Chief of Paediatrics, steps smoothly into my line of sight.
Gabriel is a terrifying force of nature.
Even at the end of a long shift, he looks like he just stepped off a runway in Milan.
He wears a bespoke, wildly expensive Italian silk suit under a pristine, tailored white coat.
His dark hair is perfectly coiffed, his posture is imperious, and his dark eyes are currently shooting absolute daggers at the side of my head.
Mrs. Hayes looks up at Gabriel, letting out a massive, shuddering breath. "Thank you. Oh, thank God. Thank you so much, Dr. Moretti."
Gabriel flashes her a brilliant, blindingly warm smile that doesn't reach his furious eyes. "Get some rest, darling. The nurses will take excellent care of him tonight."
He turns on his heel, his grip on my shoulder tightening until my collarbone aches. "My office. Now," he hisses under his breath.
I don't argue. I follow him out of the ICU, my jaw locked so tightly my teeth ache. I keep my hands clasped perfectly behind my back, a posture I perfected years ago during my residency to hide any sign of a tremor after a marathon neurosurgery.
We step into the elevator, the doors sliding shut to seal us in silence. Gabriel doesn't speak. He just stares at the floor indicator, his jaw ticking. When the doors open on the administrative floor, he marches down the hall, his expensive leather loafers clicking sharply against the linoleum.
Nurses scatter as we approach, giving us both wide, respectful berths.
They call me the Dread Prince of Paediatrics behind my back.
I know they do. I know that residents weep in the stairwells when they fail my charting exams, and I know the scrub nurses hold their breath when I ask for a scalpel.
Usually, I consider the title a badge of honour—proof of my unwavering professionalism and my absolute refusal to accept anything less than perfection in my operating room.
Today, walking behind an infuriated Gabriel, the title just feels like a heavy, suffocating blanket.
He pushes open the heavy mahogany door to his sprawling corner office and gestures for me to enter. The moment I step over the threshold, he slams the door shut behind us.
"You have the bedside manner of a Victorian ghost, Dr. Kapoor," Gabriel says, his voice dangerously quiet as he rounds his massive desk. "And frankly, that is an insult to the ghosts. At least a ghost occasionally rattles a chain to show some personality."
"I successfully navigated a microscopic margin of error for twelve hours to save that boy's brain, Gabriel," I say, keeping my voice to a clipped murmur. I stand perfectly still in the centre of the plush Persian rug. "It was a massively complex tumour resection. The surgery was flawless."
"Oh, the mechanics were flawless. You're a brilliant neurosurgeon, Arjun.
I trained you myself, so we all know that," Gabriel says, waving a hand dismissively as he sinks into his leather chair.
He leans forward, resting his fingertips on the polished wood of his desk, his dark eyes narrowing into slits.
"But the child woke up terrified, and later when his weeping mother practically begged you for a shred of human comfort, you recited his intracranial pressure statistics like a malfunctioning robot. "
"I was being precise. False hope in neurosurgery is clinically irresponsible."
"You were being chilling," Gabriel snaps, standing right back up and pacing around the desk with exaggerated, dramatic flair.
"Arjun, I am saying this because I care about you, and because I refuse to watch my best surgical prodigy burn out before he hits thirty-five.
I am a highly observant, deeply dramatic gay man, so let me be perfectly clear: you are slim, you are delicately proportioned, and you are devastatingly handsome in a tragic, tortured sort of way.
You look like an exiled royal. But you are freezing my paediatric ward solid. "
He stops directly in front of me, looking me up and down with a heavy, theatrical sigh.
He reaches out and aggressively adjusts the lapels of my white coat.
"This is a children's hospital, not a morgue.
We need warmth. We need charm. We need someone who doesn't look like they are silently judging the parents for bringing a stuffed animal into the room. "
"I don't judge the stuffed animals," I mutter, my face burning under his scrutiny. "I judge the lint they shed in a sterile environment."
Gabriel throws his hands up to the ceiling, appealing to a higher power.
"Look at you! You're wound so tight you're going to snap your own spine in half.
You operate, you chart, you go to your empty, minimalist condo, and you come back here.
When was the last time you went on a date?
Two years ago? Three? When was the last time you ate a carbohydrate that wasn't wrapped in cellophane from the hospital cafeteria? "
"My personal life is not relevant to my surgical outcomes," I say, my voice stiffening.
"Your lack of a personal life is entirely the problem!
" Gabriel practically shouts, leaning into my space.
"You live in the OR because it's the only place you feel in control.
You have no outlet. You are a walking tragedy of repressed homosexual tension, and frankly, it's exhausting just looking at you.
You are going to ruin your own brilliance because you refuse to let yourself be human. "
I drop my gaze to the floor. The worst part about Gabriel's theatrical dressing-downs is that he's almost always right.
"Go home," Gabriel commands, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at the door.
"Get out of my sight. Your surgeries are covered for the weekend.
Take the next three days, drink a massive glass of wine, and for the love of God, find a man to thaw you out before you completely forget how to speak to another living soul. Dismissed."
Thoroughly chastised by my mentor, I turn on my heel and march out of his office. My green eyes burn with a mixture of humiliation and sheer, bone-deep exhaustion.
Outside the massive hospital windows, the mid-February Toronto weather is miserable. Sleet lashes against the glass, the sky a bruised, freezing gray.
I retreat into my private office at the end of the hall, shutting the heavy door and throwing the deadbolt.
The silence of the room envelops me. I shrug off my white coat, draping it over the back of my chair with precise care, and loosen my green scrub top.
My shoulders ache fiercely, a deep, burning knot settling at the base of my neck from leaning over a microscope for half a day.
I press my forehead against the cool glass of my interior window, which overlooks the main floor of the paediatric ER below.
The contrast between my quiet, sterile office and the bright, chaotic floor is jarring.
I close my eyes. I just need five minutes of silence.
Five minutes to reset my breathing before I review my post-op scans and head out into the freezing sleet.
My phone vibrates violently in my pocket, shattering the quiet.
I pull it out, fully expecting an urgent page from the neurology residents. Instead, the screen flashes with a FaceTime request.
Mother.
A fresh, entirely different wave of dread crashes over me. Gabriel's lecture is still ringing in my ears, highlighting exactly how lonely my life has become, and I know exactly what this call is going to be about. The timing couldn't possibly be worse.
I close my eyes, take a fortifying breath, and swipe to accept the call, holding the phone up.
"Arjun, darling!"