34. Seamus
thirty-four
Seamus
Ten Days Later
I’ve rehearsed this moment a dozen different ways.
Crisis PR says stay calm. Legal says stay neutral.
My gut says don’t let him see you bleed.
None of those voices matter when I’m standing outside Caldwell’s office, palms slick against my jeans. My heart punching slow, heavy beats into my ribs.
I knock twice. Sharp. Controlled. Like it’s any other day.
His voice is muffled. “Come in.”
The door creaks open and there he is—behind the same desk where I sat across from him for my interview years ago. When I was still wide-eyed and determined. When I thought the rules were fixed and fairness was something you could count on in medicine.
Now?
I know better.
Caldwell doesn’t stand. He looks up from a chart like I’m one more resident interrupting his day. Undeterred, I step inside, close the door, and take the seat across from him without waiting to be told.
Silence.
“Clearly you’re not here for feedback on your last assist.” A few minutes later, he goes back to writing up a chart without glancing at me. His pen glides across the page.
I let the quiet linger a beat longer before answering, “No, sir.”
“So?” He sets the pen down, folds his hands. His eyes—cold and sharp—land on mine.
I straighten in my chair. “I wanted to speak to you directly. About everything.”
“Everything. Quite a narrow category.” He leans back, arms crossed.
“I recognize it’s been a complicated year.” I lean forward and clasp my hands. “For you. For the program. For me.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Complicated is one word for it.”
“I’m not here to debate Miranda Black. What happened to her was devastating. I made the choice I did because I believed it was the right thing to do.” I do not break eye contact.
His nostrils flare.
“What I realize is I should’ve come to you first,” I continue. “Out of respect. You were my boss. My mentor. I was caught up in my emotions and I could have handled things differently with you. Been honest and not blindsided you.”
“You think an apology makes this right?” Caldwell lets out a sharp exhale of disbelief as he leans back in his chair, shaking his head slowly.
“You come skulking in here with a half-baked apology and expect me to pat your head like some wounded intern. It’s far too late, McGloughlin.
We’ve barely spoken all year. You’ve dodged me, undermined me, and everyone around this hospital knows you tried to sink my career.
Do you seriously want to pretend this is salvageable? ”
“I’m not pretending anything,” I say quietly. Firmly.
“Sure.” He laughs again—hollow this time. “You thought I didn’t care. You really thought I walked into the OR and gambled with her life for my ego.”
I flinch. His words hit me hard.
He doesn’t wait for my answer.
“I’ve lost patients before. You don’t do this job—this specific job—for decades and walk away clean.
Every one of them stays with you. But Miranda?
” He shakes his head slowly, like he’s still stuck in the loop.
“She was a child. Twelve. I’ve replayed her surgery in my mind every damn night.
I’ve second-guessed every clamp, every suction, every decision. ”
He continues, his eyes glinting with something raw. “Losing her took something from me and then my star pupil turned on me and thought the worst. Yet I still showed up. I kept going. I held this department together despite it all.”
The air feels tight between us. Like it can’t carry both of our truths at the same time.
Here’s mine: He’s not wrong.
Today, I came here thinking if I took some hits—apologized, played contrite—I might get what I needed. Maybe save my career. Get my name off the chopping block.
I certainly didn’t come in here to hang out with him. Not really.
My focus was so narrow, I never gave him the benefit of the doubt. I didn’t once ask how he was doing after she died. Never wondered how Miranda’s death carved into him. Instead, I just saw the mistakes. Assumed the power imbalance. Hated his arrogance, which could have been masking grief.
In this moment, I realize how flawed all of us truly are. How life isn’t always black and white. Why forgiveness and redemption matter.
I sit straight up. “I came to take responsibility.”
This stops him cold.
My hands rest in my lap, fingers laced so I don’t start shaking.
“I was scared.” I struggle to keep my composure.
“Not just of the fallout. After your deposition, it seemed clear where the blame was headed, and I panicked. It felt like I was going to lose everything I’ve worked for—my license, my future— and I was angry.
I didn’t trust the system to protect me and I didn’t think you would either. ”
His expression doesn’t change, his posture does—slightly, subtly. The tiniest shift of weight.
“So, no. I wasn’t ready to face you,” I say. “After a few weeks passed, I told myself I was too busy. Then, when the litigation was happening, decided you owed me an apology. In retrospect? I keep coming back to the notion I should have come to you instead of avoiding you.”
Tension is a taut wire between us. I don’t break eye contact. I want him to see this isn’t rehearsed. This is me. Raw. Tired. Honest.
“To answer your question, I don’t think this apology makes it right,” I add. “I think it matters. Because I mean it. Continuing to avoid you would be another mistake.”
Caldwell exhales sharply through his nose, then rubs the bridge of his nose like he’s warding off a headache. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, not with venom this time. Exhaustion. Weariness. Maybe even recognition.
He leans forward slightly. “Worked for, huh? You think you’ve been working?”
“Sir?” I blink.
“You walk into this program with a name and more cockiness than your rockstar brothers. You’re a brilliant student and try to sabotage yourself by fucking half the hospital staff.
Then, when the going gets as rough as it can be, you waltz into a deposition like it’s your turn on stage.
Do you really think I believe you’ve learned something?
” His voice cuts sharp. “You’re not as charming as you think, McGloughlin. ”
My fingers twitch against my thigh. “I’m not proud of everything I’ve done.”
“You shouldn’t be,” he snaps. “One thing you are good at? Covering your ass.”
I inhale slowly. “I’m not here to cover. I’m here to make amends, if possible.”
“Why now?” He doesn’t blink.
“I’ve always needed this program. You know as well as I do I need your support to finish my residency. I didn’t come here to manipulate you.” I glance past him, briefly. The window behind his desk shows nothing but gray sky. “I came because I want to stay and earn my place in neurosurgery.”
His laugh remains humorless. “You selfish little fuck. Do you really think this is about you?”
My stomach seizes.
“This program has a reputation to uphold,” he continues. “When a resident behaves recklessly—whether in the OR, or in a stairwell—it reflects on all of us.”
There it is.
The veiled threat.
“I haven’t broken any hospital policies,” I reply evenly.
“Are you sure?” His brow arches.
I bite the inside of my cheek. Don’t react. I’ve been prepared by my team for this. “I’ve followed professional protocol to the letter since day one. Every personal interaction I’ve had was consensual.”
“Professional my ass.” He leans back, studying me. “You had a reputation, you know. Before Miranda. Before the lawsuit.”
I say nothing.
They all signed.
Every single one.
The crisis attorneys called me two nights ago—NDA after NDA. Some typed statements, some handwritten notes. None of them accusing. All of them clear.
Every woman said the same thing, in their own way: he never made me feel small .
Even Cecily. She was the only one who hesitated. But Tara and Priya—thank God—talked to her. Told her I wasn’t the problem. Told her I helped them realize they deserved more than stolen moments in stairwells.
It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even intimacy.
But it was never cruel.
Still, I know now—that’s not enough.
Not for who I want to be. Not for Marcella. Not for the man I’m trying to become.
That chapter’s closed. Quietly. Cleanly. And I’m never opening it again.
Caldwell doesn’t know this, though.
“I had nurses and orderlies clamoring to get on your service. Not because of your surgical skill—which is a goddamn shame because you have the talent— they wanted their shot at the legend. Dr. Orgasm or whatever the fuck they call you. You turned my goddamn hospital into your personal playground. You built a brand on pleasure and pretense, and now you want to cry foul because the spotlight’s too hot?
Understand this—I turned a blind eye to the bullshit because of your talent.
I knew those women were seeking you out and gave you the benefit of the doubt.
Tried to subtly steer you away from fucking up your career.
Got ahold of them after the fact to make sure they didn’t fuck things up for you. ”
Shit. Shit. Shit . I recall his words. I’ve heard the gossip. Interpreted all of it as another threat.
Was I wrong? Were we all wrong?
“I didn’t realize…”
He narrows his eyes. “I’ve been around the block a few times. Knowledge doesn’t matter. Perception does.”
A long silence falls. He lets it settle, lets it stew.
“Do you know how many phone calls I fielded from colleagues after the Black case?” he asks quietly. “How many whispers I heard in the halls about how I killed a little girl? I bet you didn’t know I had to face the hospital board to keep my position here.”
I meet his gaze. “I couldn’t lie under oath.”
“Betrayal of the man who has the power to crush your career.” He raises an eyebrow.
I take a breath. “I didn’t betray you. I spoke my truth.”
“The truth according to a bitch lawyer who wanted a win at any cost.” His eyes gleam.
It takes everything I have not to defend my girlfriend.
She prepared me for this too. I say nothing and force my expression to stay neutral.
If I get through this, he and I are going to have a heart to heart about how he speaks about women.
“She was Black’s attorney. She asked for my opinion. I gave it.”
He snorts. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
I don’t take the bait.
He leans forward again. “Let me be clear, McGloughlin. I’m not here to debate the past. I’m here to determine your future. Right now? Trust me. It’s hanging by a thread.”
I nod once, resisting all urges to bite back. “I understand.”
“You’ve got three more years.” He regards me as if I’m a specimen under a microscope. “Three years of grueling hours, pressure, and scrutiny. Assuming I keep you here.”
I wait.
“Why should I? Keep you here.” He squints.
I lean forward. “Because neurosurgery is what I’m meant to do. Because I came here alone. I’m not hiding from what happened. I could’ve transferred. I didn’t.”
Silence. Then, “You’re not out of the woods.”
“I didn’t expect to be.” The first waves of relief wash over me. Did I pull this off?
“You’ll be watched,” he adds. “More than ever before.”
“I understand.”
“If you make even one misstep—” He cuts himself off. “You’ll be gone.”
I shake my head. “I won’t give you a reason.”
He considers me for a long moment, then finally pushes back from his desk. Stands. Walks to the window.
“Do you love it?” he asks, almost absently.
“Sir?”
“This field. This work. Neurosurgery. Do you love it?”
I don’t hesitate. “With everything I have.”
“Fuck.” He’s quiet a moment.
“I’ve been thinking about all of it. About what kind of surgeon I want to be,” I go on.
“I’m hoping to work with Dr. Madison this year—for my R5 research.
Studying the neural mechanisms of female sexual function.
It’s niche, I know. It’s the first time I’ve felt inspired again.
Like I’m building something, not trying to solve my own family’s dysfunction. ”
I meet his eyes. “Dr. Madison didn’t take my side. She challenged me to see this whole thing in shades, not absolutes. Conditioned her support on me facing you. She was right. Our conversation changed everything for me.”
“How so?” He regards me carefully.
“I don’t want to coast through the next three years. I want to be better. Smarter. Different. I can’t accomplish anything if I don’t face the ways I got this wrong—including how I treated you.” I swallow the last bit of my pride. “I want to be the best.”
“Then act like it. Starting now.” He doesn’t tell me I’m safe. Doesn’t tell me I’m forgiven. At least the heat in his glare is gone. Replaced by something harder. Cooler. Not indifferent. “I’ll see you back in the OR.”
“Yes, sir.” I rise. It’s time to get the fuck out of here before he changes his mind.
I make it to the door before he says, “Don’t make me regret this.”
I glance back. “I won’t.”
This isn’t redemption. It’s accountability.
Dr. Madison gave me a second chance. Caldwell gave me a lifeline.
I give myself a mission.
No more excuses. No more drifting.
This is my shot.
I’m not wasting it.