Chapter 1 #2
She laughs, a warm sound that fills the apartment, and stands up, brushing imaginary dust from her hands.
“You'll be brilliant,” she continues, handing me the repaired shoe. “You always are.”
I swallow, nodding once as I slip the shoe back on. The duct tape holds. It's not elegant, but it works.
Lila helps me clean up the coffee spill in the bedroom, tossing paper towels into the trash while I check my reflection one last time.
My hair is pinned neatly, the braided bun sitting low on the nape of my neck.
My makeup is understated. Light foundation, a touch of blush, and mascara that makes my gray eyes look brighter.
The dress fits perfectly now, skimming my frame without clinging.
“Ready?” Lila asks, slinging her small clutch over her shoulder.
I nod, reach for my clutch on the entry table, and slide into my coat. “Ready.”
The cold hits us the moment we step outside.
Winter in Charlotte never commits fully.
It just hovers in that space between uncomfortable and unbearable.
Tonight, the air bites at my skin, dry and crisp, threaded with the faint traces of exhaust and distant wood smoke.
The wind cuts through my coat as we hurry across the parking lot, my breath clouding in front of my face.
Streetlights form pale golden circles on the pavement, and the sky overhead is dark and cloudless.
The stars twinkle beneath the city’s ambient glow.
We take Lila’s car, a sleek sedan that smells faintly of vanilla air freshener and the lavender hand lotion she keeps in the console.
She drives with one hand on the wheel, the other gesturing as she recounts a story from her shift earlier this week, a patient who insisted his chest pain was caused by a curse from his ex-wife and not the triple cheeseburger he’d eaten for lunch.
I listen, letting her voice fill the space, grateful for the distraction. The city lights rush past the window, streaks of gold and white against the darkening sky. Charlotte looks different at night, softer in a way that smooths its hard edges.
By the time we pull up to the hotel hosting the gala, my nerves have eased into a manageable hum beneath my skin. The valet takes Lila's keys, and we step into the grand lobby together, our heels clicking against the marble floor in unison.
The Atrium Medical Advancement Gala is exactly what I expected.
Elegant and expensive in a way that feels curated rather than excessive.
Crystal chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling, their warm light reflecting off polished marble floors and glass surfaces until the entire room seems to glow.
Round tables draped in crisp white linen fill the ballroom in careful symmetry, each topped with towering floral arrangements of winter greenery, white roses, and subtle gold accents.
Tall candles flicker between the arrangements, their flames mirrored in delicate place settings and crystal stemware.
Along the perimeter of the room, high cocktail tables cluster near the bar, already crowded with donors and administrators speaking in low, animated tones.
A string quartet plays from a small, raised platform in the corner, the music soft and refined, weaving through the hum of conversation without ever demanding attention.
Just inside the entrance, we pause at the coat check, where a woman in a tailored black blazer greets us with a professional smile. I slip out of my coat and hand it over, watching as she tags it before hanging it on a rolling rack already heavy with winter wool and evening wraps.
Lila follows suit, smoothing her gown as she does, and then we step fully into the ballroom together. She loops her arm through mine as we navigate the crowd, steering me toward the bar. She orders two glasses of champagne and hands one to me with a pointed look.
“For courage,” she murmurs.
I take a sip, letting the bubbles fizz against my tongue. The champagne is dry, with a pleasant lingering taste.
We mingle for a while, moving from group to group, exchanging pleasantries with colleagues and hospital administrators. I nod at the right moments, smile when expected, and keep my answers brief and professional. It's exhausting in a way that has nothing to do with physical effort.
A man in a tailored navy suit drifts into our orbit like he’s been waiting for an opening, his smile polished and confident, suggesting practice. His eyes drop briefly to my glass, then return to my face, pausing long enough to make his interest clear.
“Careful,” he offers smoothly. “Champagne at these things tends to disappear faster than good conversation.”
I take another sip before answering, letting the bubbles sting my tongue. “I just spent twenty minutes discussing donor engagement metrics with a cardiologist who thinks trauma surgeons only work on Tuesdays. This is already the highlight of my evening.”
He laughs lightly, leaning in. “Then perhaps I arrived at the perfect time. I specialize in rescuing beautiful women from tedious conversations.”
Lila makes a strangled sound into her glass.
I tilt my head, studying him politely. “If I ever need rescuing,” I reply, “it means several alarms have gone off and at least three people are already running.”
Lila lets out a sharp laugh beside me and raises her glass. “That’s his cue.”
The man offers a quick, embarrassed smile before retreating, suddenly very interested in the bar.
Lila grins at me. “That man is going to rethink every life choice.”
“I try to be efficient,” I murmur, taking another sip.
The moment barely has time to solidify before a woman with a clipboard appears at my elbow, all purpose and polite urgency. She murmurs my name, already angling her body toward the side corridor, and Lila gives my arm a quick squeeze before letting me go.
The noise of the ballroom fades as we slip through a narrow door, the heavy curtain swallowing laughter, music, and clinking glasses until only a muted hum remains.
The cooler backstage air replaces champagne and perfume, and my focus locks in as completely as it does before stepping into an operating room.
I stand near the edge of the curtain, my note cards aligned into a perfect stack in my hands, the edges squared.
The stage lights glow just beyond the curtain, warm against my skin even from here.
I smooth a hand down the front of my dress, my fingertips brushing the fabric once before falling back to my side.
I check the microphone clip again, adjusting it by millimeters even though I know it's already secure.
I inhale slowly, filling my lungs with air, then release it just as slowly.
Somewhere between that breath and the next, a low, continuous sound slips out of me.
A hum. It's unconscious, the same tune I've been humming since medical school, whenever my nerves spike.
I don't even realize I'm doing it until Lila sidles up beside me with a champagne flute she has no intention of drinking, tilts her head, and smirks.
“You're humming,” she murmurs, leaning closer so her voice doesn't carry.
I stop mid-note, blinking at her. “I am not.”
“You absolutely are,” she counters, her grin widening. “That's your ‘I'm about to perform surgery in front of a room full of people’ hum.”
I exhale through my nose, heat creeping into my cheeks, and press my lips together like that might trap the sound inside. “I don't hum.”
Lila's smile widens further, her warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “You hum. You always have. You did it during anatomy finals. You did it before your boards. And you're doing it now.”
I open my mouth to argue, insist that she's mistaken, that I would never make such an unprofessional sound in public, but the event coordinator steps forward before I can form the words.
“Dr. Hale,” she calls softly, her clipboard pressed to her chest. “You're on in thirty seconds.”
I lift my chin, straighten my shoulders, and take one last breath. The nervousness doesn't disappear, but it eases into a manageable current beneath my skin.
Lila squeezes my hand briefly, her touch warm and reassuring. “Go be brilliant,” she whispers.
I nod once, then step forward. The curtain parts. The lights rise, bright and blinding for a moment before my eyes adjust. And I walk onto the stage.