5. Mireya
CHAPTER FIVE
MIREYA
The IV drip measured my remaining hours of safety. I’d been watching it for nearly two hours now, counting each one as it slid down the tubing. Every drop brought me closer to discharge and closer to the moment I would have to leave this hospital with nowhere to go.
The nurses had checked my vitals earlier, telling me I could leave in the morning once the fluids finished and everything stayed stable.
Morning felt like a cruel joke.
I stared at the ceiling and forced myself not to look at the bedside table where Dr. Cross’ business card sat. I tried not to think about the way he had looked at me when I refused his offer, that carefully neutral expression that revealed absolutely nothing.
I lasted exactly three days after discharge before everything started to fall apart again.
Going back to work should have felt like relief. Instead, it felt like stepping right back into the same pressure that had broken me in the first place. Long shifts. Back-to-back cases. No real time to recover.
And then they assigned me to Mr. Halvorsen.
Private patient. Donor-level influence. The kind of man the hospital bent around.
The kind of patient who could end my career with a complaint.
“You’re late.”
I had been standing in his room for less than five seconds.
“I came as soon as I finished assisting in surgery,” I said, keeping my tone calm.
“That’s not my concern,” he snapped. “When I press the call button, I expect immediate response. That’s what I’m paying for.”
It didn’t matter what I did—it was wrong.
The water was too cold. Then too warm. The medication timing was off, even when it wasn’t. The room was too noisy. Too quiet. The pillows weren’t positioned correctly.
Every shift with him felt like walking a tightrope with no net.
“You need to be more careful,” the other charge nurse told me. “He’s already made two complaints.”
My stomach dropped. “About what?”
She hesitated. “Attitude. Responsiveness.”
“That’s not—”
“I know,” she cut in gently. “But that doesn’t matter if he escalates it.”
By the next day, I was running on fumes again.
My hands were steady in the OR, my instincts were sharp. But the moment I stepped into his room, it was like none of that mattered.
I was one complaint away from losing everything.
I had done everything right. Every shift, every case, every hour I pushed past exhaustion—I told myself it would be enough.
That if I just worked harder, stayed sharper, held everything together, I could outrun the cracks forming underneath me.
But standing outside that room, staring at his name on the chart, I felt it for the first time—that thin, terrifying slip of control.
Like no matter how hard I worked, it still might not be enough to keep everything from falling apart.
That was the day Dr. Cross found me in the hallway outside Mr. Halvorsen’s room. “You look exhausted,” he said.
I forced a small smile. “I’m fine.”
His gaze shifted briefly to the patient file in my hands, then back to my face. “You’re assigned to Halvorsen.”
It wasn’t a question.
“He’s… particular,” I said carefully.
“He’s difficult,” Riven corrected. His voice was calm, but there was something sharper underneath. “And he files complaints when he doesn’t get what he wants.”
I hesitated. Just for a second.
Then I said it. “If he files one more, I could lose my position.”
Riven went very still.
“This isn’t very sustainable,” he said.
I frowned. “I know that.”
“I meant it when I made you that offer,” he continued. “It still stands.”
Footsteps moved through the hallway, always heading somewhere urgent. I had worked enough night shifts to know this rhythm, the way everything slowed after visiting hours ended and the real work began.
I leaned against the wall for a second, closing my eyes. My shift had ended ten minutes ago, but my body still felt like it was bracing for the next demand, the next complaint, the next thing about to go wrong.
I hadn’t felt this close to breaking since the day I collapsed.
I waited until nine o’clock before I called my mother.
She answered on the second ring, breathless. "Mireya, sweetheart—are you alright? You sound tired.”
I let out a quiet breath. Of course she could hear it. She always could.
"I'm fine," I said quickly, keeping my voice steady despite how dry my throat felt. “Just a long shift.”
Mom was quiet for a moment. “You said that last time too. Right before you ended up in the hospital.”
My grip tightened around the phone. “That was weeks ago,” I said lightly. “I’m back at work now. Everything’s fine.”
She didn’t sound convinced. “Mireya—”
“Mom,” I interrupted gently. “I’m okay. I promise.”
Something in her silence told me she didn’t believe me. Not completely.
Then her tone shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. Careful. Guarded.
Something in my chest tightened.
“Mom,” I said more softly. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened,” she replied quickly. “I'm fine. You just need to rest an—”
“Mom.”
I heard her sigh, and my heart twisted painfully.
“Gerald came to the apartment,” she said at last. Her voice flattened into something distant and controlled. It was the same tone she used when she told me about her cancer diagnosis. “He came about an hour ago. He was very angry.”
My grip tightened around the phone. “What did he do?”
"He told me to pack whatever I could carry and leave. Said I had twenty minutes."
The words hit my chest, stealing the air from my lungs.
“He did what?”
“I tried to explain,” she continued. “I told him about my recovery and you working at the hospital. I told him we just needed time. He didn’t want to hear any of it. He said he would call the police if I was not gone in twenty minutes.”
Guilt and rage and shame twisted together into something unbearable lodged beneath my sternum.
"Where are you now?"
"Evelyn's." Her voice warmed immediately, the way it always did when she talked about her sister. "Oh, Mireya, it is so lovely here. The children made me a welcome sign. Little Diego drew a portrait of me and gave me a crown." She laughed softly. "I look like a queen."
Despite everything, I smiled. "That sounds like Diego."
"Evelyn put me in the sunroom. It gets the morning light.
And the kids have been in and out all afternoon wanting to show me things.
Marisol taught me a card game. I haven't laughed this much in months.
" A pause, and I could hear the genuine contentment in it.
"I forgot how much I needed this. Being around family. Being a little bit fussed over."
My throat tightened.
She was happy. Actually, genuinely happy, in a way she hadn't been in our tiny apartment where I watched her try not to worry and she watched me try not to collapse. This was good for her. The noise, the kids, the chaos and warmth of Evelyn's house.
It would absolutely destroy me.
Three kids between eight and fourteen. A pull-out couch. Nowhere to decompress after a twelve hour surgery, nowhere to fall apart quietly, nowhere to be anything other than brave and fine and holding it together.
I loved my family. I could not live there right now.
"Come here after your shift," Mom said, softer now. "We'll squeeze. It'll be good for you too, all this life around you."
"Mom." I stared at the ceiling. "I have something else arranged."
“What do you mean arranged? Mireya, talk to me.”
“It’s a work assignment. A live-in nursing position.”
Silence stretched between us for several loaded seconds.
“It’s for a colleague’s family. His sister needs medical supervision during her recovery from a major surgery. It's temporary, but it pays well and includes housing. It will give me time to save money and make a plan.”
“No,” she said firmly. “Absolutely not. You need rest, not more work. Come here. Let us take care of you for once.”
“Mom—”
“You have taken care of everyone else for years. Let us take care of you now. Please, sweetheart.”
Her voice cracked on the last word, and I heard the fear underneath—the desperate need to protect me the way I'd always tried to protect her.
But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t bring my disaster into Aunt Evelyn’s already crowded home. Or watch my mother make herself smaller to make room for my failures.
"It's already arranged," I lied again, hating myself for it. "I start tomorrow. They need someone immediately."
“Mireya, please,” she begged. "Don't shut me out like this. Just come stay with us."
“I can’t.”
“Why won’t you let me help you?” she asked, her voice breaking.
Because I'm supposed to be the one who helps. Because I've spent years holding everything together, and if I fall apart now, I don't know how to put myself back.
"This is a good opportunity," I said instead, forcing my voice steady. "It solves the housing problem and provides income. It's the smart choice."
Silence stretched between us.
“Is it safe?” Mom asked finally, quietly.
“Yes.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
“And you’ll call me every day?”
“Every single day.”
“If anything feels wrong,” she said, “you come straight here.”
“I will.”
She sighed heavily. “I don't like this, Mireya. I don't like you being alone.”
“I’ll be okay,” I said gently, the words feeling hollow. “I promise. And I won’t be alone.”
“I love you so much, sweetheart. Please take care of yourself.”
“I love you, too, Mom.”
I ended the call and stared at my phone until the screen went dark.
Guilt settled deep in my chest. My mother had begged me to come home, to be safe and surrounded by family. And I still said no.
I picked up Riven's card and turned it over slowly in my hands. The paper was thick, expensive-feeling, with his name printed in simple black letters.
Dr. Riven Cross
I could call him right now. End this waiting. Fix everything.I set the card back on the table and closed my eyes.
It could wait until morning. I could give myself one more night to pretend I still had choices.