11. Kristen
KRISTEN
Before I head to the hospital, I stop at the café across the street.
I order my usual coffee, and then I order a second one.
Iced, oat milk, two pumps of vanilla. I get a bagel sandwich as well, toasted, cream cheese, everything seasoning.
Priya's usual. I've heard her recite it enough times to have it memorized.
She's in the lounge when I find her. I set the coffee and the bag in front of her, and she looks at them, then at me, and back at them.
"What's this for?"
"Just wanted to show how much I appreciate you."
She stares at them for longer, then at me, and her eyes go wide. "Oh my God. You got me my order? Kristen." She presses a hand to her chest. "I'm going to cry. This is the best day of my entire life."
"It's just coffee and a sandwich, Priya."
"It's not just coffee and a sandwich. It's love. It's friendship. It's everything." She takes a sip and groans. "You remembered the oat milk. You're my favorite person in this hospital. Don't tell Dr. Vance."
I smile at her. "Your secret's safe."
She takes a bite of her sandwich and looks at me. Her expression softens. "You okay? I know it hasn't been easy with what happened."
"I think I am. Or I'm trying to be."
She nods like that's enough and doesn't push. "Good. Don't let one jerk get to you. The next time he barges in here, I'm throwing my chart at him like a boomerang." She takes another bite and I chuckle at the thought.
She points the sandwich at me. "Seriously, though. You look better now."
"I feel better."
After our morning rounds with Dr. Hills, I head to the next person I owe an explanation to.
He's sitting up in bed looking irritated, which is his default, but when I walk in, his face changes. He looks at me the way my dad used to look at me when I came home with a scraped knee. Like he wanted to be angry at whoever caused it, but was mostly just relieved I was standing.
"Doc," he says. "You're back."
"I'm back." I pull up a chair next to his bed. "Mr. Hale, I wanted to apologize for what happened the other day. You could have been seriously hurt, and that never should have—"
"Don't you dare apologize to me." He says it so sharply that I stop mid-sentence. "That lunatic comes barging in, grabs you like he owns you, nearly puts me on the floor, and you're apologizing? To me?"
"Mr. Hale—"
"I should be the one apologizing. I should've tripped him with the walker.
Would've done it too if my hip wasn't fresh.
" He crosses his arms. "I'm an old man. I've got nothing to lose.
I'll sue him. I'll have my nephew call his lawyer.
He's not a good lawyer, but he's an aggressive one, and that's half the battle. "
I freeze for a second, then laugh for the first time since Miguel came back into my life. He smiles slightly, and the knots inside me loosen.
This grumpy old man who complains about pudding brands and eavesdrops on other patients just chose my side without a single question. He didn't ask what I did to provoke it or wonder what the 'real story' is. He's just angry on my behalf and has a nephew's mediocre lawyer on standby.
"Thank you, Mr. Hale. Really. But no lawsuits. Just focus on getting better."
"Fine. But if I see that man again, I'm swinging the walker. New hip or not." He pauses and looks at me, and his voice goes softer than I've ever heard from him. "You alright though? Truly?"
I nod. "I'm working on it."
"Good. Because you don't deserve any of that. You hear me? None of it." He points a finger at me. "And don't let anyone tell you different. Not him, not anyone."
I hear him. I check his vitals, adjust his meds, and squeeze his hand before I leave. He squeezes back. Tight.
I'm stepping out of his room a fraction lighter than I walked in when I see Eleanor in the hallway. She's walking in my direction and stops when she reaches me.
"Dr. Portland." She looks at me, and there's no pity or curiosity in it. Just…genuine concern. "How are you doing?"
"I'm okay. Better than yesterday."
She nods. "Good. I'm glad." She pauses, and a crease forms between her brows. "Dr. Harmon needs to speak with you. Her office."
My stomach drops. "About what?"
She looks at me, and I can see her choosing her words, which is unusual for Eleanor. She always knows exactly what to say. She touches my arm briefly. "I think it's better if she tells you herself." She holds my gaze. "And Kristen, if you need anything after, my door is open."
I nod. The hallway to Dr. Harmon's office feels endless. I pass the nurses' station, pass the residents' lounge, pass the board with the surgical schedule that still has my name on it. I wonder how long it'll stay there.
A meeting with the Program Director doesn't happen for good news.
Nobody pulls you into an office and closes the door to tell you you're doing a great job.
Maybe someone reported what happened with Miguel.
Maybe it's about Walter being compromised when the walker slipped.
That would make sense. A patient was put at risk on my watch, even if it wasn't my fault.
Or maybe this is it. Maybe this is what Miguel meant at the bus stop. Maybe hell is starting sooner than I expected.
I get to her office, and the door is open. I knock anyway.
Dr. Harmon has been here for fifteen years. She's fair, direct, respected by every resident in the program, and right now she's looking at me with the careful expression of someone delivering bad news.
"Please, sit down, Dr. Portland."
I sit. My hands are in my lap, my fingers gripping each other so hard I'm stopping circulation.
"I'll be straightforward with you because I think you deserve that," she says. "A formal complaint has been filed regarding your position in this program."
She opens a folder on her desk and starts reading. Her voice is even and professional, like she's presenting a case, and I sit there listening to my life being taken apart one sentence at a time.
"The complaint alleges that you obtained your residency position through a personal relationship with the CEO of Cruz Pharmaceuticals and that this relationship was used to manipulate your admission into a surgical program.
" She turns a page. "It also alleges that your personal life has created unsafe conditions within the hospital, specifically an incident that directly endangered a patient.
" She flips to another page. "And finally, that you are currently engaged in an inappropriate relationship with your supervising attending, Dr. Maxwell, in order to secure professional advancement. "
She looks up from the folder, and I'm frozen.
Every single allegation has just enough truth threaded through it to stick.
Miguel didn't lie. He did something worse: told the truth sideways.
He took the facts of my life and arranged them into a story that makes me look exactly like what he wants people to see.
A manipulative woman who uses men to get ahead.
He did make calls, and a patient was endangered.
As for the relationship with my attending, of course Logan and I are not involved, but Logan stepped between us, drove me home, held me in a supply closet while I cried.
To anyone watching from the outside, it looks exactly like what Miguel has painted.
"Dr. Portland, this will involve a formal review process.
You'll have the opportunity to present your side at a hearing before the review committee.
In the meantime, your clinical duties may be adjusted during the investigation.
" She pauses, then closes the folder. "I want you to know that this process is meant to be fair.
You will have every chance to tell your side. "
"When is the hearing?" I ask.
"We're still working on scheduling. We need to make sure the review committee, the board members, and all involved parties are available. We'll send you the details as soon as it's confirmed."
I nod, thank her, then stand up and walk out.
The hallway is too bright. Too long. People are moving around me, and I don't see any of them.
I pass the nurses' station, someone says my name, and I don't stop.
I pass Brennan coming out of a patient room, and he says, "Hey, Dr. Portland," and I wave without looking at him because if I look at anyone right now, they'll see it on my face.
I make it to the stairwell, push through the door, and my legs stop working on the top step.
I sit down and press my hands against my knees. I try to breathe. The stairwell is cold and echoing and empty, and I'm grateful for all three.
He did it. He actually did it. "Prepare for hell, Kristen," he said.
I thought I understood what that meant, but I didn't. Not really.
Because this isn't just a threat. This is an annihilation.
Every piece of evidence he's using is something I handed him.
He didn't have to invent anything. He just had to rearrange what was already true.
And not just about me. He dragged Logan into it.
"Kristen."
I look up. Logan is standing at the bottom of the stairwell, looking up at me, and I can tell from his face that he already knows.
"How," I start, but my voice isn't working right. I clear my throat. "How do you know?"
"They told me too." He climbs the stairs and sits down next to me. "The complaint mentions me."
"Oh, yeah. Harmon read me the whole thing." I look at him. "Logan, I'm so sorry. He dragged you into this because you helped me."
"Threatened a visitor. Inappropriate relationship with a resident on my service." He repeats the charges read to him. "He's flipping the entire story. I step in to protect you from being assaulted in the ward, and he turns it into evidence that we're involved."
The guilt hits harder. "I'm so sorry, Logan. I never wanted you to—"
"Stop. Don't apologize for something he did."
I close my mouth.
"What did they say to you?" he asks. "All of it."
I tell him. He listens with that still, focused expression I now understand to mean he's furious and keeping it locked behind a door.
When I'm done, I say, "I can handle this. This is my problem. I'll clear your name. I'll—"
"He named me in the complaint, Portland. He accused me too. He's trying to take both of us down." He looks at me. "I was there. I'm a witness. I have every reason to be involved."
"Logan—"
"Plus, I just don't like the damn bastard."
It catches me off guard. I almost laugh, which is ridiculous because nothing about this is funny. But the way he says it, flat and blunt and completely deadpan, cuts through the panic just enough for me to take a full breath.
"I never wanted you dragged into this," I say. "Your name, your position, everything you've built—"
"Is mine to risk however I want."
I'm quiet. He's quiet. The stairwell is cold and fluorescent and about as far from comfortable as a place can get, but in the silence, something shifts between us. We're not competing. We're not circling each other. We're not keeping score.
"For the first time in our lives," I voice out, "you're suggesting we actually work together."
"Terrifying, I know."
I look at him. "Are we even capable of working together? Remember when the school sent us both to that inter-university competition? We could have easily beaten the other teams, but we lost because we spent the entire time arguing about the best approach and the clock ran out."
He smirks. "Right. But things are different now. Back then, I didn't care about the prize. I cared about being right against you." He looks at me. "Now I care about taking that piece of shit down."
I blink. "I didn't know you cursed."
"I don't. Only when it's appropriate. And it's very appropriate right now, don't you think?"
I nod. "Agreed. See? We're already getting along so well."
"Who would've thought?"
I almost smile, but it dies before it forms. "Thank you for helping me. I mean that. But let's get one thing clear: this is my fight. You're helping, not leading."
"Understood." He adjusts his glasses. "But you should know I've already been thinking about this. The complaint is designed to isolate you. To make you feel alone, make you panic, make you quit before the hearing even happens. That's what he wants. He wants you to run again."
I look at him. "I'm not running."
"Good. Because we have a case to build and a hearing to prepare for, and I'm going to need you sharp, not hiding behind a tablet."
I wave the air. "That was weeks ago. I'm fighting back."
He smiles, satisfied with my answer. I am, too. I feel like my old self again.
We sit there for another minute, side by side on a cold stairwell step. Then he stands up and holds his hand out to me.
"Should we get this party started?"
I look at his hand and I think about how strange this is, that the person I trust most in this hospital is the same person I spent four years of med school trying to destroy.
Logan Maxwell. The last person I ever imagined trusting with my life, my career, everything I have left.
But right now, there's no one else I'd rather have next to me for this fight.
Because I've seen what his mind can do when it's working against me.
And if that same mind is working with me, pointed at Miguel instead of at each other, Miguel doesn't stand a chance.
I take his hand, and he pulls me to my feet.
"Let's go."