ELEVEN
CALLUM
I’m barely halfway down the corridor when the first whispers reach me.
“Hart’s still on a warpath from yesterday. Heard Mitchell’s suspended.”
Jordie’s name lands like a punch I saw coming but couldn’t block. I keep walking. Eyes forward.
Don’t turn around. Don’t glare. Don’t bite.
It’s not my business.
Not really.
At the desk, hushed voices drift just loud enough.
“Think she’ll get away with it?” A nurse’s voice pitched low, dripping with the kind of curiosity reserved for other people’s tragedies.
Not my business.
A pause. Papers shuffle. A doctor laughs. “She used to, back when she was dating that surgeon.”
“I remember that. Probably got tired of her cold and cut-throat attitude, so he left. What’s his name again?”
The receptionist snaps his fingers, “Alec Carter! I think he’s in Melbourne now. Private surgical practice. Doing very well.”
I know of Carter. You don’t work in surgery without being familiar with his name. I’ve read about his procedural innovations and his impressive morbidity and mortality statistics.
It’s amazing how quickly someone’s entire career can be distilled into three dismissive words: doing very well. And at the moment, nothing more than a shitty footnote in hospital gossip.
Anyway, not my business.
Then, just ahead in the offices: “Fired?” A disdainful laugh. “As if. Not when a billionaire bestie has her back.”
A low chuckle follows. “You really think Morgans is just her best friend? He’s probably buying shares in this hospital as we speak to get Jordie reinstated.”
I roll my shoulders, forcing my expression to stay neutral. Hands relaxed at my sides, as if I hadn’t just clenched them into fists three times in the past thirty seconds. The urge to snap and shut it down claws at the back of my throat.
Not my business.
Except, something about it needles under my skin. The casual assumption. The way Jordie’s name keeps getting passed around, a punchline in a breakroom joke. The implication that her success—or survival—is tied to who she’s slept with or who she might be sleeping with.
Like she’s not the sharp-eyed, quick-thinking, never-misses-a-beat nurse who I’ve watched handle crashing patients with more calm and precision than anyone I’ve worked with before.
Like her skill, her competence, her own goddamn merit doesn’t even factor in.
And the worst part? I think Jordie walked out yesterday knowing exactly how this would play out, how people would talk, how they’d reduce her to this.
So maybe now I’m making it my business.
I know exactly how this looks. Another man stepping in.
Maybe I should let this go.
But I won’t.
Because someone should be fighting for her, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be them.
Hart’s expression belongs to a specific species of senior consultant. The kind who thinks bored authority is a personality. Who leans on rank instead of logic. Who can ruin a junior’s year with a single eyebrow twitch and thinks that’s a perfectly reasonable management style.
He glances at his watch with exaggerated impatience, like I’m already wasting his time, and we haven’t even started. “I thought this was scheduled for three-thirty. Where are the nurse managers?”
I set my files on the table. Take just a beat too long to sit. “They’re coming at four. This meeting is just you and me.”
“You set up a pre-meeting meeting?” Hart scoffs. “Alright, Han. You here to plead Mitchell’s case before the jury arrives?”
“I want you to reinstate her,” I say. Direct. Unyielding.
His smile is all teeth. “You expect me to overlook insubordination?”
“I expect you to acknowledge that if she hadn’t stepped in yesterday, you’d be fielding calls from the coroner’s office instead of HR.”
Hart leans back in his chair like the absolute confidence of his position makes him untouchable. “You’re making a lot of noise over a casual nurse.”
I smile, but it’s the kind people tend to regret provoking. “I’m making noise because a consultant nearly killed a patient yesterday, and the only reason that didn’t happen is because a casual nurse made better calls than you did.”
His gaze cools. Sharpens. “She went against protocol.”
“She went against your bad decision,” I correct.
“You’re new here, Han.” His voice shifts, patronizing now. “I’ve seen plenty like you. Righteous, idealistic. Give it a year. You’ll fall in line.”
I smile faintly, tilting my head as if he’s just revealed his weakest card.
“This isn’t about me being some starry-eyed consultant.
” I lean in, holding his gaze, my voice lowering to a dangerous calm.
“This is about competence. Specifically yours. And how consistently unimpressed I’ve been with it. ”
His mouth flattens.
“I don’t answer to you, Dr. Han.”
No. He doesn’t.
But he’s used to no one looking too closely. No one pushing. No one keeping score.
Which is unfortunate for him.
Because I’m a fan of records. And spreadsheets. And uncomfortable conversations at M&M meetings.
And I’m not here to make friends.
“Not asking you to. I’m just pointing out that when the nurse managers walk into this room in .
. .” I check my watch, deliberate, controlled.
“Nineteen minutes, you’ll have a choice.
Either you reinstate her, acknowledge that a critical decision was made under pressure with the patient’s best outcome in mind, or we start talking statistics. ”
Hart narrows his eyes. “What statistics?”
I tap the file in front of me. “Your first-pass intubation success rate. Number of complications logged during your night shifts. Incidents where I’ve had to re-intubate your patients in ICU.
Rebound discharges. Any number of metrics that—alone—are unfortunate.
But together?” I arch a brow. “They start to look like a trend.”
His eyes narrow, the first crack in his carefully assembled facade.
“You smug little—”
“You may not answer to me, but you answer to the board. The M&M committee. The medical director.” I let that hang in the air for a beat, then add, “And if I see a pattern, they will too.”
His fingers curl into the arms of his chair.
I check my watch, then glance at the door. “Twelve minutes.” My voice stays calm and measured. “Up to you how we spend them.”
I meet his stare.
Calm. Still.
Wait a beat.
“So,” I pause. “Let’s try again.”
I tilt my head, as if I’m offering him a lifeline.
One last chance.
“Reinstate Jordie Mitchell.”
The consultant lounge’s espresso machine is broken.
Again.
There are wars in this hospital that are less intense than the ones waged over caffeine. Someone—probably a neurosurgeon (high stress, high caffeine dependency, zero patience)—has put up a passive-aggressive sign in Comic Sans that reads:
I know who broke this. Sleep with one eye open.
I take one look at the long line snaking at the café cart and decide I’d rather risk a tension headache. Besides, I’ve already won my battles for the day.
Four high-acuity procedures. Done.
Next week’s template theater list. Finalized.
Literature for my research QI project. Sorted.
Made an ED consultant sweat through his scrubs without technically violating professional conduct. Gold star for me.
A productive day.
A promotion-worthy day.
A don’t-mess-with-me-I-might-run-this-place day.
Proving, yet again, that I’m not just another city doctor passing through. With this, finally securing my parents the retirement they deserve.
The thought settles in my chest, equal parts weight and propulsion.
They’ve run that restaurant for thirty years. Sixteen-hour shifts. Seven days a week. I’ve never seen them take a holiday that didn’t involve a supplier run. They’ve always said they’d go back to China one day. Visit family. See the countryside.
This promotion? It’s not just for me. It’s for them.
And if I have to grind through the politics, prove my worth twice over, and outmaneuver every doctor gunning for the same position, then fine. That’s what I’ll do.
I check my watch. Nearly home time. Which means Claudia-time.
I’ll pick up flowers on the way home. We’ll have a quiet night in. Have food delivered from that Thai place that always makes the food too spicy, but she eats it anyway because she refuses to be defeated by a chili rating.
We’ve barely spent four consecutive nights together in weeks. And now that she’s back, I want to be there. Just us.
As I step into my office, I dial without thinking.
She picks up on the second ring, her voice already stretched thin.
“Hey. Everything okay?”
I smile, easing into my chair. “Just checking in. How was the flight?”
There’s a pause. A soft exhale, the clink of ice in a glass. She’s probably already curled on the couch, drink in hand, post-plane spine well into rigor mortis.
“Turbulent,” she says. “Fine. Long.”
“Sorry I couldn’t get you from the airport,” I murmur. “Anything I can do to make it up to you?”
“Sleep,” she says flatly. “You can let me sleep.”
“Jet lag bad?”
“My body thinks it’s 2 a.m. in Leeds. My bones think I’m eighty-five.”
I huff a quiet laugh. It catches wrong in my chest. “I seem to recall promising you a particular kind of welcome home—”
“Don’t,” she interrupts, not teasing. Just tired. “I’ll pass out mid-call.”
I hesitate. “I’ll be home soon. Dinner?”
“I’ll be sleeping.”
“Tomorrow, then?”
“We’ll see. I’ve got follow-ups and two calls with London.”
A knock breaks through the line. I almost don’t hear it over the click in my chest.
“Gotta go, hon,” I say quickly. “I lo—”
“See you later,” Claudia says.
She hangs up before the words leave my mouth.
I lower the phone, thumb resting on the button like it might rewind time.
“I love you,” I say into the silence, a fraction too late.
My door creaks open. Trevor comes in with a coffee in one hand and a look that says he isn’t here for a social visit.
I school my face in a breath. Let the professionalism drop like a curtain.
“Dr. Wallis,” I say, slipping my phone into the drawer. “Just finishing up chart reviews for tomorrow’s clinic.”
“Good. Put them aside.” He shuts the door with a firm click. “We need to talk cyclones.”
I straighten. “What’s going on?”
Trevor rubs a hand over his jaw. “There’s a low-pressure system over the Coral Sea. Models are saying it’ll develop into a cyclone and head for Townsville.”
I sit back and nod. Cyclones aren’t just weather events here. They’re a test of infrastructure, response times, and how well a hospital can hold the line under pressure.
My brain clicks into gear immediately, flipping through contingency plans.
“Timeline?” I ask.
“A week. Maybe two.” He lifts his cup, taking a sip like he hasn’t just dropped a natural disaster onto my desk. “High-category by landfall.”
Flooding. Trauma admissions. Roadblocks. Power outages. Staff shortages. Supply chain disruptions. It all unspools in my head.
“ICU and ED are already briefing teams,” Trevor says. “We’ll need the operating theaters ready.”
I start running through the checklist in my head. “I’ll check Biomed—ventilators, O? reserves, essential medications. Backup generators?”
“Tested last month. Good for a full load.”
I tap my fingers on the desk, thinking through the matrix of elective lists and surgical urgencies. “I’ll liaise with the surgeons. Prioritize oncology, cardiac, anything time-sensitive.”
Trevor nods. “We’ll need relief teams. Lock-in rosters. 24 to 48-hour coverage.”
“I’ll schedule a meeting with the nurse manager and start pulling names,” I say. “Make sure we’ve got enough critical care staff on board.” Then, dryly, “Or we could flip a coin. Heads, you’re in the bunker. Tails, you’re swimming home.”
He cracks a short laugh. “Christ, Han.”
My mind shifts gears. “Might as well coordinate with ED. Make sure critical transfers to Theater and ICU are streamlined.”
My brain’s already off on another logistics branch when I notice his silence.
I glance up. Trevor sets his cup on the edge of my desk.
His posture’s changed. Not a colleague.
Director.
“Sir?”
“Now that the cyclone prep’s out of the way . . .” He leans forward, voice even. “Let’s talk about how you’ve made an enemy of the Emergency Department.”