The candlelight flickered across Theodore's face as he raised his wine glass, the crystal catching the light in a way that made his smile look more like a sneer than a celebration.

"Another anniversary," he said, his voice dripping with something that wasn't quite warmth. "Another opportunity to thank the Clark family for their... charity."

I felt my father's jaw tighten beside me. He'd never liked Theodore, though he'd never said it outright. The tension in the dining room of our family estate was thick enough to cut with the steak knife I still held in my hand.

"Theodore," I said quietly, "we're celebrating our marriage, not my family's financial support."

He laughed, a cold sound that made the fine hairs on my arms stand up. "Aren't we though? Without your daddy's money, I'd still be scrubbing floors somewhere, instead of operating on Seattle's elite."

Before I could respond, a strange sound came from across the table. A gasp, followed by a thud.

Mr. Martin—Theodore's father, who I'd invited to dinner because I knew how much he'd been struggling—clutched at his chest. His face had gone ashen, his eyes wide with pain.

"Arthur!" I was on my feet instantly, my medical training kicking in. "He's having a heart attack!"

Theodore glanced up lazily. "Dad, seriously? Not tonight."

But there was no response from Mr. Martin. He was slumped in his chair now, one hand still pressed to his chest, the other hanging limply at his side.

"Theodore!" I shouted, already moving toward Mr. Martin. "This isn't drama! Look at him!"

Something in my voice must have finally reached through Theodore's arrogance. He stood slowly, his eyes narrowing as he took in his father's condition.

"Call an ambulance," I ordered, checking Mr. Martin's pulse. It was weak, erratic. His breathing was shallow and labored.

Theodore's face changed then, not with concern but with annoyance. "This is going to ruin my suit," he muttered, pulling out his phone.

---

The ambulance ride was a blur of sirens and tension. I held Mr. Martin's hand, whispering reassurances while the paramedics worked around us.

"Stay with me, Arthur," I murmured, feeling his pulse growing weaker. "Theodore is meeting us at the hospital. He'll fix this."

I pulled out my phone and called Theodore, who had insisted on driving his precious sports car separately.

"Where are you?" I demanded when he answered.

"Stuck behind an accident on Fifth," he replied, sounding irritated. "What's the rush? It's just Dad being dramatic."

"It's not dramatic!" My voice cracked with desperation. "Theodore, please. Meet us at Seattle Grace. I need you to prep the OR yourself."

There was a pause, and I could almost see him checking his watch, his expression of mild inconvenience.

"I have a full schedule tomorrow," he said finally. "VIP patients. People who actually matter."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Your father doesn't matter?"

"He's just an elderly relative," Theodore replied dismissively. "The hospital staff can handle it."

My hands trembled as I hung up. Mr. Martin's breathing was becoming more labored, his skin taking on a bluish tinge.

---

Seattle Grace Hospital's emergency entrance was chaos when we arrived. I jumped out before the ambulance had fully stopped, running alongside as they wheeled Mr. Martin through the automatic doors.

Theodore was waiting in the lobby, his tailored suit immaculate despite the emergency. He was scrolling through his phone, not even looking up as we rushed past.

"Theodore!" I grabbed his arm, pulling him toward the trauma bay. "You need to operate. Now."

He looked down at my hand on his sleeve, then at my face. "I'm exhausted, Avery. I've had three major surgeries today."

"This is your father!" I hissed, incredulous.

"Which is why I'm here," he replied coolly. "But I'm not scrubbing in. Halle can handle it."

"Halle?" I repeated, following his gaze to where his young intern stood nearby, looking nervous and unprepared.

As if on cue, Halle approached us, her eyes darting between Theodore and me. "Dr. Martin, I've prepped the OR, but I—"

"Good," Theodore interrupted, his voice warm in a way it hadn't been with me all evening. "You're up."

"But she's an intern!" I protested, my voice rising with panic. "Theodore, please!"

He turned to me, his expression cold and calculating. "Watch and learn, Avery. This is real medicine."

With that, he walked away, pulling out his phone again to check his stocks as if nothing were happening.

Halle stood frozen, her eyes wide with fear and uncertainty. Behind us, the trauma team worked frantically to stabilize Mr. Martin.

I looked from Halle's shaking hands to Theodore's retreating back, a chill running down my spine as I realized what was happening.

No one was going to save Mr. Martin.

The surgical lights blinded me as I watched through the observation glass. Halle's hands trembled as she made the first incision, her movements jerky and uncertain. The anesthesiologist—a veteran nurse I recognized from countless surgeries—leaned forward, her voice tight with warning.

"Blood pressure dropping," she said, her eyes fixed on the monitors. "We need to stabilize him before proceeding."

Halle waved her away impatiently. "I've got this. Dr. Martin trusts me."

Trusts you? I pressed my palm against the glass, my heart hammering. Theodore had never even mentioned Halle's name to me before tonight. How could he trust her with something so critical?

The surgery progressed with horrifying slowness. Halle's movements became increasingly erratic, her confidence crumbling with each passing minute. When she finally reached the heart, her hands shook so violently that I could see the surgical tools rattling.

"Artery," someone whispered from inside the OR. "She nicked the artery."

A stream of bright red blood spilled across Mr. Martin's chest. Halle froze, her eyes wide with panic as she stared at the spreading crimson stain.

"Call for an attending," the anesthesiologist demanded, her voice sharp with urgency.

"No!" Halle snapped, her voice cracking. "I can fix this."

But she couldn't. I could see it in her eyes—the same terrified uncertainty I'd seen in medical students facing their first crisis. She didn't know what to do.

The monitors began to wail. Mr. Martin's heart rate plummeted, the steady beeps becoming erratic and then slowing to silence.

"Flatline," someone called out. "Crash cart!"

Halle stepped back, stripping off her gloves with mechanical precision. Her face had gone completely white, but her voice remained steady as she turned to the team.

"The equipment failed," she said flatly. "There was nothing we could do."

I screamed then, a raw sound that tore from my throat and echoed through the observation deck. No one heard me—they were too busy trying to revive Mr. Martin—but I couldn't stop screaming.

---

The waiting room was eerily quiet when Theodore finally appeared. I sat hunched in a plastic chair, my entire body numb with shock.

He checked his watch first—that expensive Swiss piece my father had given him when we got engaged—before even glancing at me.

"Time of death?" he asked, his voice clinically detached.

I couldn't speak. Halle emerged from the surgical wing, her eyes rimmed with fake tears, her surgical cap askew in a way that somehow managed to make her look vulnerable and brave at once.

"The heart was too damaged," she said softly, her voice breaking. "We did everything we could, but the myocardial tissue was just... it was already failing when we opened him up."

Theodore nodded absently, still scrolling through his phone. "These things happen."

"These things happen?" I repeated, my voice hollow. "That's all you have to say?"

He finally looked at me, his expression a mixture of impatience and mild annoyance. "What would you like me to say, Avery? It's not like he was someone important."

"He was your father!" The words tore from my throat.

Theodore blinked, then shook his head. "No, that was your father. Mr. Clark. The paperwork must be mixed up."

I stared at him in disbelief. He genuinely didn't know. He didn't even recognize his own father.

"Pull yourself together," Theodore said, his tone softening slightly as he glanced at Halle. "You need to draft a commendation letter for Dr. Cook's residency file. Despite the... unfortunate outcome, her technique was impressive."

Halle's eyes met mine over Theodore's shoulder, a flicker of something triumphant in their depths before she quickly looked away.

---

I sat alone in the hallway after Theodore left to "file paperwork." My mind was a blank slate of shock and grief. Mr. Martin was gone. Theodore didn't even know it was his father who had died on that table.

A soft chime drew my attention to the bench across from me. Theodore's iPad sat there, its screen lighting up with a notification.

I shouldn't look. But something—intuition, perhaps, or simply the need to understand what had happened—made me reach for it.

The screen unlocked at my touch. A text message from Halle glowed brightly against the dark background.

*"At least the old moneybag is gone. Now we don't have to hide. Did you see her face?"*

My fingers trembled as I scrolled back through their conversation. Months of messages unfolded before my eyes—explicit photos, cruel jokes about my family's wealth, plans for their future together.

*"Once we're rid of her,"* Theodore had written just three days ago, *"we can finally stop pretending."*

I scrolled further, my stomach churning with each new revelation. They had been planning this—whatever "this" was—for months. And now Mr. Martin was dead, and somehow that was part of their plan too.

The iPad slipped from my numb fingers, clattering to the floor as the full weight of their betrayal crashed over me like a tidal wave.

I stormed through the hospital corridors, my heels clicking against the polished floor like a ticking bomb. The iPad felt heavy in my hand, its screen still glowing with their betrayal. My entire body trembled with rage, but I forced myself to move faster.

The on-call room door was ajar. I didn't bother knocking.

Theodore had Halle pressed against the wall, his mouth on hers, her leg wrapped around his waist. Their bodies froze when I slammed the door open.

"You forgot something," I said, my voice eerily calm as I hurled the iPad at Theodore's head.

He caught it with practiced ease, his eyes narrowing as he saw the unlocked screen. Halle's face drained of color.

"Avery—" she started, but I cut her off.

"Save it," I hissed, my voice shaking now. "I've seen everything."

Theodore's expression shifted from surprise to something colder, more calculated. He set the iPad down on the counter and straightened his tie.

"Well," he said, his voice dripping with disdain, "now you know."

"You killed him," I whispered, tears burning behind my eyes. "You let him die."

"He was just an old man," Theodore replied with a shrug. "And honestly, I'm glad he's gone. Now I can finally cash in on the Clark estate."

I stared at him in disbelief. "What?"

"Oh, come on, Avery." His laugh was sharp and cruel. "Did you really think I married you for love? Your family's money paid for my education, my career, this hospital position. Now that your father's dead, I inherit everything."

Halle giggled from behind him, her hand trailing down his chest. "Told you she'd be devastated."

Something broke inside me then—not my heart, but the chains that had kept me bound to this monster. I yanked my wedding ring off and threw it into the biohazard bin.

"You have no idea what you've done," I said quietly, my voice steady now. "No idea at all."

---

The next morning, I returned to the hospital early. The morgue attendant looked confused when I asked about Mr. Martin's body.

"Gone?" I repeated, my stomach sinking. "What do you mean gone?"

"Dr. Martin signed the release papers last night," he explained, checking his clipboard. "Said he was handling the arrangements personally."

My blood ran cold. I knew exactly where Theodore would be.

The teaching theater was on the fourth floor, its doors usually closed to all but medical students and staff. Today, though, I could hear voices from inside—Theodore's clinical tone and Halle's high-pitched laugh.

I pushed the door open.

The scene before me was worse than anything I could have imagined. Theodore stood behind a dissecting table, a group of wide-eyed students gathered around him. On the table lay Mr. Martin's body, his chest cavity open and exposed.

"We're demonstrating the pathology of failure," Theodore explained to the students, his voice detached as he pointed to the heart. "Note the extensive damage to the myocardial tissue."

Halle stood beside him, giggling as she held a surgical saw. "Like butter," she said, her eyes gleaming with malicious delight.

I couldn't breathe. The room spun around me as I watched them mutilate the body of the man who had been more father to me than Theodore ever was.

"Theodore," I choked out, my voice barely audible.

He looked up, annoyed at the interruption. "Not now, Avery. Can't you see we're in the middle of something?"

I turned and vomited in the corner, my body rejecting the horror before me.

---

Three days later, an email went out to the entire hospital staff. Theodore had organized a "Celebration of Life" party on the hospital roof.

"In honor of Arthur Clark," the invitation read, "beloved father of Avery Martin, we invite you to join us for a celebration of his life and legacy."

I read it in my office, my hands shaking with fury. He was already positioning himself as the grieving son-in-law, master of the Clark fortune.

The final paragraph made my blood boil: "As a special tribute, we will be releasing fireworks created from Arthur's cremated remains, ensuring his memory lights up the Seattle sky forever."

He had cremated Mr. Martin without permission. Without even notifying me.

---

Halle's TikTok video appeared that afternoon. She danced in the morgue, her scrubs unbuttoned one button too many, a hand resting on Theodore's shoulder as he watched from behind the camera.

"Out with the old, in with the bold #DoctorBae #NewChapter," the caption read. She had tagged me.

The video had already gotten thousands of views by the time I saw it.

With trembling fingers, I forwarded the link to Marcus Williams, my family's attorney, along with screenshots of Theodore and Halle's texts.

"File this with everything else," I wrote. "And send copies to the hospital board."

Marcus's reply came almost instantly: "Are you ready for what comes next?"

I looked at the video again—Halle's smug smile, Theodore's possessive hand on her waist—and felt something cold settle in my chest.

"Yes," I typed back. "I'm ready."