HERMIONE

"Let's get started. Anesthesia, are we ready?" I inquire, getting into position. I flex my wrists briefly, both of my hands raised.

"Yes, Professor. Patient is under general anesthesia and stable."

I glance at the surgical team, which comprises Doctor May, my mentee and first assistant in today's surgery, Doctor Charles, a junior resident assisting as well, Dr. Smith, the anesthesiologist, Ms. Johnson, the perfusionist, and finally, Mrs. Rodriguez, the scrub nurse.

"Let's begin," I say, looking at the patient's exposed body on the OR table.

The patient, Chairman Bernard Gonzalez, a 65-year-old man, requires an emergency heart transplant. His current heart is failing, and the mechanical assist device is nearing its expiration date, so he needs a new transplant. Today's procedure is an open-heart surgery aimed at replacing his failing heart with a donor heart.

"We'll start with the median sternotomy," I announce, stretching out my hand. "Scalpel."

Dr. Charles hands the scalpel to me, and I get to work with Dr. May. As I make the incision, the scalpel glides smoothly through the skin, revealing the gleaming white of the sternum.

"We will dissect the pericardium; be careful not to damage the phrenic nerve," I say.

"Yes, Professor," Dr. May murmurs, focused on the task at hand. We carefully dissect the pericardium, exposing the heart.

"Retractor," I call, and I feel its weight on my hand, using it to pull back the tissue. "Suction.... Now, let's cannulate the aorta... Clamp." We work in a coordinated silence, our hands moving in tandem.

"Let's initiate cardiopulmonary bypass and get the patient on pump," I instruct.

"On it, Prof," Ms. Johnson responds, activating the machine. The CPB machine hums as it pulses to life, settling into a rhythmic whoosh-whoosh, and taking over the patient's circulation and oxygenation.

"Starting bypass now," Ms. Johnson says.

"Suction," I demand. "Remove the blood from the surgical site."

Dr. May steps forward with the suction tubing, washing the site thoroughly. The water spurts out, cleaning off fluid and blood, revealing the grayish-pink flesh underneath.

I request the aortic cross-clamp, extending my hand sideways. After the blood flow to the heart is stopped, I instruct, "Induce cardiac arrest."

The patient's heart stops pumping blood, and the cardiac monitor flatlines. The ECG monitor flatlines too as the heart stops generating electrical activity.

This is the most critical part of the procedure. "We must complete the implantation quickly to minimize potential complications," I emphasize. "Focus," I order. "We will remove the dysfunctional heart now. Ensure you don't damage the surrounding tissues."

"Yes, Prof."

"Please prepare the donor heart," I instruct. The team quickly moves to carry out my order in the dimly lit operating room. We carefully remove the dysfunctional heart and replace it with the donor heart.

"Prolene 5-0," I request. "Suture... Cut... Suture..." I provide brief instructions, my fingers moving skillfully with Dr. May's assistance.

After the donor's heart has been sown in place, I direct, "Let's complete the anastomosis." This connects the donor heart to the patient's circulation.

"Wean off CPB," I instruct, and Ms. Johnson promptly acts upon it.

The OR falls silent as we wait for the donor heart to begin beating. The air is thick with tension, not because my team doubts my skills, but because Mr. Gonzalez is a crucial VIP member of the hospital's foundation; that's why his surgery was assigned to me.

I operate mainly on VIP patients, most of whose health conditions often entail complex surgical procedures like Mr. Gonzalez's.

Becoming a professor at 25 is no easy feat. I worked hard to get to where I am today. Precisely, I was pressured into giving my best until I reached this spot. Nobody can deny that my position is partly due to my standing as the future heiress of the foundation. My skills prove to the world that my title is fully deserved.

I narrow my gaze, my confidence never faltering, as I check for the slightest indication of a pulse. I massage the heart gently, prompting it to yield. And then, suddenly, it does – a strong, steady rhythm that elicits a relieved exhale from the team.

"We've got a heartbeat!" Dr. Smith announces with glee, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

I remain expressionless, giving the next instructions. "Let's close the chest incision. Suture... Cut..." I dictate intermittently as we work until the suturing is neatly accomplished.

"Vital signs are stable," Dr. Smith announces.

I nod briefly in acknowledgment. "Let's get the patient stable and into recovery. Reverse anesthesia."

"Okay, Prof," Dr. Smith responds.

After the last process has been undertaken, I step back from the patient, my bloodied hands held upward. "Good job, everyone," I commend my team, my voice muffled through my nose cover, and I step out of the OR.

I catch sight of my mom through the screen connecting the OR to the observation gallery as I walk out of the parting doors.

She's the current director of the hospital foundation. There are a few older professors who came to watch, as they often describe it – my outstanding surgical performance.

I avert my gaze as soon as our eyes meet for the briefest moment. My mouth flatlines at the sight of her, and an uneasy sensation pools at the center of my stomach. She rarely watches me operate on patients. I'm sure her presence has nothing to do with the fact that the patient is a VIP and key figure in the hospital's foundation. She's here for a reason, and I have a bad feeling about it.

Ezra Watson Pierce only seeks my attention when I'm needed for a purpose. Questions filter through my mind about what task she has for me this time.

That's the relationship I've had with my mother through the years growing up. I have never felt an emotional connection or bond with her since I was a child; she isn't bothered either.

It took me years of yearning for her acknowledgment and attention before I accepted the painful reality: I was only a tool at my mom's disposal, like everyone else's.

And since then, I have also guarded my heart. I have stopped expecting frivolities like love and attention from others. I merely follow orders to the letter, living in the shadows of myself.

Although I received accolades from my peers and everyone, I didn't depend on those for my validation.

I have adopted an ascetic lifestyle, depriving myself of leisure to groom myself into perfection. This is the lady my mother conditioned me to be.

Despite all I have accomplished, she has never uttered a word about her pride in me. I doubt she is. I don't care if she is. Her opinions no longer define me. Nobody's does.

I hit the shower, scrubbing the stains off my hands first in the basin, before taking a full-body shower.

Exhaustion rolls off my body as the water runs down my head. The surgery lasted for eight hours. Eight hours of intense concentration will take a toll on the average human's body, no matter how agile and fit the person is.

Although there is satisfaction that comes with saving lives, I would have preferred to be a ballerina or a dancer. But when it comes to my family, my desires don't matter.

Mama knows best! I huff, turning off the tap. I change back into my clothes and drape my lab coat over it. I apply a faint spray of perfume and check my reflection in the room. Satisfied with my look, I step out to check on my patients.

HERMIONE

It remains a few hours before my shift is over. I don't have any surgery scheduled until the next two days. Mercifully.

As I step out into the hallway, my path is intercepted by Professor Patel.

He is one of the oldest doctors to have worked in the hospital, even though he attempts to appear young.

He never fails to dye his graying hairs into an obsidian black. He has that air of cheerfulness about him, which is a sharp contrast to my typical aloofness and icy personality.

Residents love to join his team rather than be under my mentorship.

"Impressive performance, as always, Professor Pierce," Doctor Patel says, clapping loudly.

My dad's name is Pierce - Jackson Pierce. My mom refuses to change her surname fully to his after marriage, hence the two surnames on my profile: Hermione Watson Pierce.

I introduce myself first as Hermione Pierce, before adding Watson as my other surname. Most of my colleagues are often baffled by this act of mine, wondering why I would hide my affiliation to the renowned Watson Foundation. If only they knew.

Sure, my family has loads of money - generational wealth; the luxury is secure and enviable. However, not all that glitters is gold. Beyond the glittering facade lies a darker reality.

"Mmn," I grunt low under my breath. "Did she request my audience?" I ask him.

"Don't be too rigid, Professor Pierce." He flattens his mouth into a semblance of a smile and draws a line across it with his finger. "Smile."

I ignore him, heading towards my mom's office.

"That insolent br..." I hear Professor Patel's strangled curse behind me, and a slow smile creeps onto my mouth.

Professor Patel is actually an interesting man. I could have gotten along with him and gleaned some knowledge from him; he's highly skilled in bypass surgery. However, he's too much of a sycophant, kissing up to anyone he regards as being in a prominent position.

That makes me wonder what his true nature is. I can't befriend a man whose true nature isn't apparent.

I knock on the door when I reach my mom's office.

"Come in!"

I turn the knob and push the door open, stepping inside. My mom is on a call, so I gently close the door behind me.

I sit on one of the couches set a few feet away from her desk, where she receives visitors. I recline into the plush chair, letting out a sigh.

My head whips toward my mom, and our eyes connect. The sigh was louder than I intended, and it catches her attention.

"Let's talk later, alright," she says, wrapping up her conversation. She sets her phone down on her desk and stands up, her desk chair rotating to the side.

Her heels click rhythmically against the polished marble flooring as she approaches me. She sits across from me, crossing her legs at the knee.

Her eyes are sharp as she assesses me. "Tea or coffee?"

I shake my head, unable to speak. My throat is dry, so I swallow and try again. "No, I'm good."

Her jaw twitches, but she holds back her comment. She rings for tea to be brought in for her.

I suspect I'm in for a lengthy and critical discussion, given that my mom is offering tea before opening her mouth.

My anxiety spikes, and tension builds in my bloodstream. I stiffen my legs and clasp my fingers over my thighs to hide my nervous reaction. I assume a leisurely pose, but my entire body is shaking with worry.

My mom's tea arrives, and the lady who brings it in sets it on the table and quickly exits the office. Mom doesn't appreciate the effort either. She raises the steaming cup of herbal tea to her mouth and sips.

The thick scent of chamomile with peppermint fills the air, and I struggle to hide my repulsion.

My mom is probably aware of my aversion to her choice of tea. It's either she prefers this torturous way of keeping me grounded, or she just doesn't care.

Right. I smack my lips, recollecting. In my mom's regard, I'm not a human being; I'm a mere robot. I have no feelings or thoughts of my own; I'm merely conditioned to act out her wishes.

I swallow the lump that forms in my throat. My stomach shifts under her intense scrutiny, and I wish earnestly for a reprieve.

"Are you feeling stressed?" Mom asks out of the blue.

My gaze snaps up to hers. "Pardon?" slips through my lips before I can help it.

A frown lines her forehead, and I immediately answer, "No." I hold my breath, searching for a fresh scent, but none can be found, not in Mom's office.

Mom inhales the steam from her tea, a smile of appreciation on her lips. I cringe inwardly, schooling my expression to maintain a mask of neutrality.

The cup clinks against its saucer when she sets it down. She produces a magazine from nowhere and flings it across the center table toward me.

I glance at the magazine, curiosity sparking. I don't reach out to pick it up, but I catch the headlines: "Alvin Dale Mendes: The Visionary Behind MD's Success."

I haven't heard of him. He's not the kind of news I'd follow, if I watched the news. I've always been too busy with research books and practicing late into the night to hone my surgical skills.

I meet my mom's gaze questioningly when she gestures for me to pick up the magazine.

"Acquaint yourself with every detail about that family," she says.

"Why?" I mutter, still trying to process the information.

"You will be getting married into that family soon," my mom states, her tone matter-of-fact.

"What?" I exclaim, squinting my eyes in shock. I glance down at the old man on the magazine. He looks to be around my dad's age, fifty-two, but appears much older.

I leap to my feet, a mix of disbelief and irritation sweeping through me. "This old man?" I seethe, flinging the magazine in my hand.

My mom's demeanor remains unchanged. "Calm yourself down. You will be getting married to his second son," she says with a finality to her tone. "He's around your age," she adds, as though that's something to rejoice about.

I feel a surge of anger and resentment. She's tying my future to some faceless man for her ambitions, and expects me to act the obedient child and say yes to this?

Hell, no. I can work myself to exhaustion, but I'm not settling for a loveless marriage.

"No," I breathe, facing my mom head-on. "I'm not getting married to anyone. That will be my choice to make. No," I say more firmly.

My mom doesn't react. Instead, she slowly folds her arms across her chest. Then, she begins to laugh – a dry, menacing cackle that has me withdrawing a step back.

When Ezra Watson Pierce laughs, it doesn't end well. It means someone's going to cry. And we both know who that person is in here: me.

AIDEN

When Dad informs me about my marriage match at dinner, I bite my tongue. I want to protest, but that would be a waste of breath. Dad's orders are ultimate and binding.

I've learned to be optimistic about every challenge I encounter in this household. I try to find the good side of every displeasing task that comes my way.

The lady I'm expected to marry may be the perfect remedy I need, following my recent breakup. I don't have to love her, since our union is a marriage of convenience, purely contrived for a business purpose.

Besides, my issues with commitment are a factor to contend with. Marrying her will nip my rakish lifestyle in the bud, as my home training won't allow me to cheat while bound to another woman, even if not willingly.

"Who is she?" Beatrice asks, seemingly unaware of this announcement.

I shovel my food into my mouth, barely tasting it, and chew slowly. This is my typical conduct – acting like I'm not there. I only speak when I'm told to speak. I avoid making any noise with my cutlery, lest I attract Beatrice's scornful look.

Being the subject of that look has taught me to be the perfect dinner companion, with impeccable table manners.

Beatrice hates me with passion, and she's made that fact obvious since I was brought into this house.

Lachlan, my stepbrother, shares similar sentiments with his mother. They perceive my presence as a threat to Lachlan's future as the company's successor.

If only they knew about my apathy toward power struggles. I'm grateful for the luxury I enjoy here, but fighting over the inheritance of a man who wouldn't have sought me out if my mom hadn't abandoned me on his property is the last thing on my mind.

"My mom told me she'd be back," I recall, the memory still etched in my mind. But all I saw was her back as she walked away. She never returned. I have no idea if she's dead or missing. It's as if Violet Gallagher's memory and existence never existed.

Moreover, Beatrice regards me with contempt. My background makes her deem me unfit to eat off her pet's plates, let alone share meals with her.

I noticed the abhorrence radiating off her the first moment her eyes set on me. I was wearing my worn-out school clothes, which dulled in comparison to her garish and expensive-looking dress.

I had already braced myself for her disdain, judging from her expression. Still, I put on a cheerful facade. Despite the jabs, flak, and insults, I brush them off with an air of indifference.

They're more irritated by the fact that their actions don't dent my happiness. However, that's a half-truth. I hide my hurt deep down, where they can never see it. Only when I'm alone do I cry out loud, waxing nostalgic.

"Hermione Watson Pierce," Dad answers.

"Watson Foundation," Lachlan inquires, drawing his brows together.

My ears perk up at the name, but it doesn't strike a chord.

"She's a brilliant lady with a bright future ahead of her. Why pair her with him?" Beatrice demands, looking baffled. She casts a pointed glance in my direction. "Lachlan would have made a much more suitable match for the lady."

Dad grunts. "My reasons are none of your concern. Their marriage has nothing to do with suitability or compatibility." Dad waves one finger in Lachlan's direction. "Aren't you seeing someone already?"

Lachlan shifts in his seat, his head hanging low. "No," he responds, before adding, "Our relationship isn't serious," when he observes Dad's skepticism. He can't fool Dad; I'm sure the old man has eyes on us everywhere we go, keeping tabs on our lives. Lachlan doesn't have to attempt deceit to win his favor; Dad can easily sniff through the lie.

To be honest, I have no idea why Lachlan is trying so hard. It's no secret that he's the eventual heir of the company, my presence notwithstanding.

The fact that Dad has placed me in a key role within the company's hierarchy doesn't mean he's setting his sights on me over Lachlan, the son he's groomed as his successor for years before I entered the picture.

I snort under my breath. I doubt the old man will bequeath any of his inheritance to me. I'm the good-for-nothing, long-lost son of the Mendes family, who ought to have remained hidden. Lachlan is the golden son, and everyone knows it.

Dad responds to Lachlan's statement with another grunt. He's a man of few words, not cold, but indifferent. I never feel comfortable under his scrutiny. I rarely see him smile. His aura is intimidating and radiates unease.

"You two should get to know each other. Your marriage plans will kick off soon," Dad informs me.

I shift my focus to him, asking, "How soon is that?"

When his eyes connect with mine, I promptly break eye contact. His eyes look hollow, filled with depths that leave shivers in their wake.

"When do you plan to have the marriage held?" I ask, speaking as though it's not my marriage being discussed.

"In a month's time."

"Okay." I nod.

"It's up to you to charm her. Try to gain her affection. It's what you do best," Dad says, gesturing dismissively in my direction. "Perhaps the only thing you're good at," he adds.

I flatten my lips at the direct insult. I hear Lachlan's snicker across the table. I ignore him, tuning out of the ensuing conversation.

When I finish eating, I silently leave, grumbling a halfhearted goodnight to everyone. I don't get a response, not that I anticipated one anyway.

****

"You don't mean it?" Ray laughs when I tell him about my upcoming nuptials when we meet the following evening.

He's amused that I'll be standing at the altar before he does, given my attitude toward anything long-term and involving commitment.

"Who's the lady?"

"It's Hermione Watson Pierce. I heard she's a prodigy in surgery and all that." There were plenty of praises about her when I looked her up online. Her photos showed a poised woman with piercing green eyes and raven-black hair, her smile radiant and confident. But I'm not naive enough to trust everything the media says. Except the articles written about me – those are accurate.

"Yes, I've heard of her," Ray says, tapping his chin.

I lean forward, curious to hear what he knows. "Any insight into the real woman beyond the screen?"

"She's not normally the type of woman you'd go for." Ray shrugs. "You know how it is with medical students, especially one with her level of excellence at her age." Raymond tilts his jaw meaningfully at me.

I sag back in my chair, holding the waist of my beer bottle. The dim lighting of the restaurant and the hum of conversation around us create a cozy atmosphere, but my mind is elsewhere. "I bet she's an arrogant, narcissistic, and mean woman." A tortured sigh escapes me, and Raymond waves a hand in consolation from across from me.

"My condolences, brother," he says.

"I dread my future now, Raymond. Getting married to Hermione Watson will be a nightmare," I moan aloud, bemoaning my predicament.

"I'm glad our feelings are mutual." A sonorous female voice echoes behind me, sending a shiver down my spine.

I turn to face the owner of the voice as she stands up from her chair, facing me squarely. Our tables are placed side by side, although the seating arrangement keeps our backs turned to each other. Otherwise, I would have noticed her.

My heart skips a beat when our eyes lock. My mouth falls agape as recognition sparks. I'm staring at Hermione Watson Pierce in person, and I just talked badly about her in her presence.

The soft overhead lighting illuminates her features, making her even more breathtaking. I close my mouth, work my jaw, and open it back to apologize, but she speaks before I can.

"It was nice meeting you too, Aiden Mendes," she says, her voice as silky as a siren's. It lures me in, and I drink in its euphony. She smiles, and her eyes sparkle with amusement.

What was I saying about my future with Hermione Watson Pierce? I take my comment back. I earnestly look forward to a marriage with this woman. She's perfection in its physical form.

When she excuses herself to leave, I don't stop staring after her until Ray clears his throat. He looks questioningly at me, a knowing grin across his mouth, when I turn back to face him.

"Mmn?" Ray urges.

"I'm smitten, bro. I think I've fallen in love," I whisper, dreamily conjuring Hermione Watson Pierce's beautiful form in my head.