"How could you be so careless? Let me see."

"Tsk, the skin's broken. Let the nurses handle this kind of rough work. Those hands are meant for a scalpel."

I stood frozen, watching the scene unfold. Utterly absurd.

Three years ago, when a violent patient rushed at Adrian with a knife, I didn't hesitate. I threw myself in front of him.

The blade went straight through my left palm. Severed the nerves.

What did Adrian say back then?

At my hospital bedside, peeling an apple without looking up, his voice cold:

"Useless. Your hand's ruined. You're stuck doing paperwork now."

No comfort. No tenderness. Just disgust that I'd lost my value.

And now? Lily had scraped off a tiny bit of skin, and he acted like the sky was falling.

"Skip tonight's surgery. Go rest."

Adrian carefully applied a Band-Aid to Lily's finger. When he turned to me, his gaze went ice-cold.

"Wendy, I'm taking Lily to get familiar with Medical Affairs procedures tonight."

"Cover my overnight shift."

I stared at him in disbelief.

"My dad is still in the ICU. I need to stay with him—"

"The ICU has dedicated doctors and nurses. What are you going to do there, act as a ventilator?"

Adrian cut me off. No room for argument.

"Besides, the department's short-staffed. If you don't step in, who will?"

"Don't forget—you're just a paper-pusher now. Scheduling you at all is doing you a favor."

Lily peeked out from behind Adrian, giving me an innocent smile.

"Wendy, sorry to trouble you. Adrian said he's going to teach me so much tonight—it's really important."

"Oh, and that cake..."

She pointed at the chestnut cake on the table.

"Could you put it in the fridge for me? I'm worried it'll go bad."

Adrian wrapped an arm around Lily's shoulder and walked out without a backward glance.

"Forget about that cake. If you want one, I'll take you to the shop and have them make it fresh."

"Really? Adrian, you're the best!"

Their voices faded down the hallway until they vanished.

The locker room fell silent.

I stared at the cake box abandoned on the floor. The elegant packaging read: For My Love.

Just like eight years of my devotion—casually trampled and tossed aside like worn-out shoes.

I bent down, grabbed the cake, and hurled it into the trash.

A dull thud.

Like the first toll of a funeral bell for this disgusting relationship.

The ICU hallway's fluorescent lights cast a harsh, sterile white.

Disinfectant mixed with the scent of death. Suffocating.

I sat on the bench, gripping my phone, the screen's glow illuminating my ashen face.

Beep—beep—beep—

The monitor alarm shrieked from inside the room, sharp as nails on glass.

Doctors and nurses rushed in.

I shot to my feet. My legs buckled. I nearly collapsed.

"Dad!"

I tried to follow, but a nurse blocked me at the door.

"Family members wait outside! We're doing resuscitation!"

The heavy door slammed shut. Life and death, separated by inches.

I pressed against the glass, watching the frantic movement inside, watching my father—covered in tubes—jolt upward with each shock from the defibrillator.

My nails dug into the wall. Blood seeped out. I couldn't feel it.

Half an hour later, the attending physician emerged drenched in sweat. He pulled off his mask, expression grave.

"Dr. Winfield, your father's condition has worsened."

"He just went into sudden ventricular fibrillation. We brought him back, but it's critical."

"We need to perform a modified bypass within 24 hours, or… not even God could save him."

Twenty-four hours.

Modified bypass surgery.

In all of Sacred Heart Hospital—in the entire city—only one surgeon could perform it with a success rate above fifty percent.

Adrian Henson.

He was my only hope.

My hands shook as I dialed his number.

Beep… beep… beep…

Each ring hammered against my chest.

No answer.

I called again.

Still nothing.

Like a woman possessed, I dialed that number I knew by heart, over and over.

On the twelfth try, he finally picked up.

The background noise was loud—soothing jazz, clinking glasses.

"Adrian!"

My voice cracked, desperate. "My dad's dying! The doctor says he needs surgery now! Can you—"

"I'm busy."

Cold. Distant. Annoyed.

"I'm in a seminar with the hospital director. It's important. Don't bother me."

"A seminar?"

I froze, straining to hear the laughter on his end.

"At this hour? What kind of seminar has jazz playing?"

"Adrian, I'm begging you. Save my dad. Come back and I'll do anything you want—"

"Wendy!"

His voice turned sharp. "What's wrong with you? I told you—it's a high-end seminar at a private club. The venue's upscale. So what?"

"Stop acting like some paranoid wife interrogating me."

"I'm busy. Goodbye."

Click.

The line went dead.

I stared at my phone as tears finally broke free, splattering onto the screen.

That's when I noticed the red notification dot.

Like a sleepwalker, I tapped it.

Lily's post filled my screen—a nine-photo grid.

Thanks to my senior Adrian for booking the whole place just for me to watch fireworks! Best birthday present ever! Love you~

Brilliant fireworks. Exquisite French cuisine. And a photo of them together.

Adrian's profile was sharp, handsome. He was gazing down at Lily, eyes soft with indulgence.

Location tag: Summit Private Club, suburbs.

This was his seminar.

This was what was so important.

My father's life meant less to him than watching one round of fireworks with Lily Fox.

Rage and despair twisted together, burning through my chest until I couldn't breathe.

I abandoned all pride. My fingers trembled as I typed.

Adrian, I'm begging you.

My dad is really dying. Come back and save him, and I'll never interfere between you and Lily again.

If you want to marry her, I'll step aside. I'm begging you. Please come back.

After hitting send, every ounce of strength drained from my body. I collapsed into the chair.

I stared at the screen. One second. Two. One minute. Ten.

Time dripped by like sand in an hourglass—counting down my father's life.

Half an hour later, my phone buzzed.

A voice message. From Adrian.

I grabbed it like a drowning woman clutching a lifeline, hands shaking as I pressed play.

His voice came through, ice-cold with a hint of mockery.

"Wendy, is it really worth making up lies like this just to compete for my attention?"

"I've reviewed all your father's indicators. He's nowhere near critical."

"Don't think this self-inflicted suffering act will force me back."

"Harass me again, and I'll transfer you out of the department—you won't even be filing paperwork."

The phone slipped from my hand, cracking against the floor.

My heart shattered with it.

The hospital room door opened. My father stirred awake.

He weakly lifted his hand, pulled off the oxygen mask. His voice was barely a whisper.

"Wendy..."

I lunged forward, grabbing his withered hand, tears streaming down.

"Dad, I'm here. I'm here."

"Don't rush... Dr. Henson..."

He struggled to breathe, forcing a weak smile.

"He's busy... important things first... Dad can hold on..."

"Dad... doesn't hurt..."

I wanted to kill myself in that moment.

My father, even dying, was still making excuses for that bastard. Still worried about putting me in a difficult position.

And that bastard was miles away at some club, ignoring a dying man to chase a pretty face.

At 4:00 a.m., the hospital issued the final notice.

"Dr. Winfield, if surgery doesn't happen before 8:00 tomorrow morning, you need to prepare for the funeral."

I looked at the wall clock.

Four hours.

I couldn't just wait for death.

I wiped my tears, picked up the cracked phone, resolve hardening in my eyes.

If he wouldn't come back, I'd drag him back myself.

The streets before dawn stretched empty and desolate, streetlights casting long shadows.

I floored my beat-up Volkswagen, the engine screaming in protest.

Wind poured through the half-open window, slicing my face, but it couldn't cool the fire burning in my chest.

Summit Private Club.

The city's most exclusive money pit—membership only, for the rich and connected.

I slammed the brakes at the entrance, tires shrieking against pavement.

I shoved open the door and stumbled toward the building.

I was still in my white coat, spattered with blood from resuscitating my father. Hair wild, face ashen—I looked like I'd escaped from a psych ward.

"Stop! What do you think you're doing?"

Two burly security guards blocked my path, looking me up and down with open disgust.

"This is a private club. Anyone not properly dressed is not allowed inside."

"I'm looking for someone!"

My voice came out raw. I tried to push past them.

"Adrian Henson! He's inside! I'm his—his colleague! It's an emergency!"

"Looking for Mr. Henson?"

The guards exchanged glances and smirked.

"Plenty of women come looking for Mr. Henson every day. Your outfit's creative though—playing nurse?"

"Get lost! You're an eyesore. Disturb our VIP guests, and you'll pay for it."

One of them shoved me hard.

I stumbled back, and my left hand slammed into a marble pillar.

"Ah—"

Searing pain shot from my palm through my entire body. The hand that had been pierced through years ago spasmed violently.

Nerve pain crackled like electricity. My fingers curled into a claw.

Cold sweat soaked through my back instantly.

I clutched my hand and crumpled to the ground, gasping for air.

That scene from three years ago flashed before my eyes.

The gleaming blade. The spurting blood. Adrian's dismissive "So useless."

I stared at my trembling left hand, and a wave of desolation crashed over me.