The alarm didn't ring.
It never had to.
Sophia's eyes opened at six, the same as always.
She sat up slowly, the silk sheets slipping from her shoulders as she swung her legs over the side of the bed.
Her feet touched the cool floor.
She stood.
The apartment was still wrapped in early morning quiet, the city beyond her windows just beginning to stir.
Pale light filtered through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the pristine space.
Sophia moved through her routine with the same precision she always did.
Shower. Skincare. Hair pulled back into a sleek low bun, not a strand out of place.
She stood in front of her closet, fingers brushing over the row of tailored pieces.
Today she chose a cream silk blouse, high-waisted charcoal trousers, and a structured blazer in soft dove grey.
Her jewelry was minimal—small diamond studs, a thin gold watch that had been her mother's.
She looked at herself in the mirror.
Elegant. Controlled. Untouchable.
Exactly as she needed to be.
But as she smoothed down the front of her blazer, her phone buzzed on the dresser.
She picked it up.
**Marissa.**
"Good morning, Sophia. Still waiting to hear about dinner. Don't keep me waiting too long."
Sophia's jaw tightened.
She set the phone down without replying.
Not yet.
She grabbed her bag, her coat, her keys—and left.
The hospital greeted her the way it always did.
Automatic doors. Antiseptic air. The hum of monitors and distant conversations. Nurses nodding as she passed. Interns straightening up when she walked by.
Sophia moved through it all like water—smooth, unbothered, inevitable.
Clara was already waiting by the nurses' station, tablet in hand, coffee in the other.
"Morning, boss," she said with a grin. "You look like you're about to fire someone or save their life. Can't tell which."
"Neither," Sophia replied, accepting the patient files Clara handed her. "Just another day."
Clara studied her for a beat. "You sure? You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The one where you're thinking three steps ahead but not saying a word."
Sophia didn't respond. She flipped open the first file.
Clara sighed. "Alright, keep your secrets. We've got rounds. Post-op in 302, the appendectomy from yesterday wants to see you, and there's a new admission in 310—suspected gallstones."
"Let's start with 302," Sophia said, already walking.
Clara fell into step beside her. "You got it."
Room 302 was quiet, the patient—a woman in her fifties—sitting up in bed, flipping through a magazine.
She looked up when Sophia entered.
"Dr. Whitmore," she said with a tired smile. "You're early."
"I'm on time," Sophia corrected gently, moving to check the monitors. "How are you feeling this morning?"
"Sore. But better than yesterday."
"That's expected. Your vitals look good. Any nausea? Dizziness?"
"A little nausea. Nothing terrible."
Sophia made a note. "I'll adjust your medication. You should be able to move to soft foods by this afternoon."
The woman nodded, relieved. "Thank you, Doctor."
Sophia offered a small, professional smile. "You're doing well. Keep resting."
As she stepped back into the hallway, Clara was waiting.
"Next?"
"310."
They moved quickly through the ward, room by room. Sophia's hands were steady, her voice calm, her focus sharp.
But Clara noticed.
"You're quieter than usual," she said as they walked toward the elevator.
"I'm always quiet."
"No, you're always composed. Today you're quiet. There's a difference."
Sophia pressed the button for the elevator. "I'm fine, Clara."
Clara didn't push. She just nodded.
The elevator doors opened.
They stepped inside.
As the doors closed, Sophia caught her own reflection in the polished steel—sharp, flawless, perfectly put together.
But behind her eyes, something flickered.
A question she hadn't answered.
A lie she hadn't solved.
The elevator descended.
And Sophia, for once, didn't have a plan.