Back in her office, Rachel sat behind her desk, rubbed both hands over her face, pressing her palms into her eyes until stars bloomed behind them.
"I can't believe this shit," she whispered to no one.
The knock came just as she dropped her hands to the desk. Dr. Jonathan McCalister opened the door without waiting for an invitation.
Well, that's not good. Rachel thought.
"May I come in, Rachel?"
She groaned. "Oh, God. When you call me Rachel, I know I'm even more screwed than I thought."
Dr. McCalister stepped inside, closing the door behind him with the soft finality of a verdict. The light from the blinds cut sharp lines across his pressed shirt and silver-rimmed glasses. He wasn't smiling. That was new.
"Sit down," she muttered. "Or don't. Whatever helps you ruin my life faster."
He did sit—hands placed, crossed, in his lap, one leg casually over the other, the image of calm authority. "You know, most doctors who want to avoid trouble start by not operating on their ex-boyfriends."
Rachel glared. "He wasn't my ex when I took the case. I didn't even know who John Doe was until after the first surgery."
"Still your ex now," he said evenly. "And unfortunately, his father's lawyers just figured that out too."
Her pulse skipped. "You're kidding."
"I wish." Jonathan leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. "Here's the short version. Ethan Connors' father made an offer to the board this morning—seven figures to the neuro wing. The kind of number that makes administrators cry tears of pure joy."
Rachel's stomach twisted. "That sounds like a bribe dressed up as philanthropy."
"It is a bribe dressed up as philanthropy," he said. "And congratulations, kiddo. You're the one he bought."
She blinked. "What?"
He sighed, dropping the polished tone altogether. "No more charm, no more games. Here's the deal. You either accept the position as Ethan Connors' attending for the duration of his recovery, including transfer and follow-up—"
"Jonathan, no —"
"—or," he continued, voice cutting through hers, "the hospital launches a full internal review into why you failed to disclose your prior relationship. That leads to a formal ethics inquiry, possible license suspension, a malpractice hearing about your 'questionable' decision-making during surgery, and ten years of litigation that will bleed you dry before it's over."
He straightened, leaning his palms on her desk until she could smell the faint bite of his cologne. His eyes were flat steel. "And before you tell me how wrong it is, remember—he can buy this entire hospital ten times over. So what's one doctor to him? You're just part of the package."
"Jesus Christ."
"No," Jonathan said softly, "just capitalism."
He exhaled sharply, sitting back. "You won't be able to get hired as a volunteer in a free clinic by the time they finish with you."
The silence that followed was so thick it could've been bottled and labeled career suicide.
Finally, he reached into his jacket and slid an envelope across the desk—Connors Family Foundation embossed in silver.
She didn't open it. She didn't have to.
"So what's in it for me?" she asked bitterly.
He actually smiled this time, tight and humorless. "A brand-new neuro wing. Named after you, if you agree to sign on as lead physician. The Dr. Rachel Maren Neuroscience Center. Sounds nice, doesn't it?"
She stared at him, incredulous. "You can't be serious."
"I'm dead serious. Say no, and your ten-year career goes up in smoke. Say yes, and you get a shiny building, a national headline, and job security for life."
"Job security as somebody's bought doctor," she said.
He shrugged. "Welcome to medicine."
The silence stretched until it hurt. Jonathan leaned back, adjusting his cuffs, crossing one leg neatly over the other. "You choose."
Rachel stared at him for a full minute. The hum of the clock filled the space between them.
Finally, she whispered, "Fuck."
He arched a brow. "I take that as a yes, Dr. Maren?"
Her eyes burned. "You take that however the hell you want."
Later — her apartment
The suitcase lay open on the bed, half-filled with scrubs, worn cardigans, and the life she'd built from scratch. Her cat, Luna, sat in the corner watching her with the bored patience of something that had seen too many of her breakdowns to care.
Rachel stuffed the last of her medical journals into the case and zipped it shut.
"Congratulations," she told the cat. "We're moving to Wyoming. The land of regrets and high-functioning trauma."
Luna blinked.
Rachel sighed. "Yeah, same."
Mercy Hospital, Neuro ICU
Ethan was asleep when she entered. The blinds were half-drawn, throwing gold bands of afternoon light across the room. His vitals hummed steady.
She checked the chart, then the monitors, deliberately clinical. The meltdown just a few hours earlier had left him exhausted. With his type of injury, the long-term prognosis was promising—but short-term memory was another story. Every day was a loop of gentle reminders and repeated explanations.
She moved quietly, adjusting the IV line, checking his pupils, writing notes on the chart. Up close, he looked deceptively peaceful—no sign of the chaos that had erupted in that same room when he'd tried to stand, cursing, shouting, terrified of his own missing past.
Looking at him now, no one would guess.
She turned to leave.
"Rachel?"
His voice was soft, rough—still scraped raw from the breathing tube.
She froze, hand on the doorframe. "Yeah?"
He cleared his throat, wincing. "Thank you." he repeated from earlier.
She hesitated, eyes tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the faint stubble shading the bruises that hadn't yet faded.
"You're welcome, Ethan," she said quietly.
He closed his eyes again, lashes brushing the pale skin of his cheek, already drifting back to wherever the painkillers took him.
She lingered another moment, watching the rise and fall of his chest. Then she slipped out of the room, the door whispering shut behind her.
In the hall, she leaned against the wall and let out a slow, trembling breath.
One signature.
One donation.
And just like that, her life no longer belonged to her.