"Adrian, that's my father. Brainstem hemorrhage—every minute is a fight against death. And you're telling me two days won't matter?"
He frowned, clearly irritated by the pushback.
He turned and looked down at me, voice sharp with authority.
"You're a doctor, Wendy. Act like one."
"Unstable vitals mean no surgery. Did you even read the risk assessment?"
"I'm protecting the patient. Keep your personal drama out of this."
Before today, I might have believed him.
After all, he was the dual-specialty prodigy—Sacred Heart's golden boy in both cardiac and neurosurgery.
But now, every line in that notebook was a slap across my face.
"Protecting the patient?"
I laughed—hollow, bitter. My finger jabbed toward his pocket.
"Protection means bumping a critical surgery so you can throw your protégé a birthday party?"
"Protection means deciding a craniotomy is too boring—not worth missing your junior's smile?"
"Put your hand on your heart and say that again. I dare you."
His expression went ice-cold.
"You went through my diary?"
"I was looking for my father's chart!"
"Enough."
He cut me off, disgust plain on his face.
"Right now? You sound like some bitter, paranoid ex."