In my previous life, Vincent and Isabella Finch had despised me. They picked apart every aspect of my existence, claiming my common background made me unworthy of their "genius" son.
Now, Isabella was sobbing hysterically while Vincent cornered the doctor, his face purple with rage.
"What do you mean his hands are gone?" Vincent roared. "He's going to hold a scalpel! He's a future surgical prodigy! You have to save his hands!"
The doctor shook his head. "Mr. Finch, the hands were subjected to extreme sustained heat. But the real damage came from the secondary tearing caused by rough extraction. The nerves and tendons are necrotic."
He paused. "Saving his life is a miracle in itself. As for his hands... he'll struggle to hold chopsticks, let alone a surgical instrument."
Isabella's eyes rolled back. She collapsed in a dead faint.
Vincent slammed his fist against the wall. "I don't care! My son is not ruined! Fix him!"
Watching from the sidelines, I felt nothing but cold detachment.
Is this the choice you wanted, Derek?