Chapter 95
When I finally stepped away from Daniel’s operating table, six grueling hours had passed, and it was already 2 p.m.
Leaning against the corridor walls outside the OR, I was overwhelmed by an indescribable discomfort. I had fantasized about being the one to end Daniel’s life myself, blaming him for the loss of my child and me. Yet, the most twisted turn of events was that I had saved him with my hands. Covering my face as tears began to fall, I realized that my duty as a doctor had to come first between personal vendettas and the greater good.
Dragging my exhausted body back to my office, I bumped into Neil, who had brought lunch.
He seemed eager to say something, but I swiftly grabbed the lunchbox from his hands and shut the office door with a bang. As well-intentioned as it might have been, Claude’s gesture felt like a shallow attempt to comfort himself more than anyone else. I was going to eat as long as it wasn’t poisoned. After surgery, I was starving.
I figured Max hadn’t had lunch, either. As I lingered by my door with the lunchbox in hand, Neil mistakenly thought I had refused to eat. He anxiously blurted out, “Miss, the nurses mentioned you’ve just come from surgery. You should eat something, or Mrs. Hart will worry.” I scoffed coldly, “Is it Mrs. Hart who’s worried, or is it Claude? I’ve missed lunch by two hours already. Is Claude still waiting in the car downstairs? He can wait if he wants. Don’t use Mrs. Hart as your shield p>
I turned to knock on Max’s door, but there was no answer, so I let myself in. The room was empty, and after a moment, his phone rang from the resting room.
“Dr. Hilton?” I called out as I stepped in, leaving the lights off and following the glow from his ringing phone.
What I found next left me in utter shock. Max was slumped over the edge of the bed on the floor, seemingly unconscious.
“Dr. Hilton, are you okay?” I asked, my first thought being that he might have passed out from hunger.
But when I touched his waist to support him, my hand came away wet, and the sharp tang of blood hit my nostrils. Rushing to turn on the light, I saw the sight of Max bleeding from a wound.
“Thinking you’re invincible, huh? Taking on surgery with such serious injuries.” I managed to get him onto the bed, noting the heft of his frame.
I sprinted to the supply room for some bandages and antiseptic, returning to find a few nurses who I brushed off with, “Mr. Hilton cut himself on a broken glass. Just patching him up p>
Stripping off his shirt and layers of
bandages, I discovered the wound was worse than I thought, not just consequence of today’s lengthy surgery. Recalling how he had
carried me back to my apartel.ne
the night before, I feared the injury might have worsened then.
The guilt overwhelmed me as I treated and bandaged him more securely, noticing his fevered brow.
After ensuring he was covered and comfortable, cleaned up the bloodied clothes, planning to bag them up. However, the embroidered “H” on his shirttail, done in a gold thread similar to MH’s
craftsmanship, left me frozen. The embroidery was identical to the one I’d seen on a man’s shirt the other night. Could it be from the same tailor?
Questions would have to wait until he was awake.
Setting the shirt aside, I fetched some fever medicine. When I returned, Max had regained
consciousness and sat weakly in his office chair. His tense demeanor
softened upon seeing me. “It’s you p>
QUMS
I replied, “Yes, it’s me. Only I would dare to touch you, covered in blood, and still keep it a secret that you’re hurt p>