-Sloane Pierce:
The hallway outside Roxy Delgado’s room smelled faintly of antiseptic and burnt coffee. My shoes clicked against the linoleum as I walked away, my clipboard tucked to my chest like armor. The further I put between myself and that room, the easier it became to breathe.
But my mind wouldn’t stop replaying every word that woman had thrown at me. When asked her if she feels any dizziness or nausea.
"Only when you leave the room."
She’d said it so casually, her lips curving into that smirk like she owned the world, like I was nothing more than another possession she’d already claimed. My throat had tightened at the words, not because no one had ever hit on me before—God knows hospitals seem to attract desperate flirtations from patients and even family members—but because of the sheer audacity in her tone.
It wasn’t shy. It wasn’t playful. It wasn’t even testing the waters. It was certain. Fearless. As if she were telling me the sky was blue.
I remembered the way her brother had buried his face in his hand, muttering something under his breath that sounded like exhaustion, not surprise. Like this was simply Roxy being Roxy.
And then—
"What’s your name, doc?"
That question hadn’t been strange on its own. I’ve been asked that hundreds of times, usually followed by awkward thanks or attempts to build rapport. But when I’d given her my name—Dr. Sloan Pierce—she’d rolled it around in her mouth like it was honey.
"Sloane Pierce."
Her eyes had gleamed with something uncomfortably close to delight. And then came the final blow, that line that had made the entire room fall into stunned silence.
"So much better now that you’re."
She hadn’t meant it in the way patients sometimes say things, grateful for the doctor who’s keeping them alive. No. The inflection had been deliberate. Suggestive.
It had taken every ounce of my professionalism not to stumble over my own words. I’d smiled, given my assessment, rattled off the list of instructions like it was any other day, and excused myself with the same cool efficiency I always carried.
But inside? Inside I’d been reeling.
Roxy Delgado had nearly died three nights ago. I’d cut into her skull, drained blood, repaired damage with my own hands. She had been one breath away from never waking up again. And here she was, alive, smirking, flirting as though her hospital bed were just another bar stool.
It almost made me laugh. Almost. By the time I reached the elevator, I was shaking my head, a disbelieving huff escaping me. Maybe it was the head trauma talking. Maybe she was still foggy from the accident, still delirious from painkillers. That was the only logical explanation.
Fifteen minutes later, I was back in the rhythm of the hospital.
The trauma floor was buzzing, as it always did in the early afternoon. I stopped by two post-op patients, checked on their vitals, scribbled notes into charts. Dr. Chen caught me in the hall and updated me on a scheduled craniotomy for tomorrow, and we discussed anesthesia options, weighing risks like we’d done a hundred times before.
It was grounding. Comforting. The steady hum of medicine, where logic and training prevailed over chaos. By the time I slipped into my office with a lukewarm cup of coffee, I’d nearly forgotten the oddness of my last patient interaction.
Nearly. I was halfway through typing up a case note when a knock came at the door. "Come in," I called, not glancing up.
The door opened, and one of the nurses stepped in—Patel, a competent young woman who usually had a smile ready. But today her face was pinched with hesitation.
"Dr. Pierce," she said, her tone cautious. "There’s... someone here to see you." I frowned, setting my pen down. "A patient?"
"Family." That made me look up sharply. "I’m on my break and I don’t have any appointments"
Patel winced. "I know. It’s... unusual. But these aren’t just any family members." I arched a brow, waiting.
"They’re Delgados," she said finally, like that explained everything. And in a way, it did.
The Delgado name carried weight. I’d seen it already in the past three days—how rules bent for them, how staff whispered, how security seemed to vanish whenever one of them barked an order. I didn’t know the details, but the reverence—or was it fear?—that followed them was impossible to ignore.
I exhaled slowly, pressing the heel of my hand to my forehead. "Fine. Send them in." Patel nodded, relief flashing in her eyes, and slipped back out.
Moments later, the door opened again, and in stepped two people I hadn’t yet met: a tall man in a dark suit, his salt-and-pepper hair combed immaculately, and a woman with sharp cheekbones and a silk blouse that screamed understated wealth.
They looked like they belonged at a gala, not in a hospital. "Dr. Pierce," the man said, extending his hand. "I’m Alejandro Delgado. This is my wife, Camila."
I stood, shaking his hand firmly, then hers. Both grips were strong, practiced. "Please, sit," I offered, gesturing to the chairs opposite my desk. "Would you like something to drink? Water, coffee?"
"No, thank you so much," Camila said smoothly as they sat. Her voice carried the kind of authority that made it clear she was used to being obeyed.
Alejandro gave me a polite smile, though his eyes held something harder. "We wanted to thank you for saving our daughter’s life."
I inclined my head. "Roxy’s surgery was a team effort. I just did my part."
"You did more than that," Camila said firmly. "We’re in your debt."
I shifted slightly in my chair. Gratitude from family members wasn’t unusual, but the intensity in her tone made me uneasy.
"How is she today?" Alejandro asked.
"She’s stable," I replied evenly. "Her scans look good. She’ll need rest, hydration, and eventually physical therapy, but her prognosis is strong. I’ve gone over all this with her brothers already."
"Yes," Alejandro said, folding his hands on his knee. "But as parents, we needed to hear it directly. You understand."
I nodded, though something in my chest tightened. This wasn’t just about reassurance. They hadn’t come here just to hear me repeat myself.
And then Camila leaned forward. "There’s another matter we wanted to discuss." Here it comes, I thought.
Her gaze locked onto mine, steady and unyielding. "Roxy has made it very clear that she wants you as her physical therapist."
I froze, my pen still in my hand. For a moment, I wondered if I’d misheard. But Alejandro was already nodding, his expression grim.
"She’s insistent," he said. "And when our daughter is insistent... she doesn’t take no for an answer." My mouth went dry.
"I understand," I said slowly, carefully. "But I’m a neurosurgeon. I am not a physical therapist. That isn’t my field, nor my role. You must understand that."
Camila’s lips curved faintly. "Of course. But you must also understand—Roxy has made up her mind. If it’s not you, she says she won’t do therapy at all."
I blinked at them. "That’s absurd."
"She is absurd," Alejandro admitted, almost rueful. "But she’s also our daughter. And we would prefer her walking again, even if it means indulging her... whims."
I set my pen down sharply. "With respect, I have no intention of abandoning my surgical career to moonlight as a physiotherapist for your daughter. That is not how medicine works. That is not how I work."
They exchanged a glance—silent communication honed over decades of marriage.
Camila leaned back, crossing her legs gracefully. "Dr. Pierce, what if money were no object? Whatever this hospital pays you, Roxy will pay triple. Directly. You would never have to worry about long nights, endless shifts, insurance battles. You’d be free."
I stared at her, stunned.
Triple my salary. My mind flickered, unbidden, through the math. A neurosurgeon’s salary wasn’t small to begin with. Tripled, it would be astronomical. In a year, I’d have enough to pay off every student loan, every lingering debt. In two I’d be millionaire. But that wasn’t why I’d become a surgeon.
I clenched my jaw. "You think you can buy me."
Alejandro’s expression didn’t change. "We think we can persuade you."
I pushed my chair back slightly, the motion deliberate. "No. Absolutely not. I’m a surgeon. My work is in the operating room. That’s where I belong. Your daughter needs a physical therapist, and she will get one—just not me."
"Dr. Pierce—" Camila began, but I cut her off, my temper sparking.
"No. You listen. I don’t know what kind of influence your family has in this hospital, but in my office, in my career, I decide what I will and will not do. And I will not play into your daughter’s fantasies."
The silence that followed was thick, suffocating.
And then, to my surprise, Alejandro exhaled slowly, almost like a sigh of pity. His eyes softened, though not with kindness.
"Very well," he said quietly. "We won’t push further. But for your sake, Dr. Pierce... I hope you understand what it means to tell Roxy no."
Camila rose smoothly, Alejandro following her lead. They both thanked me with voices too polite, too restrained, and then they left, the door clicking softly shut behind them.
I sat there, staring at the wood grain of the desk, my pulse hammering in my ears. Why had they looked at me like that? As if I’d just signed my own death sentence.
I swallowed hard, forcing the thought away, and wrapped my hands around my coffee. The weight in my chest was heavy, suffocating. But I pushed it down.
I had patients to see.
And no Delgado—no matter how wealthy, no matter how powerful—was going to pull me off course.