ISLA
Both Liana and Stacey straightened immediately, masks of respect slipping into place perfectly.
I lowered my gaze slightly, instinctively bracing under the old matriarch’s scrutiny.
But when her eyes found me, they softened—only a fraction, but enough to ease the tightness in my chest.
“Come, Isla,” she ordered firmly, ignoring the other two.
“Walk with me.
We shall have breakfast together.”
I blinked, startled by the invitation, but inclined my head right away.
“Yes, Grandma.”
Liana’s smile faltered for a brief second, but she quickly composed herself.
Stacey’s jaw tightened, yet she said nothing.
With a final, dismissive glance toward them, Lady Margot turned, and I followed, synchronizing my steps with hers down the corridor.
The old lady had a separate dining area overlooking the garden, bright and serene—the massive greenery filling the view.
Servants moved quietly, setting down tea and light dishes.
Lady Margot lowered herself gracefully into her chair, motioning for me to sit close.
Her sharp eyes studied me for a moment before she finally spoke.
“Tell me, child…
how are things between you and Alistair?
Have you begun to settle into your place with him?”
Heat rushed to my cheeks at her directness.
“We are…
managing,” I said carefully, unsure how much to reveal.
She leaned forward, her gaze probing.
“Managing?
Hmph.
That won’t do.
I want to see progress.
You are his wife now.
This family is waiting for a grandchild, Isla.”
My breath caught, and I nearly choked on my tea.
“A–a grandchild?” I stammered, my face burning as I lowered my eyes.
I knew it was the purpose of my being here, but the thought hadn’t fully sunk into my mind.
Lady Margot gave a short, satisfied laugh at my fluster.
“Isn’t that what we agreed on?
The Montgomery blood must continue, and you must deliver the heir soon.”
I fumbled for words, my heart pounding loudly.
I still couldn’t picture myself having intimacy with Alistair.
That was Alistair Montgomery, okay?
Just the mere thought of it made me feel suffocated by the pressure.
God…
I was about to say something when her hand suddenly went to her temple.
Her expression pinched, eyes closing briefly as if fighting off a wave of pain.
“Are you alright, Grandma?” I pushed my chair back instantly, worry rising in my chest.
She waved me off briskly, straightening with an effort.
“It is nothing—just a minor headache.”
But as a doctor, I knew better.
The pallor creeping across her face, the slight tremor in her fingers—this was not nothing.
My gaze lingered on her with growing unease, even as she forced a reassuring smile.
Yet inside, a heavy thought pressed against me—something was wrong, and Lady Margot was hiding it.
By the time I returned to Northgate, the corridors were scrambling with urgency.
My pager vibrated repeatedly, flashing the summons that made my heart skip a beat.
Grant.
Stat.
I didn’t need the full name.
Everyone knew who Tyler Grant was.
To the public, he was a film legend, a great musician, the people’s dearest heartthrob.
But to us, he was a man with a brain tumor and a clock ticking too loudly over his head.
He had been diagnosed almost a week ago and was still under observation.
The case was shrouded in secrecy—nothing could leak to the press that he was here.
Only a handful of us even knew.
I prepared for the operation and slipped quickly into my scrub suit.
Dr.
Ramirez’s face was set with tension as he briefed me.
“Tumor’s pressing on critical structures.
We need to perform the surgery in five minutes.
Dr.
Hayes is already inside.
You’ll be handling vascular control.”
A knot formed in my stomach at the mention of her name.
Dr.
Elise Hayes again.
Brilliant, ambitious—but never my ally.
She had never openly disliked me, yet I could feel the hostility in the air whenever she was around.
Colleagues told me she had been the brilliant one before I came here.
But when I joined, it seemed I overshadowed her shine.
I had always believed that was the root of her hostility toward me.
Inside OR 7, the air was sharp with antiseptic and tension.
Tyler lay still, already prepped, the overhead lights glaring down like interrogators.
Elise was gowned, her movements careful and precise as she positioned the retractors.
When she looked up, her expression was calm, professional.
“Good, you’re here,” she said smoothly.
“We’ll need steady hands on this one.”
The surgery began, and each of us locked into our roles.
For the first hour, it was steady, almost textbook.
Elise’s technique was flawless, Ramirez guided with quiet authority, and I kept close watch on the arteries threading dangerously close to the tumor.
Then came a small shift.
Elise angled her approach differently from what we had discussed during pre-op.
“Adjusting for better access,” she murmured, eyes fixed on her task.
I glanced at the scan, unease prickling my skin.
“Careful—you’re very close to the MCA.”
She didn’t look up, more focused than ever.
“I know.
Trust me, it’ll save us time.”
The words sounded reasonable.
Yet my gut tightened.
Minutes later, the monitors beeped sharply.
Pressure drop.
A thin line of blood welled where it shouldn’t have been.
“Clamp,” Ramirez ordered immediately.
My hands were already moving—suction, clamp, cautery—sealing the leak before it could spiral out of control.
The field cleared, and the monitor steadied, thankfully.
Elise exhaled through her mask, her brows drawn tightly together, sweat trickling down her forehead.
“That was close,” she said almost lightly.
Then, to Ramirez: “The vessel must’ve been more fragile than we thought.”
But her eyes flicked toward me—just briefly—and something in that glance made my chest tighten.
The hours wore on, heavier, slower.
The tumor was stubborn, curling into places no surgeon wanted to reach.
Sweat gathered beneath my cap, my shoulders burning from the unrelenting focus.
Then came the moment.
A spasm—sudden, violent—clamped down on the middle cerebral artery.
The field clouded in red.
For a terrifying heartbeat, the OR froze.
“Elise, retract,” I snapped, already shifting my angle.
My voice sounded steady, but nothing could explain the anxiety coursing through me at that moment.
With micro-forceps, I isolated the artery, coaxing the vessel free from the tumor’s grip.
The spasm resisted, tightening like a fist.
Every second was a countdown.
Too much tension, and he’d stroke out on the table.
Too little pressure, and we’d bleed him dry.
This was the hardest surgery I had ever faced so far.
We were absolutely caught in between.
“Vasodilator,” I said quickly.
Ramirez handed it over without question.
With painstaking care, I applied it, steady pressure, my breath locked in my chest.
Slowly, agonizingly, the vessel relaxed, the spasm easing under my hands.
The monitors leveled.
The bleeding stopped.
A collective exhale rippled through the team.
Piece by piece, layer by layer, we freed the tumor.
And when it finally came loose, whole and intact, a flood of relief nearly buckled my knees.
When the final suture was tied, Tyler’s vitals steadied, and the monitor’s rhythm settled into a steady beat.
Ramirez peeled back with a weary sigh.
“Well done, everyone.
He made it.”
Relief flooded me, warming every exhausted muscle.
We had pulled him back from the edge.
Elise stripped off her gloves, her expression unreadable.
“Yes.
Though there were a few…
tense moments.”
Her tone was soft, almost thoughtful, but I felt the weight of her words aimed at me.
I met her gaze, but she was already turning away, leaving the operating room.
To anyone else, she looked composed, professional.
But I couldn’t shake the sense that somewhere in those “tense moments,” she had found exactly what she was looking for— a doubt to seed, one only I had noticed.