ISLA
The patient was already wheeled out of the OR.
I also made my way to the scrub room and stripped off my PPEs—the faint smell of blood clinging to my skin no matter how hard I washed my hands and arms.
My forceps felt too heavy after the many hours of surgery, but my head was still buzzing with the rhythm of the monitors and the memory of the vessel spasming beneath my fingers.
God knows how I panicked out there—one wrong move and the patient could have died on that operating table.
I still couldn’t wrap my head around how it happened when the three of us had been so careful with every move.
Dismissing the thought, I let out a deep sigh and finally finished washing and sanitizing my hands.
When I stepped out into the hallway, Dr.
Hayes was there.
She stood like she’d been expecting me, hands tucked neatly into the pockets of her coat, her expression calm yet incriminating.
“Dr.
Hayes.” I nodded at her in acknowledgment and kept walking.
But when I passed her, she suddenly spoke.
“You held it together, Dr.
Bennett,” she said in a casual tone.
“Most residents would’ve panicked once that bleed started.”
It sounded like praise, but to my ears, her tone carried contempt.
That made me stop and straighten as I turned to her.
“We managed as a team.”
Her eyes flickered, and the faintest smile touched her lips.
“Of course.
Still…
if you’d been quicker to recognize how fragile that vessel was, we wouldn’t have been scrambling in the first place.
You’ll learn to catch those things—eventually.”
I didn’t fully understand what she meant, but I sensed something was really off about her.
The way she spoke, it felt like she was subtly putting the blame on me, when she was the one who changed the angle for better access—and that led to the bleeding.
There was nothing technically wrong with what she did, but I wasn’t naive.
I had a bad feeling about it.
I didn’t respond to her unreasonable statement.
I couldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing she’d gotten under my skin.
Elise gave me one last look before turning and walking away.
I was well aware that Dr.
Hayes wasn’t just my colleague in this hospital.
Her intentions and approaches were clear as day.
I pushed her words out of my head and continued with my rounds.
I had just finished checking on a post-op case when a fine looking man in a tailored suit stepped into my path.
He wasn’t a patient, obviously, nor staff.
His presence stood out immediately against the sterile corridors.
“Dr.
Isla Bennett?” he asked, his voice low and smooth, carrying a trace of an Italian accent.
I nodded, instinctively straightening.
“Yes?”
He offered a polite smile and extended a card.
“Luca Bianchi.
Executive assistant to Mr.
Antonio Vitale.”
The name pulled me up short.
Antonio Vitale.
The man who had been shot near the heart.
The high-risk surgery that still made me wonder what kind of man he was, since his real identity and hospitalization had been kept very confidential until now.
“My employer would like to meet with you,” he continued.
“He asked me to extend the invitation personally.”
My fingers closed around the card I was holding, but I didn’t speak right away.
Something in me tensed, a quiet unease rising in my chest.
Why would a patient demand such a meeting?
This felt…
odd.
“Mr.
Vitale?” I repeated softly, more to buy time than to question.
“Yes.
He values the chance to speak with the one who saved his life.”
Oh…
His words were polite, but I couldn’t shake the weight behind them.
Luca’s presence left no room for hesitation.
With a small gesture of his hand, he motioned for me to follow.
The walk down the corridor felt longer than usual, each step echoing too loudly against the tiles.
Nurses and orderlies passed by, their eyes flicking curiously toward us, but no one dared stop our way.
It was clear Luca moved through this place with quiet authority.
We stopped outside a private suite.
The blinds were half-drawn, the plaque on the door unmarked—special arrangements, no doubt.
He opened the door for me and stepped aside.
Inside, the room was nothing like the rest of Northgate.
The curtains were thick, the lighting warm instead of harsh, and fresh flowers stood neatly arranged by the window.
And there he was.
Antonio Vitale sat propped up in bed, a hardcover book open in his hands.
His posture was straight, composed, as though a gunshot wound had been nothing more than an inconvenience.
When he lifted his gaze to me, I stopped just inside the doorway.
It was the first time I really saw him—beyond the sterile blur of surgery lights on the operating table.
Even in recovery, with lines still running from his arm, he carried a powerful presence.
His features were refined, chiseled with age, his hair touched with little silver at the temples—but it only added to his stature.
Middle-aged, yes, but still stalwart.
Our eyes met, and something strange pressed against my chest.
I didn’t know why, and I couldn’t explain it either.
“Dr.
Bennett, I presume?” he finally spoke.
I slowly nodded in response.
“Please, come in,” he gestured for me to approach.
I stepped forward carefully and stopped about two meters from his bed.
He closed the book with deliberate care before setting it aside.
“At last, I’m able to look at the face of the surgeon who refused to let me die.”
His voice was deep, touched with natural authority, but smoother than I expected.
“I’m glad you’re recovering well, Mr.
Vitale,” I said professionally.
His gaze lingered on me, unwavering, like he was keenly memorizing my features.
“You look younger than I expected,” he said thoughtfully.
“So much skill in someone so young.”
I shifted under his scrutiny, unsure how to respond.
There was nothing threatening in his tone, yet something about him unsettled me.
A presence that filled the space.
“You’ve given me more years than I deserve,” he spoke again.
Then his gaze fixed on mine, steady and intent.
“For that, I will not forget you.
I owe you gratitude.”
I was about to say it was our job to save people, but his expression left no room for denial.
And for reasons I couldn’t explain, that strange stirring in my chest wouldn’t go away.
There was nothing familiar about this man, and yet…
there was.