Chapter 7

Ophelia’s POV

Another Wednesday, I was already running late for my shift, trying to balance a grande cappuccino in one hand and my medical charts in the other, when Lisa practically ambushed me at the neurosurgery department entrance.

"Ophelia!" She grabbed my arm with the enthusiasm of someone announcing a lottery win. "Our new department head started today!"

"Is that so?" I managed to save my coffee from certain death, years of surgical training finally paying off in real-world situations. My tone was carefully neutral–the kind we doctors perfect for telling patients their test results are "interesting."

"Oh come on," Lisa rolled her eyes, falling into step beside me. "Don't tell me you haven't heard the gossip? He's supposedly this incredible neurosurgeon from the East Coast. Jenny says he's like McDreamy, McSteamy, and McRich all rolled into one."

I nearly choked on my coffee. "Please tell me people aren't actually using those nicknames in a professional medical setting."

"Of course not," Jenny, my another colleague, materialized on my other side like she had some sort of gossip-radar. "We're just using them in the break room. And the on-call room. And maybe the supply closet."

"Glad to see we're maintaining the highest standards of medical professionalism," I deadpanned, but Jenny was already on a roll.

"Did you know he owns five private hospitals in Los Angeles? And apparently, he controls like 80% of the medical investments in the city. And," she lowered her voice dramatically, "he's engaged to Emily Peterson."

Ah yes, Emily Peterson. Daughter of our esteemed hospital board chairman, and a walking reminder that some people were born with a silver spoon in their mouth while others had to work their way up from plastic utensils.

"That's... fascinating," I said, trying to sound like I cared about hospital politics when all I really wanted was to finish my coffee before it got cold. "But unless he's planning to perform surgery with his stock portfolio, I'm more interested in his medical credentials."

"Oh, he's got those too," Rachel chimed in. "They call him the 'miracle worker'–hasn't lost a single patient in the last three years."

I raised an eyebrow. "That's either incredibly impressive or he only takes on sure things. Either way—"

Next thing I knew, a voice echoed behind us.

"Well, well, talking about my future brother-in-law?"

The temperature in the hallway seemed to drop several degrees as Kate Peterson–Emily's cousin and living proof that nepotism was alive and well in healthcare–sauntered over to our little gossip circle.

Kate's smile had all the warmth of a surgical ice pack. "I hear he's choosing a resident assistant soon. Though we all know who that's going to be, don't we?" She examined her perfectly manicured nails, which I'm pretty sure hadn't seen the inside of a surgical glove in weeks.

Jenny's face flushed. "What's there to be proud of? You're just riding on connections, you trophy resident!"

"Jealous much?" Kate's smile turned predatory. "Wipe that drool off your faces, ladies. Some of us were born for greatness, while others... well, there's always general practice in suburban clinics."

I could see Jenny's hand clenching into a fist, and having just finished a 36-hour shift, I really wasn't in the mood to fill out incident report paperwork.

"Okay, time out," I stepped between them, channeling my best 'disappointed mom' voice – which, thanks to my five-year-old, I'd gotten quite good at. "Unless you want to explain to the board why two residents were fighting like teenagers in Grey's Anatomy, I suggest we all take a deep breath and remember we're medical professionals."

Kate opened her mouth to respond, but the sharp beeping of my pager cut her off.

"Multiple trauma incoming from a highway pileup," I announced, already moving toward the ER. "Anyone interested in actually practicing medicine is welcome to join."

The next several hours passed in a blur of urgent surgeries, consultation requests, and enough coffee to make my hands shake. By the time dinner rolled around, I was running on autopilot, my mind more focused on the leftover lasagna waiting in my fridge than the stack of paperwork I still needed to complete.

I jabbed the elevator button, mentally calculating how many hours of sleep I could get if I skipped both dinner and my evening shower. The doors slid open with a cheerful ding that felt like a personal insult to my exhausted state.

The next second, I saw the man who I has just met several days ago and who I hoped never appear in my life anymore.

Finnegan Shaw.

He was standing in the elevator like he'd just stepped out of a medical drama, with a perfectly pressed suit and that infuriatingly familiar smirk on his face.

My brain short-circuited. Of all the elevators in all the hospitals in this city, he had to walk into mine. Suddenly, Kate's earlier words about the new department head hit me like a cardiac arrest – successful neurosurgeon, business mogul, engaged to Emily Peterson...

Oh.

Oh no.

The universe wasn't just playing a cosmic joke. It was rolling on the floor laughing at me.

"Dr. Clarke," Finnegan's voice carried that same smooth authority that had haunted my dreams for six years. "Going down?"