Chapter Three

Hermione

It remains a few hours before my shift is over. I don't have any surgery scheduled until the next two days. Mercifully.

As I step out into the hallway, my path is intercepted by Professor Jang.

He is one of the oldest doctors to have worked in the hospital, even though he attempts to appear young.

He never fails to dye his graying hairs into an obsidian black. He has that air of cheerfulness about him, which is a sharp contrast to my typical aloofness and icy personality.

Residents love to join his team rather than be under my mentorship.

"Impressive performance, as always, Professor Pierce," Doctor Patel says, clapping loudly.

My dad's name is Pierce - Jackson Pierce. My mom refuses to change her surname fully to his after marriage, hence the two surnames on my profile: Hermione Watson Pierce.

I introduce myself first as Hermione Pierce, before adding Watson as my other surname. Most of my colleagues are often baffled by this act of mine, wondering why I would hide my affiliation to the renowned Watson Foundation. If only they knew.

Sure, my family has loads of money - generational wealth; the luxury is secure and enviable. However, not all that glitters is gold. Beyond the glittering facade lies a darker reality.

"Mmn," I grunt low under my breath. "Did she request my audience?" I ask him.

"Don't be too rigid, Professor Pierce." He flattens his mouth into a semblance of a smile and draws a line across it with his finger. "Smile."

I ignore him, heading towards my mom's office.

"That insolent br..." I hear Professor Patel's strangled curse behind me, and a slow smile creeps onto my mouth.

Professor Patel is actually an interesting man. I could have gotten along with him and gleaned some knowledge from him; he's highly skilled in bypass surgery. However, he's too much of a sycophant, kissing up to anyone he regards as being in a prominent position.

That makes me wonder what his true nature is. I can't befriend a man whose true nature isn't apparent.

I knock on the door when I reach my mom's office.

"Come in!"

I turn the knob and push the door open, stepping inside. My mom is on a call, so I gently close the door behind me.

I sit on one of the couches set a few feet away from her desk, where she receives visitors. I recline into the plush chair, letting out a sigh.

My head whips toward my mom, and our eyes connect. The sigh was louder than I intended, and it catches her attention.

"Let's talk later, alright," she says, wrapping up her conversation. She sets her phone down on her desk and stands up, her desk chair rotating to the side.

Her heels click rhythmically against the polished marble flooring as she approaches me. She sits across from me, crossing her legs at the knee.

Her eyes are sharp as she assesses me. "Tea or coffee?"

I shake my head, unable to speak. My throat is dry, so I swallow and try again. "No, I'm good."

Her jaw twitches, but she holds back her comment. She rings for tea to be brought in for her.

I suspect I'm in for a lengthy and critical discussion, given that my mom is offering tea before opening her mouth.

My anxiety spikes, and tension builds in my bloodstream. I stiffen my legs and clasp my fingers over my thighs to hide my nervous reaction. I assume a leisurely pose, but my entire body is shaking with worry.

My mom's tea arrives, and the lady who brings it in sets it on the table and quickly exits the office. Mom doesn't appreciate the effort either. She raises the steaming cup of herbal tea to her mouth and sips.

The thick scent of chamomile with peppermint fills the air, and I struggle to hide my repulsion.

My mom is probably aware of my aversion to her choice of tea. It's either she prefers this torturous way of keeping me grounded, or she just doesn't care.

Right. I smack my lips, recollecting. In my mom's regard, I'm not a human being; I'm a mere robot. I have no feelings or thoughts of my own; I'm merely conditioned to act out her wishes.

I swallow the lump that forms in my throat. My stomach shifts under her intense scrutiny, and I wish earnestly for a reprieve.

"Are you feeling stressed?" Mom asks out of the blue.

My gaze snaps up to hers. "Pardon?" slips through my lips before I can help it.

A frown lines her forehead, and I immediately answer, "No." I hold my breath, searching for a fresh scent, but none can be found, not in Mom's office.

Mom inhales the steam from her tea, a smile of appreciation on her lips. I cringe inwardly, schooling my expression to maintain a mask of neutrality.

The cup clinks against its saucer when she sets it down. She produces a magazine from nowhere and flings it across the center table toward me.

I glance at the magazine, curiosity sparking. I don't reach out to pick it up, but I catch the headlines: "Alvin Dale Mendes: The Visionary Behind MD's Success."

I haven't heard of him. He's not the kind of news I'd follow, if I watched the news. I've always been too busy with research books and practicing late into the night to hone my surgical skills.

I meet my mom's gaze questioningly when she gestures for me to pick up the magazine.

"Acquaint yourself with every detail about that family," she says.

"Why?" I mutter, still trying to process the information.

"You will be getting married into that family soon," my mom states, her tone matter-of-fact.

"What?" I exclaim, squinting my eyes in shock. I glance down at the old man on the magazine. He looks to be around my dad's age, fifty-two, but appears much older.

I leap to my feet, a mix of disbelief and irritation sweeping through me. "This old man?" I seethe, flinging the magazine in my hand.

My mom's demeanor remains unchanged. "Calm yourself down. You will be getting married to his second son," she says with a finality to her tone. "He's around your age," she adds, as though that's something to rejoice about.

I feel a surge of anger and resentment. She's tying my future to some faceless man for her ambitions, and expects me to act the obedient child and say yes to this?

Hell, no. I can work myself to exhaustion, but I'm not settling for a loveless marriage.

"No," I breathe, facing my mom head-on. "I'm not getting married to anyone. That will be my choice to make. No," I say more firmly.

My mom doesn't react. Instead, she slowly folds her arms across her chest. Then, she begins to laugh – a dry, menacing cackle that has me withdrawing a step back.

When Ezra Watson Pierce laughs, it doesn't end well. It means someone's going to cry. And we both know who that person is in here: me.