chapter 2
1239 Words
~The Next Day ~
*General Court*
Ixora filed the papers at 9:02 AM. she's in Courthouse downtown Sacramento. No lawyer. No witnesses. Just her, a ballpoint pen, and Three years in prison trauma she couldn’t unlearn.
Petitioner: Ivy Cross
Respondent: Terrance Valente
Reason: Threat to personal safety. History of coercive control. Risk of retaliation.
The clerk stamped it. “Judge Ralston will see you at 10:30. Bring any evidence.”
Evidence. She had his name in her nightmares. She had Mateo’s silence for 3 years after prison. She had 37 dollars and a trash bag.
She had nothing he couldn’t bury with a phone call.
At 10:28 AM she stood in front of Judge Ralston. Small courtroom. Cold air. Terrance wasn’t there. He was still in LA General hospital, recovering, probably already hunting for her.
“Ivy Cross,” the judge read. “You’re asking for a full restraining order against Terrance Valente, CEO of Valente Holdings.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“On what grounds?”
“He’s dangerous. He has resources. He has people. Five years ago he let me take the fall for—”
The judge cut her off. “Do you have a police report? Photos? Medical records? Anything dated within the last year?”
“No.”
“Any current contact from Mr. Valente? Threats? Messages?”
“No.”
The judge leaned back. “Ms. Cross, you saved Mr. Valente’s life last night. Hospital records show you performed emergency surgery on him. You clocked out and left before he regained consciousness. Now, 8 hours later, you’re claiming he’s a threat.”
Ixora’s jaw tightened. “He is a threat.”
“From what I see, he’s a patient. And you’re a doctor who walked away from him. I’m denying the order.”
The gavel hit. Just like that.
“No contact,” she said, desperate. “Even temporary.”
“Denied,” the judge repeated. “If Mr. Valente contacts you, you can file again. With evidence. Court Dismissed.”
The courtroom emptied. Ixora stood there with unsigned papers in her hand. The law didn’t believe her. The law believed Terrance Valente’s credit score.
Her phone buzzed as she stepped outside. Hospital admin.
“Dr. Cross, this is LA General HR. We need you back on the floor. Code staffing. You’re the only trauma surgeon available for night shift.”
“I don’t work for you,” she said.
“You do for the next 72 hours. Contract clause. Emergency coverage. You signed it 3 years ago when we transferred you here.”
She hung up.
It didn’t matter. By noon, her Sacramento contract was “temporarily reassigned”. By 6 PM, her badge for LA General was reactivated. By 7 PM, she was back in the same hospital where Terrance Valente was recovering on the 8th floor.
Forced proximity. Legal and clean. The system did what Terrance couldn’t: put her in the same building.
She hated it. She hated him more for making her hate the job she’d built to survive.
---
*11:47 PM. LA General. Trauma Floor.*
She kept her head down. Mask up. Eyes on charts. She took the opposite wing from his recovery room. She told every nurse: “If Valente pages, you’re not my patient.”
It worked for 6 hours.
Then the overhead speaker: “Dr. Ivy Cross to Recovery 8. Stat.”
Not her patient. Not her floor. Not her problem.
She ignored it.
Two minutes later, her pager screamed again. Then a nurse she didn’t know appeared in her bay. “Dr. Cross, Mr. Valente is tachycardic. 140 bpm. He’s asking for you by name.”
“Ivy Cross,” she corrected. “And I’m not his doctor.”
“He wrote it on the whiteboard. ‘Ivy. Hands. Now.’ His vitals won’t stabilize.”
Ixora gripped the counter until her knuckles went white. her subconscious screaming at her "Don’t go. Don’t look. Let him crash."
She turned away. Checked a chart that didn’t need checking.
The nurse didn’t leave. “Ma’am, if he codes, it’s on us. He’s Valente Holdings. If he dies on our floor because we didn’t page you—”
“Then page vascular,” she snapped. “Page the attending. Page God. Not me.”
The nurse left. For 12 minutes, nothing.
Then alarms. Code Blue. Recovery 8.
Her feet moved before her brain could stop them. Down the hall. Past nurses. Past gurneys. Past her own rules.
She burst into Recovery 8 and froze.
Terrance was sitting up in bed. IV ripped out. Monitors screaming. Sweat on his forehead. Grey eyes locked on the door like he’d been waiting.
He wasn’t crashing. He was breathing fine. 120 bpm, not 140. Controlled.
He saw her. And smirk. Small. Sharp. Like he’d won something.
“Took you long enough,” he said.
Ixora went still. “You’re not in distress.”
“No,” he admitted. “But my vitals only go normal when you’re in the room. We tested it.” He nodded at the nurse in the corner. She looked guilty. “I asked them to page you. They didn’t believe me.”
“Get out,” she said to the nurse. Then to him: “You faked a code.”
“I needed to see if it was true,” he said. He swung his legs over the bed. Stitches pulled. He didn’t flinched as he blood roll out. “If my body remembers you when my brain doesn’t.”
Ixora backed toward the door. “This is manipulation. I’m reporting you.”
“Report me,” he said. “Tell them the man you saved is obsessed with the doctor who vanished before he woke up. Tell them you filed a restraining order 8 hours after you cut me open. See who they believe.”
Her chest tightened. He knew about the order. Of course he knew. He knew everything.
“I don’t know you,” she said. “Ivy Cross. Not yours.”
“Ivy,” he said, testing it. “Ivy Cross. The woman who decides if I live or die, then disappears.” He stood. One hand pressed to his stitches. “You don’t get to walk away twice, Ivy.”
“I do,” she said. “And I will.”
She turned and walked out. Didn’t run. Didn’t look back.
Behind her, he said quietly: “Your hands were shaking when you stitched me. Not from fear. From hate. I felt it.”
She didn’t answer. She took the stairs instead of the elevator. 8 floors down. Fast. Like if she moved fast enough, he couldn’t follow.
In the locker room she stripped off her badge. Threw it in the trash.
Her phone buzzed. New text from the hospital.
_“Hospital administration says you’re assigned to his floor for 72 hours. Contract says you can’t refuse. Run all you want, Ivy. Blood remembers where to find you.”_
But the assignment stood. 72 hours. Same floor. Same building. Same man.
She slammed her locker shut. The sound echoed like a gunshot.
She hated him. Shes hating this hospital. She hated her hands for betraying her twice in one day.
And upstairs, Terrance pressed his fingers to the stitches she’d placed. He could still feel her anger in every knot.
He's going to make her pay for this
- Writer
