Chapter 2: Morning Chaos and Red Invitations
743 Words
Your alarm didn't go off.
Or maybe it did—and you ignored it four times before violently murdering the fifth in your sleep.
Either way, you wake up twenty-three minutes before your shift.
"—shit."
You bolt upright.
Everything after that is chaos.
You trip over your own blanket, slam your shin into the edge of the couch, and hiss through your teeth while hopping on one foot. Scrubs go on wrong first, then right. Your hair refuses to cooperate. You drag it into a bun that looks like it lost a fight.
One sneaker on.
The other missing.
You find it under the bed like it betrayed you personally.
By the time you're in your car, you're driving one-handed, trying to clip your ID badge with the other, your phone buzzing like it's possessed.
You glance at the screen.
Elena: where are youElena: your patient is literally asking for youElena: did you disappearElena: hello???Elena: if you don't bring coffee i'm deleting your playlist
You huff a breath, tossing the phone aside as you take a sharp turn.
"I'm alive," you mutter. "Barely."
You speed through two lights, park badly, don't care, and sprint inside.
Your coat is crooked.
Your bun is tragic.
But your mind is already switching on.
The nurse at the front desk gives you a long, judgmental look.
You flash a quick smile. "I lost a war with my alarm clock."
She doesn't look impressed.
Fair.
You scan your schedule.
Three post-op reviews.
One recovery.
One ICU.
One pediatric.
You move.
First patient — recovery
You step in, voice already softer.
"Good morning, Mr. Reynolds. How's the heart behaving today?"
He smiles behind the oxygen mask. "Better now that you're here, doctor."
You grin slightly. "Careful. That kind of charm might undo my stitches."
His wife looks at you like you've handed her something she thought she lost.
You adjust his pillows. Check vitals. Explain everything clearly.
Before you leave, he grips your hand.
"You saved my life."
You squeeze once. "You stayed alive. That was the harder part."
Second patient — ICU
The boy looks smaller than he should.
Machines breathing around him.
His mother stands outside like she's afraid to exist too loudly.
You walk in.
"Hey," you say gently. "You gave us a scare."
He winces a smile. "Sorry."
"Next time," you say calmly, "wear a helmet. Or I will personally make worse decisions for you."
A weak laugh escapes him.
His mother exhales.
You explain everything slowly. Even sketch it out for her.
She hugs you before you can stop her.
"I don't know how to thank you."
"You just did."
By the time you reach the cafeteria, the noise hits you all at once.
You drop into the chair across from Elena, already eating.
"I swear," you mutter, "if I see one more blocked artery—"
"You'll fix it anyway," she cuts in.
You point your fork at her. "Don't ruin my threats."
She smirks.
Across the room, a group of junior residents walks in.
You don't look.
You don't need to.
Elena leans in slightly. "Your audience is here."
"If I ignore them," you say, "maybe they'll disappear."
They don't.
Of course they don't.
A nervous voice appears beside you.
"Doctor Laurent… could we ask you something?"
You sigh, but gesture. "Sit. Be quick."
They scramble.
You listen. Correct. Explain.
Effortless.
Unfiltered.
Dangerously sharp.
They laugh when you throw in dry comments. They stare when you don't even try.
One of them asks, "How do you stay calm in surgery?"
You shrug. "I imagine the patient owes me money."
Silence.
Then laughter breaks.
Elena nearly chokes.
Eventually they leave.
You drop your head onto the table.
"Add 'emotionally terrifying' to my resume."
Elena grins. "Too late. You're already famous."
"I hate that."
"You don't."
You don't argue.
Back at your desk, the world quiets again.
Files. Charts. Notes.
Routine.
You sort through the mail absentmindedly.
Until—
your fingers stop.
A cream envelope.
Heavy.
Expensive.
Familiar in a way that immediately puts you on edge.
You open it.
Gold lettering.
Careful script.
Elegant.
Cold.
"The Laurent family invites you to celebrate the wedding of Mira Laurent and Rowan Ashford."
Everything stills.
Mira.
Rowan.
Names you haven't said in years.
People you walked away from—
or who let you go.
And now—
an invitation.
Like nothing broke.
Like nothing happened.
Like you were never erased.
- Writer
