Chapter 2 - Controlled Chaos
1261 Words
Adrian’s POV
They say surgeons play God. That we get to choose who lives, who dies. That’s bullshit. We don’t play God. Every single time I walk into an OR, I go to war with fate. And I don’t lose.
The scent of antiseptic still clung to me as I peeled off my gloves, the snap echoing in the cold air of the hallway. Seventeen hours in the OR, and my hands throbbed like they were screaming at me to stop. But my brain? Still going. Always going.
"Dr. Cole!" Sandra’s voice rang out from behind the nurses’ station.
I stopped, turned. "Yes?"
"The board meeting’s been moved to Monday morning. They want your input on the surgical tech proposals."
"Then they can wait until Monday. Unless someone’s flatlining in front of them, they don’t need me."
She nodded, no argument. People didn’t argue with me anymore. You don’t argue with the youngest chief of trauma surgery in the state. Not when he’s also your biggest donor.
I made my way to the locker room and stood under the shower until the water turned too hot even for me. It didn’t matter. Let it scald. Let it burn something clean.
My reflection in the fogged mirror was warped. Blurred. I rubbed it clear with a towel, met my own eyes.
"You still breathing? Still feel nothing? Good," I muttered, dragging my fingers through my wet hair.
There was order in surgery. Chaos outside. That’s how I liked it. Emotions were for people who had time to be destroyed by them. I didn’t. Not anymore.
Not since Claire.
My jaw clenched at the memory. The only woman who ever made me feel. She walked away before I could decide if I wanted her to stay. I never chased. I buried myself in my work instead. Became a legend. Built an empire. People called me brilliant. A miracle worker. They didn’t know I was just a man bleeding behind a scalpel.
I dressed, shirt clinging slightly to damp skin, suit jacket sliding into place like armor. The phone buzzed just as I tightened my tie.
Nathan - Missed Call.
Of course. My nephew. The i***t.
I didn’t call him back right away. I sat on the bench, glaring at the screen.
When I finally hit call, he picked up on the first ring.
"Uncle Adrian—hey. Thanks for calling back."
"It’s almost midnight. This better be important."
"It is. I think. I mean, it’s about Elena."
That name stirred something. A flicker of memory.
"Elena. Your girlfriend?"
"Ex. We broke up."
My brows lifted. "Since when?"
"A few weeks ago. It… it got messy."
"Everything with you gets messy."
"I know," he said quickly. "But this is different."
"Talk."
He hesitated. Long enough for me to imagine smacking the stupidity out of him.
"She’s sick. Her vision, she’s going blind. Keratoconus. Shingles made it worse. One eye’s gone already."
"And what does that have to do with me?"
"I think she’s being misdiagnosed. Or at least, mismanaged. She trusts the doctors she’s seeing, but… something’s off. And she won’t listen to me anymore."
"Can’t imagine why," I said dryly.
"I’m serious. I know I messed things up with her. But this isn’t about us. She doesn’t have family. Her career’s circling the drain. She needs someone better than the guys she’s seeing now."
"So you want me to swoop in and fix your mess."
"You did ophthalmologic trauma for two years, right?"
"Fifteen years ago."
"But you still know more than any of the people she’s seeing."
I sighed, rubbing the bridge of my nose. "Why are you really calling, Nathan? Guilt? Trying to clear your conscience?"
"I don’t know," he admitted. "Maybe. But she’s a good person. Better than I ever deserved. I just… I don’t want her to lose everything if there's even a chance you could help."
I paused. Thought of the woman he used to talk about with something that resembled awe. "Send me her file."
"You’ll look at it?"
"Just send it," I snapped, and ended the call.
Ten minutes later, the email pinged into my inbox. I opened the file on my office screen and started reading.
Elena Hart
age 26
Diagnosis: Corneal thinning. Irregular astigmatism. Vision loss advancing fast. Scarring from shingles. One eye already legally blind. The other, on the way.
Idiots. All of them. Not one caught the microperforations. Not one flagged the vascular compromise from the shingles.
I scrolled to the attached photo.
Dark brown hair. Pale lips. Hazel brown eyes that didn’t quite meet the camera lens. Not shy, detached. Controlled. She didn’t look broken. She looked like she refused to break.
"Stubborn," I muttered, leaning back in my chair. "Just what I need."
I could have walked away. Should have. But something about her face wouldn’t let me. She looked… proud. Like she’d rather walk off a cliff than ask for help.
I called Nathan again.
"What now?" he said, picking up on the second ring.
"I’ll see her."
"Really?"
"But I don’t do anonymous charity cases. If I help her, it’s on my terms."
"Of course, yeah. Whatever you say."
"Don’t tell her I’m coming. I’ll set up a consult through someone she won’t recognize. If she agrees to it, I’ll step in."
He hesitated. "Just… go easy on her. She’s already gone through hell."
"Then she’ll survive me."
I made one call to an old friend at the corneal center. By morning, she had an appointment scheduled.
The next day, I stood by the observation glass as Elena Hart entered the clinic. Her cane tapped softly against the floor. She walked slow, measured, proud. Her posture said she wasn’t going to let anyone pity her.
She sat across from the attending, chin up. The tech started running the scans. I watched her expression, composed, but alert. She wasn’t broken. Just bent.
"She’s stronger than she looks, isn’t she?" I muttered.
The assistant beside me glanced over. "What’s that, sir?"
"Nothing."
I stepped into the room just as the tech left. She turned her head slightly, listening to the footsteps.
"You’re not the regular doctor," she said.
"No. I’m better."
"That confidence always come free of charge?"
"I charge extra for charm."
She didn’t smile, but something flickered in her expression. Interest? Irritation? Hard to tell.
"Dr. Adrian Cole," I said, extending a hand.
She didn’t take it.
"Elena Hart."
"I know."
"That supposed to impress me?"
"Not trying to impress. Trying to help."
"I didn’t ask for help."
"No. But you're getting it anyway."
"Why?"
"Because the last three doctors missed something. You’ve got microtears near the limbus. And vascular compromise from the shingles. It’s not just keratoconus anymore, it’s degenerative trauma."
Her jaw tightened. "How do you know that?"
"Because I actually read your scans."
She hesitated. "And you’re here… out of the goodness of your heart?"
"No. I'm here because someone you know begged me. And because I hate seeing good patients screwed by bad medicine."
Her mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Blunt. I like that."
"You’ll like me less when I tell you the treatment plan."
"Try me."
"It’s aggressive. Painful. Risky. And it’s your best shot."
She looked at me then, directly. Her eyes were cloudy, but her gaze still hit hard.
"I’ve already lost too much to care about the pain."
I nodded slowly. "Then let’s fix what we can."
As I walked out of the room, I realized something strange. I was actually looking forward t
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