Post Surgery, I Saw His Bias For Her

1 Past midnight after my twelfth surgery, exhaustion and cramps left me bent double. Shivering, I went to Preston’s office for my cashmere blanket. He already had it draped over Brooke. “She’s fragile,” he said coldly. “You’re stronger, Summer. Don’t be difficult.” For three years, I’d written his charts, covered his shifts, taken abuse from families. His only praise: “You’re always the mature one.” Now I saw maturity meant being left in the cold. Brooke settled in as he handed her hot brown sugar water. I stood nearby, scrubs stiff with blood, invisible to him. Silently, I walked out and dropped my engagement ring in the trash. Ten minutes later, his text buzzed: Stop the tantrum. I’ll make it up after my shift. The hundredth time. I opened my email and clicked the fellowship invitation I’d ignored for months. … At the morning sign-out the next day, I dragged my sleep-deprived body into the conference room and placed three complex ICU charts on the table. Every page had been typed out, letter by letter, while I fought off waves of abdominal pain the night before. Preston walked in. Ignoring my pale face, he swept the charts off the table and handed them straight to Brooke. My heart contracted, leaving a heavy, suffocating weight in my chest. I remembered my first year of residency. I had cried in his office because I couldn't draft a proper clinical chart. He had held my hand, guiding my pen, and whispered: "Summer, your handwriting is as beautiful as your heart. It's meant to save lives. This is our silent partnership." Now, that partnership felt like a slap in the face. Brooke, still wrapped in my cashmere blanket, looked up with an air of fragile innocence. "Preston, Summer stayed up all night to write these. She should present them. I don't want to steal her thunder." As she spoke, her eyes locked onto mine, flashing a brief, triumphant smirk. Preston's voice cut through the room, cold and warning. "Brooke is still recovering from an illness. Who are you glaring at, Summer? You could learn a thing or two about her thoughtfulness." A sharp, stabbing pain bloomed in my chest, and my vision blurred for a second. Ignoring Preston entirely, I looked at Brooke. "Is a stolen blanket really that warm?" Her eyes instantly welled with tears. Preston stepped in front of her, shielding her from my view. I remembered a time when I had argued passionately with the department chief over a rare disease treatment plan. I had been red-faced and furious, nearly slamming my hands on the table. Afterward, Preston had pulled me into the empty stairwell, pinching my cheek with a fond laugh: "I love how fierce you are. You never let anyone walk over you, my little thorny rose." But now, that same fierceness only annoyed him. During grand rounds, the hospital leadership requested an update on our cardiogenic shock research. This project had been my obsession for the past three months, costing me endless sleepless nights. I raised my hand, though my arm felt like lead. Preston's gaze swept over me, completely ignoring my hand, and landed on Brooke. "Dr. Brooke is the primary contributor to this project. It is only fitting that she presents the findings." Brooke walked up to the podium, holding my notes, and began reading the slides with a hesitant, stuttering voice. Preston had once told me that this research would be our shared crown, the ultimate graduation gift for my residency. Now, he was handing my gift to someone else. After the meeting, he cornered me in the hallway. "The paper will be published in a major medical journal soon," he said, his tone entirely matter-of-fact. "I want you to give Brooke the first-author credit. She needs the publication for her upcoming promotion." Looking at his handsome, entitled face, I felt a tremor of rage run through me. My heart went completely cold. I squeezed my fists so hard my nails bit into my palms, forcing back the tears. Then, I smiled. "Sure," I said. He seemed taken adjust by how easily I had surrendered, blinking in surprise. "I knew I could count on you. You're always so reasonable." I turned and walked away, pulling out my phone. I opened our shared research group chat, titled Cardiology Vanguard, and without a second thought, tapped Leave Group. To celebrate the initial approval of the cardiogenic shock paper, the department booked a private room at a high-end restaurant across the street. This dinner should have been my celebration. Instead, at the main table, colleagues took turns raising their glasses to Brooke. Brooke shrank behind Preston, her voice dripping with artificial modesty. "Thank you, everyone, but Preston won't let me touch a drop of alcohol. He says my health is too delicate." Preston smiled, naturally taking the glass from her hand. His eyes, as he looked at her, were filled with a soft, protective indulgence. "Alcohol is terrible for her recovery. I'll drink her share." For the next half hour, he drank glass after glass to shield her, the two of them looking every bit like a devoted couple amidst the cheers of our colleagues. I sat in the farthest corner of the room, my body shivering as the menstrual cramps worsened. I kept my head down, biting my lip to keep from throwing up. Suddenly, the deputy chief of the department walked over to me, glass in hand. "Summer! You're the backbone of this research team. You've worked so hard, you have to drink with me!" The pain was so intense I could barely stand. I forced myself to rise, holding up my glass of warm water. "I'm so sorry, Chief. I'm not feeling well tonight. Let me toast you with water instead..." Before I could finish, a hand slid over mine. Preston easily took the water glass from my grip, picked up a bottle of liquor, and poured me a generous shot. "Come on, Summer," he murmured in a low, coaxing voice. "The chief has always championed you. Everyone is having a good time, so don't act like a child." The cold glass seeped into my palm, sending a shiver up my spine. I looked at the man I had loved for five years, my voice barely a whisper. "I'm on my period, Preston. The pain is unbearable." "And I have a severe alcohol allergy," I added, my voice cracking with desperation. "I'll go into anaphylactic shock. Have you forgotten?" When we were sophomores in college, I had accidentally eaten a chocolate filled with liquor. My airway had swollen shut within minutes, and I had nearly died in the emergency room. That night, Preston had broken every bottle of alcohol in his apartment, crying as he held me close. He had sworn: "Summer, I will never let a single drop of alcohol near you again. If I can't even protect the woman I love, I don't deserve to be a doctor." Now, he didn't look angry. He only sighed, his expression tinged with irritation. "Summer, that was years ago. Your immune system has gotten much stronger since then. Just take a sip or two, and I'll drink the rest." "With me right here, what could possibly happen to you? Just be good." My chest ached so badly I could barely draw breath. Right then, Brooke walked over, holding a glass of dark liquor filled to the brim with ice. She held it right up to my face. "Summer, I know you're upset about the paper's authorship," she said, her voice sounding like a sweet poison. "Let's drink to put it behind us, okay?" The smell of the alcohol made my stomach heave, and I instinctively stepped back. But Preston's hand slid around my waist, locking me in place. "Summer, Brooke is offering you a peace treaty," he whispered near my ear. "You can throw your tantrums at home, but give me some face in front of our colleagues." "Drink it, and I'll take you out for your favorite dumplings afterward, okay?" A violent cramp ripped through my abdomen, and sweat beaded on my forehead. Looking at Preston's familiar, gentle, yet utterly heartless face, a wave of absolute despair washed over me. I violently shoved his hand away. "Are you sure you want me to drink this, Preston?" I rolled up my right sleeve, exposing the jagged scar on my wrist from the emergency venous line they had cut to save my life during my last allergic shock. I thrust it right into his face. "If I drink this, I will suffocate on this floor! Are you so eager to please her that you want me dead?" The room went dead silent. Every conversation cut off instantly. Preston stared at the scar, a flicker of genuine shock crossing his features. But my gaze had already drifted to Brooke's wrist. There, glittering under the restaurant lights, was a rare, limited-edition watch. It was the watch I had left in the hospital call room, the one Preston had gifted me last year. He had told me: "Every tick of this watch represents a heartbeat of mine for you." It turned out his heartbeats were cheap enough to be handed out to anyone. I reached into my pocket, pulled out the engagement ring I had retrieved from the trash can earlier, and dropped it into Brooke's glass with a sharp splash. "The wedding is off, Preston. Consider the research paper my parting donation to your new life." "Don't ever make me sick again." Droplets of alcohol splashed onto Preston's expensive shirt. When he looked up, his eyes held only a cold, patronizing authority. "Summer, you used to be so mature. You're disappointing me today." He loosened his tie, his voice flat and certain. "Walk out that door, and you can spend the next few days reflecting on your behavior. When you're ready to stop acting like a child, come find me." "But until then, don't expect me to reach out." I let out a cold laugh, turned on my heel, and walked out without looking back. He had no idea that just an hour ago, I had liquidated the joint investment portfolio I had set up under my name for our house down payment. I had sold the entire balance of two hundred thousand dollars at a loss, forcing him to absorb the massive financial hit. I was going to make sure he felt every single penny of that loss. The morning after I submitted my transfer request, the alarms in the cardiothoracic ward blared, shattering the peace of the hospital. A critical patient, who had been transferred from the general ward to the ICU the night before, had gone into acute heart failure. The cause was a lethal overdose of Deslanoside, a powerful cardiac medication. The administration launched an immediate investigation. Within hours, the digital footprint was uncovered. The electronic signature that authorized the fatal dose belonged to my account. The timestamp read 2:00 AM. Instantly, my colleagues looked at me with cold, accusing eyes. Rage and panic rushed to my head, leaving my limbs numb. I could barely stand. I immediately demanded to see the shift logs. At 2:00 AM, I wasn't even in the hospital building. I had been curled up in my apartment, crying from menstrual pain. How could I have logged into the system? Brooke was sobbing behind Preston, looking pale and fragile. She offered a tearful, stuttering defense, claiming she had only "borrowed" my login to look up some reference files. She claimed she must have bumped the keyboard by mistake, leading to the error. "Summer, I'm so sorry... I really didn't mean to..." She wept as if she were the victim here, making my teeth chatter with pure fury. "By mistake?" I yelled. "Brooke, you've been an assistant surgeon for five years! You're telling me you accidentally ordered a lethal dose of a high-risk medication?" I demanded that security pull the footage from the nurse's station and verify the IP logs to prove my innocence. But Preston grabbed my arm, dragging me away from the administration office. He slammed a pre-printed document onto my chest. The sharp edge of the paper sliced across my cheek, leaving a stinging red line. It was a Resident Clinical Error Confession Form. He spoke in a sickening, patronizing tone, trying to force me to take the fall for her. "Summer, just sign it. An incident like this will ruin Brooke's career. But you're different, you're just a resident. Once she gets her promotion, I'll use my father's connections to get you into a fully funded PhD program. Think of this as a temporary sacrifice." He reached out to touch my shoulder. "You'll help us, right? You're always the mature one." Staring at the paper that would destroy my license and my entire career, and looking at the man who was willing to ruin my life to shield his mistress, the last of my sanity burned away. With trembling hands, I tore the confession form to pieces right in front of the hospital board. Then, I threw the paper shreds straight into his handsome face. "Clean up your own garbage, Preston!" By that afternoon, an official email was sent to the entire hospital: Resident Summer Offen Suspended Indefinitely for Major Clinical Error. My phone exploded with messages. My old mentors expressed their deep disappointment, while the interns whispered in chat groups about how my quiet demeanor had been a mask for incompetence. I hid in the empty stairwell, my back pressed against the cold concrete wall. My throat felt dry, and my chest throbbed with a suffocating weight. Just then, my father called. "Summer, did you and Preston have a fight? The news says..." He sighed. "Don't be foolish, sweetheart. Preston is a good man." Hearing his voice, the dam broke. I covered my mouth to muffle my tears, hung up the phone, and curled into a ball on the cold floor. My screen lit up again. It was a text from Preston: Take a couple of days to calm down. Stop being stubborn. I'll smooth this over, and once the dust settles, we'll get our marriage license. That arrogant, charitable tone felt like a knife twisting in my chest. I blocked his number and deleted every trace of him from my phone. On the third day of my suspension, I returned to the department to pack up my belongings. When I pushed open the office door, I found Brooke playing with my custom, hand-engraved stethoscope. It was the stethoscope Preston had promised to buy me for my birthday, but he had later backed out, calling it an unnecessary expense. I had worked three months of extra night shifts to buy it myself. Seeing me, Brooke shrank back, though her voice held a smug undertone. "Oh, Summer. You're back?" "Preston said that since you won't be practicing medicine anymore, he wanted me to have this as a little gift." The last remnant of pain in my chest flared into white-hot rage. I grabbed her wrist, twisting it until she released her grip, and snatched my stethoscope back. I pulled out a disinfectant wipe and began scrubbing the metal, over and over, right in front of her. "Keep your hands off my things," I said, my voice ice-cold. "I don't like getting dirt on my equipment." "Ow!" Brooke let out a sharp shriek. Hearing her cry, Preston stormed into the office, violently shoving me aside. The small of my back slammed hard against the sharp corner of the desk, sending a jolt of agony through my spine. Without even looking at me, he wrapped his arms around Brooke and glared at me. "Summer! Have you lost your mind? You're a suspended nobody! How dare you come back here and cause trouble?" "A nobody?" I forced myself to stand straight, a cold laugh escaping my lips. I pulled my officially stamped resignation letter from my bag and slapped it hard against his chest. "Open your eyes and look closely, Preston. I quit!" Preston's face went pale. "Summer, don't forget that your residency completion certificate is still in my hands! Without my signature, your entire residency is a waste of paper!" He threw my resignation letter onto the floor. "You think you can threaten me with this? You're being pathetic." Just then, a chaotic scream echoed from the hallway. A man holding a long kitchen knife charged into the office, his eyes bloodshot and wild. He locked his gaze onto Brooke, lunging forward to grab her by the hair, delivering a brutal slap that sent her falling to the floor. "You're the doctor who killed my mother, aren't you?" "My mother died this morning because of your dosage error! You heartless monsters, I'm taking you down with her!" Brooke's lip was bleeding as she screamed, "Preston, help me! Save me!" My chest tightened. This man was the son of the patient who had died from the Digoxin overdose. Suddenly, a powerful grip clamped onto my arm. Before I could react, Preston yanked me forward with brutal force, throwing me directly into the path of the lunging man. "You have the wrong person!" Preston shouted, shielding Brooke with his body as he pointed at me. "The electronic signature on the lethal order belongs to Summer Offen! She's the one who killed your mother!" The man lunged, his blade slicing clean through the skin of my neck. Preston froze, his face turning an instant, ghostly white as my blood began to spill.