His Dying Son On My TableChapter 2

The surgery lasted four hours.

The pediatric patient’s right lung had sustained severe lacerations, with over three hundred milliliters of blood pooling in the thoracic cavity. Under the glare of the shadowless surgical lamps, my movements were purely mechanical—clamp, ligate, suture. The monitor beeped rhythmically. The scrub nurse seamlessly handed me the forceps.

No thoughts of Ryan or Chelsea entered my mind. On the operating table, I see only organs and anatomy, never the people they belong to.

At three in the morning, the surgery concluded successfully. I stripped off my blood-spattered scrubs, threw on my white coat, and stepped out.

Ryan was sitting alone on the corridor bench. Chelsea was nowhere to be seen—likely sent away to rest.

Hearing my footsteps, he looked up, his eyes bloodshot.

"The surgery was a success. His vitals are stable, and he's been moved to the ICU for observation," I delivered the update in my standard clinical tone, preparing to head back to the on-call room.

"Juliette." Ryan stood up, blocking my path.

The empty hallway hummed under the dim fluorescent lights. He reached into his breast pocket and produced a sleek black debit card, holding it out to me.

"There’s fifty thousand dollars on this," he said, his voice quiet, carrying that familiar air of condescending charity. "The PIN is your birthday."

I looked down at the black plastic. "What is this?"

"You left so quickly back then. You didn't take a dime." Ryan sighed, a look of unearned pity washing over his face. "I know these past five years haven't been easy for you. A woman, fighting her way from a lowly resident to a chief surgeon... you must have suffered. Take the money. Buy yourself a decent car. Stop driving that beat-up sedan with the old military plates."

He paused, adding, "Consider it a peace offering from Chelsea. She was young and foolish back then."

Young and foolish.

Three small words to erase how she bit the hand that fed her, how she crawled into her benefactor's husband's bed. Three words to wash away his own infidelity, and the night he sliced his own wrist to blackmail me into signing the divorce papers without a single asset.

I looked at his handsome, composed face, and a sudden urge to laugh washed over me. He was so utterly convinced that I had been miserable. He was convinced I was still scraping by, harboring bitter resentment over the past. He wanted to use this fifty thousand dollars to buy his way out of his own guilt.

"General Henderson," I said, making no move to take the card. My eyes met his, cold and clear. "Five years ago, I gave Chelsea a ten-thousand-dollar scholarship to finish her degree. Even with the highest interest rate, the principal and interest today would barely reach fifteen thousand. Is the remaining thirty-five thousand hush money for your cheating?"

Ryan's expression tightened. He clearly hadn't expected me to lay it bare so ruthlessly. "Juliette, is it really necessary to be this bitter?" He frowned, a flash of annoyance crossing his features. "I'm trying to look out for you. You never used to be so clinical about money."

Clinical.

When I turned down a prestigious fellowship at the Walter Reed headquarters to follow him to a dusty, wind-swept border post for two years, he didn't think I was "clinical." Now that he had climbed the ranks and wanted to throw money at his problems, suddenly my pragmatism was a character flaw.

I reached out, pinched the black card between two fingers, and slipped it from his grasp. "Is that so? Well, if General Henderson wants to buy his peace of mind, far be it from me to stop him." A faint smile played on my lips. "After all, I earned this."

What I had earned wasn't the fifty thousand dollars. It was the hard-won realization that I should have started putting myself first a long time ago.

Years ago, I wore faded, thrifted clothes and ate the cheapest meals in the hospital cafeteria just to save every extra dollar to help fund his networking dinners and pave his way to promotion. He praised me for being "sensible," "supportive," and "not like other materialistic women." I had felt proud back then, foolishly believing I was his unique soulmate.

Now I understood: that wasn't being noble. That was just being cheap. He had used a few worthless compliments to systematically exploit my youth and my future.

Seeing me take the card, Ryan's shoulders relaxed. A wave of relief washed over him, accompanied by a faint, almost imperceptible smirk of triumph. He had successfully reduced his betrayal into a transaction he could settle and forget.

"I'm glad you're seeing reason," he said, adjusting the cuffs of his uniform as he regained his polished, respectable composure. "Chelsea has a temper. Now that we're at the same base, try to be patient with her. I owe you one."

I slipped the card into my pocket and turned back toward the on-call room. "Rest easy, General. My job is to treat patients, not to raise your wife."

The window at the end of the hall was cracked open. The night breeze filtered in, carrying the sharp, cold scent of antiseptic—piercing and entirely sobering.