Julian didn't seem to anticipate her mentioning divorce. His expression darkened, a storm gathering behind his eyes. "I wont agree to a divorce."

Charlotte froze for a moment.

He wouldnt agree? Could it be that

The mans voice cut through her thoughts. "Grandma wont agree either."

The next sound was the sharp click of the door closing.

Charlotte stood rooted to the spot for a long time, her heart heavy, weighed down as if stuffed with a sodden wad of cotton. The thoughts she'd dared entertain only moments ago now struck her as ridiculous.

He doesnt want a divorce. Was it for her?

No. It was nothing so noble. He was simply afraid Grandma Hawthorne wouldnt allow it.

What a shame for him, then, that Grandma Hawthorne had already given her blessing.

The night ended in cold silence, the two retreating to separate bedrooms without another word. By morning, when the housekeeper arrived for work, Julian was nowhere to be found.

She ate breakfast alone, her expression calm, unreadable. Midway through cleaning the house, the housekeeper emerged from one of the rooms, looking puzzled. "Maam, why does it seem like so many things are missing?"

Charlotte paused, her spoon hanging in midair.

Even the housekeeper noticed.

Julian hadnt asked her anything before he left. The indifference was plain enough.

She curved her lips into a faint smile, masking the sting. "The things were old. I tossed them. They werent important."

The housekeeper didnt press further.

At noon, she received a call from the hospital director. Thered been a serious casea life-threatening emergency. A patient with critical injuries was in dire need of surgery. The hospitals most experienced neurosurgeon was out of town, leaving Charlotte as the only one capable of performing the procedure.

Charlotte hurried to the hospital, changed into her scrubs, and entered the operating room. Most of the lead physicians were already present, among them Claire.

The room was thick with the metallic tang of blood.

Unlike the other doctors who had gathered around the patient to assess the severity of the injuries, Claire hovered at a distance, visibly nauseated. She retched quietly, her face pale as chalk.

"Dr. Sheridan, youre here," the anesthesiologist said, approaching her. "The patient fell from a construction site. He arrived unconscious, and his condition is critical."

Charlottes gaze fell on the patient, and she couldnt help but draw a sharp breath. A twenty-centimeter steel rod had impaled the mans skull, piercing through the orbital cavity. Though unconscious, he was miraculously still alive, his vital signs faint but presenta testament to sheer improbability.

Claire grimaced, clutching her stomach. "Dr. Sheridan, do you really think you can handle this surgery? One misstep and hes dead."

Charlottes response was cool, cutting. "If I cant, can you?"

The question landed like a slap, draining what color remained in Claires face.

Pulling on her gloves, Charlotte turned to the rest of the team. "We'll start with a decompressive craniectomy to relieve pressure and carefully remove the hematoma. Lets move."

The anesthesiologist and surgical assistants sprang into action.

Claire bit her lip. "Maybe I should stay and help"

"All non-essential personnel, out," Charlotte interrupted. Shed seen Claires earlier hesitation; keeping her in the room would only invite disaster.

"But"

"Dr. Sinclair, the patients condition is precarious," Charlotte said, her tone brooking no argument. "Youd be far more useful comforting the family."

The surgeons at Midtown General Hospital were well aware of the risks of this operation. Attempting such a complex procedure meant gambling ones entire career. Failure would not only claim a lifeit would brand the surgeon who dared take it on. Most had opted to err on the side of self-preservation, bowing out entirely.

Theyd also seen Claires queasiness firsthand. Were it not for her well-connected family, the disdain in the room would have been far less restrained.

Claire clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms, and quietly exited the operating room.

Confirming that neither the brainstem nor major blood vessels had sustained irreversible damage, Charlotte led her team in a painstaking five-hour operation. Together, they removed the steel rod and reconstructed the skull base, methodically restoring what had been so catastrophically broken.

By nightfall, the patients vital signs had stabilized. The tension that had gripped the room eased at last as the team collectively exhaled, relief flooding their faces.

The other doctors rushed to inform the patients family of the good news.

Charlotte, however, made her way to the directors office.

Dean Warren rose from his seat eagerly when she entered, his excitement palpable. "Lotte, we couldnt have done it without you this time."

"It wasnt just me," she said with a modest smile. "The team worked seamlessly, and the patient was incredibly lucky. If that steel rod had pierced any deeper, even a miracle wouldnt have saved him."

Dean Warren nodded in agreement. Then his tone grew more earnest. "Are you sure you wont reconsider the transfer?"

Her skill was undeniable. As the youngest lead surgeon in the hospitaland a woman in such a male-dominated fieldshe was a rare talent Dean Warren hated to see leave. Rivendale was a far smaller city, a third-tier municipality, with nowhere near the prestige or resources of Crownridge Hospital. Losing her to Rivendale felt almost wasteful.

Charlotte shook her head with a polite but firm smile. "My decisions final. But dont worryif you ever need me in the future, Ill be here to help however I can."

Satisfied with her answer, Dean Warren let the matter rest.

As Charlotte stepped out of his office, she saw Julian striding toward her, his long legs carrying him forward with purpose.

She stopped in her tracks, ready to speak.

But he didnt slow. His eyes barely flicked her way as he walked past, throwing out a single line over his shoulder: "Dr. Sheridan, I need a word."

Charlotte followed him to the balcony. She was exhausted after the marathon surgery, her expression worn with fatigue. Forcing a steady breath, she asked, "What do you want to talk about?"

Julian turned, his face impassive, and spoke without preamble: "Why were you targeting Claire in the operating room?"