My hands were steady for the first time in months. Not because the tremor had left—they still shook slightly when I clenched them—but because purpose stilled them. Julian lay in Room 409, unconscious, his aorta one heartbeat from rupture. Raymond stood outside the door, begging me like I was still his wife, still someone who owed him something.\n\nI almost said no. But I’m a surgeon first. I scrubbed in, my white coat crisp, my title—Director of Cardiothoracic Surgery—a shield against their sneers. Halfway through the incision, Evelyn burst into the OR with security, screaming that I’d kill him on purpose. They dragged me out. In the struggle, someone slammed my right hand into the steel cart. I felt the bones splinter.\n\nThey called off the surgery. No one else could do it in time. Julian died two hours later.\n\nThe funeral was closed casket. Tonight, they’ve invited me to dinner—as if grief is a social obligation. As I step into the grand hall, Evelyn raises a glass. 'To accountability,' she says, smiling. Then Vanessa stands, trembling, clutching an envelope. 'The test results came back…'