Page 60 of So Close to You
“Are you going to resign from your position? What does your husband think of all this?”
Seraphina doesn’t answer. She descends the front steps on stiff legs while her stomach twists into a sour knot that threatens to make her double over at any moment. The damp Manchestercold hits her face, but she can barely shake off the dizziness overwhelming her. Photographers crowd the entrance, pressed against the black gates of the gated community, extending enormous lenses toward her as if they were weapons ready to fire.
Seraphina walks toward the car without lifting her head even once. Her hands are shaking so violently that it takes her two attempts to open the car door. Once she’s seated behind the wheel, the flashes continue to bounce off the tinted windows like a storm of metallic light. She closes her eyes for a second and presses her forehead against the cold leather of the steering wheel. Her whole body aches. She hasn’t slept a wink all night.
“I hope that fucking surgeon was worth it.”
As she pulls toward the exit, several reporters run alongside the car. The flashes illuminate the interior again and again, capturing fragments of her pale face, her palpable fear, and the shame consuming her. Seraphina keeps her eyes fixed on the road, her knuckles white around the steering wheel.
But she doesn’t look back. She knows exactly what she’s leaving behind in that house: a dead marriage, two children who will wake up in the middle of a national scandal, and a broken man she never wanted to hurt in such a cruel way.
When she finally turns onto the main road, the noise outside gradually fades away. The flashes of the cameras are left behind. Only the constant hum of the engine remains, along with an unbearable sense of emptiness squeezing her chest. Then she thinks of Nerissa, and the fear returns suddenly, more intense than ever.
*
Nerissa senses the atmosphere the moment she walks through the automatic doors of the trauma unit. The building retains its usual immaculate appearance, with shiny floors and screens displaying surgical schedules, but something has changed irrevocably.
People stop talking when she appears. No one points a finger at her or makes direct comments, but that is precisely why it hurts so much more. A nurse cuts herself off mid-sentence as she places medical records on the counter. Two residents immediately lower their voices by the elevators. Even one of the receptionists, who usually gives her an automatic smile every morning, avoids meeting her gaze for more than a second.
Nerissa keeps walking with her back straight and her jaw clenched. But the folded newspaper on the table in the medical cafeteria hits her in the gut like an unexpected blow. The photographs take up half the front page of the Manchester Evening News. She and Seraphina walking through Chester, hands clasped atop the city walls, and leaving the boutique hotel discreetly, beneath a massive headline: “SCANDAL AT HALE MEDICAL: THE HIDDEN RELATIONSHIP THREATENING A MULTI-MILLION-POUND MERGER.”
Nerissa feels the slow, cold rage hardening inside her chest once again.
Now she understands everything. Seraphina’s sudden coldness. The distance she abruptly imposed. The public humiliation in the administration office. Seraphina had only tried to pull her away from the fire to protect her, but the flames had mercilessly engulfed them both.
Minutes later, she pushes open the door to the operating room locker room. The conversations stop immediately. Silence falls so abruptly that even the sound of the lockers seemsexaggerated. One doctor quickly looks down at her phone. Another nurse clears her throat uncomfortably.
Nerissa sets her bag down on the bench and begins to change without saying a word. She feels the furtive glances sliding across her back. Pity. Gossip. Unease. The worst part isn’t the scandal itself. The worst part is feeling like she’s become the talk of the hospital, a juicy rumor, an institutional embarrassment everyone whispers about.
When she finishes buttoning her surgical gown, the supervisor enters the locker room with a stern, professional expression.
“Dr. Ashcombe, the medical administration would like to see you immediately,” she announces, though she avoids looking her in the eye.
Nerissa slowly looks up.
“Now?” she asks. “I have surgery in forty minutes.”
The supervisor swallows before answering.
“It’s urgent. I’m sorry.”
The meeting lasts exactly seventeen minutes. Seventeen minutes are enough to dismantle a career built on years of effort.
The medical director’s office feels unbearably hot. Or perhaps it’s just her, feeling her blood boil beneath her skin as she listens to the committee’s perfectly rehearsed speech.
“We understand the media pressure you’re facing,” the medical director begins in a patronizing tone. “We’re thinking about your well-being and that of the team.”
“No one questions your talent,” adds another member, “but the public exposure could temporarily affect the surgicalenvironment and, above all, the various contracts we currently have in place. Perhaps a medical leave of absence due to stress would be advisable.”
Nerissa looks at the three men sitting across from her and feels like laughing. But she doesn’t. She understands perfectly well the real language hidden behind those impersonal phrases. They’re pushing her aside. They’re sacrificing her. They need a scapegoat to throw to the investors to contain the scandal, and she’s the easiest link to cut.
“I’m not unfit to operate,” Nerissa replies, without losing an ounce of her pride. “I’ve performed three complex procedures this week without any issues.”
The medical director folds his hands on the table and sighs.
“No one is questioning your talent, Dr. Ashcombe. However, the external situation…”
“That’s a lie,” Nerissa interrupts, unable to contain herself. “All of this is a direct attack on my professionalism, my reputation, and my place in these clinics. Are you going to suspend me for falling in love with someone I shouldn’t have?”
