Wilson worked steady focus, isolating the spleen. She could feel the weight of every second, every drop of blood lost. The tension in her chest tightened.
She cannot die. I won't let her die.
"BP dropping," the anesthesiologist warned.
Wilson grit her teeth. "I need more suction. Now."
The bleeding was relentless. Her fingers moved deftly, but her mind screamed. What if this was the one patient she lost? The first name to haunt her?
No. Not Stella.
"Removing the spleen," she announced, her voice steady despite the war raging inside her.
The team moved like clockwork. Hands passing instruments. Suction clearing her field. Seconds stretched into eternity.
Then—finally—the bleeding slowed. The repair held.
"BP stabilizing," the anesthesiologist confirmed.
Wilson exhaled shakily, her grip on the scalpel loosening for the first time.
She had done it.
But as she looked down at Stella's unconscious face, the relief was brief.
Because now, she had to face the truth.
She had saved her.
But could she keep pretending she didn't care?
Wilson stood at the foot of Stella's hospital bed, arms crossed tightly over her chest. The steady beep of the heart monitor filled the silence, grounding her, but her eyes remained fixed on Stella's face. Even in deep sleep, she looked… unchanged. Like the girl Wilson had spent years stealing glances at, the girl who had unknowingly taken up space in her heart.
Her fingers twitched.
She shouldn't.
But the urge to reach out, to confirm that Stella was real and not just another passing memory, was overwhelming. Her hand moved—slowly, cautiously—toward Stella's cheek.
Just as her fingertips were about to brush against warm skin, the door swung open.
Wilson jerked her hand back instantly, turning sharply. A nurse stepped in, holding a small designer handbag.
"Dr. Wilson," she said hesitantly. "We found this in her car. Should we contact her family?"
Wilson's eyes flicked to the bag. She didn't need to check the ID inside. She already knew.
Stella Edward, the daughter of one of the wealthiest families in the country. A girl who had been untouchable in high school—not because she was cruel or arrogant, but because she belonged to a world Wilson had never stepped into.
Wilson had watched her from a distance, admired her, even helped her in small, unnoticed ways. But she had never spoken to Stella's family. Not once.
She forced herself to step back, nodding briskly. "Yes. Call them."
The nurse gave a short nod and left.
Wilson turned back to Stella, exhaling slowly. There was so much she wanted to say, but now wasn't the time.
Then, her hospital alarm beeped.
Her head snapped toward her pager. Mass casualty alert.
A fresh wave of adrenaline hit her.
She rushed out of the room, already preparing for the worst. The details flashed on the hospital board—a bus crash, multiple casualties.
Wilson's stomach twisted.
It was a bus that crashed into Stella's car.
Which meant the others—the ones in the bus—were now in her hands too.
She clenched her jaw. There was no time to think. No time to feel.
Another battle had just begun.
Wilson moved swiftly through the ER doors, her mind already calculating the worst-case scenarios. The air was thick with urgency—nurses rushing between beds, paramedics shouting vitals, the metallic scent of blood mixing with antiseptic.
She barely had time to breathe before the first patient was brought in.
"Male, mid-40s, blunt chest trauma, BP 80/50," a paramedic rattled off.
Wilson nodded. "Get him to Trauma Bay 1. Next?"
A child. No older than six. Her tiny face streaked with tears, her left arm twisted unnaturally.
Focus, Wilson. Focus.
But as she examined the child's injury, her mind betrayed her for a split second. Stella.
Was she waking up now? Did she know where she was? Would she recognize Wilson's name on her chart?
Wilson bit down hard. Not now.
"Fractured humerus, possible head trauma," the nurse reported.
"Send her for a CT scan," Wilson ordered, pushing Stella from her mind.
Another stretcher rolled in. A young man, gasping for breath. His skin is pale.
Pneumothorax.
Wilson didn't hesitate. "I need a chest tube. Now!"
Her hands moved automatically, sharp and precise. A small incision, a rush of air escaping, and then—the tension in his chest eased. His breathing stabilized.
But there were still more patients, more injuries.
The ER was chaos, but Wilson thrived in chaos. It was the only place where she felt in control.
And yet, even as she moved from patient to patient, Something nagged at the edges of her thoughts. Stella.
Her body broken, unconscious.
Would she remember Wilson when she woke up? Would she even care?
Wilson shook her head, forcing the thoughts away. Right now, it didn't matter.
Right now, all that mattered was keeping these patients alive.
But once the ER quieted…
She would have to face her feelings.
And Wilson wasn't sure she was ready for that.