15.

Ava

The following Monday afternoon, I glance at the clock on my office wall, its second hand ticking away with a maddening persistence. Roman is nowhere to be seen, and I can’t wait any longer. The meeting with Dr. Johns was set for five minutes ago. I gather my notes, which we meticulously prepared together, though it looks like I’ll have to wing it alone.

Probably an emergency in the ED , I tell myself, trying to quell the flicker of annoyance. We’re a team, or at least that’s what we keep telling each other. But emergencies don’t wait, and neither can I.

I race up the stairs, taking them two at a time. My mind clicks through the key points we need to cover—the letter sent to ask Jack Flash to emcee the fundraiser, the new venue at the Martin’s lavish Point Grey home, the guest list… I rehearse how I’ll broach each topic, ensuring Dr. Johns understands the strategic advantage of our choice.

Dr. Johns’s assistant, a woman with a perpetually calm demeanor, greets me at the door of the executive offices. “Dr. Winters, he’s expecting you,” she says with a nod, ushering me in.

“Sorry, I’m a bit late,” I offer, stepping into the spacious room that smells faintly of leather and mahogany.

“Ah, Dr. Winters, finally.” Dr. Johns’s voice carries a note of impatience I’ve come to recognize all too well.

But I stop short as my eyes land on Roman, already here, lounging casually. There’s a tumbler of dark amber liquid in his hand, the ice within it slowly succumbing to the warmth of the room. They look like they could be chatting about golf swings and hockey, as if today’s agenda is nothing more than a chance to catch up.

“Roman?” My voice is sharp, my hurt clear.

“Ahhhh,” Roman says, looking my way with a hint of surprise, as if he hadn’t expected me to walk through the door at all. He sets down the tumbler with a thud.

“Thought you might’ve been caught downstairs with a patient,” he adds, but his explanation is drowned out by the sound of my heartbeat in my ears.

“Indeed,” Dr. Johns interjects, leaning back in his chair without so much as a gesture towards the decanter. “We started without you. Time waits for no one.”

“Of course,” I reply, forcing a neutral tone, even as my insides churn. “Let’s get down to business, then.” I lower myself into the leather chair, and my elbow catches the edge of a cup brimming with pens, each emblazoned with some drug company’s logo. They scatter across Dr. Johns’s pristine desk, and my cheeks flush with heat as I scramble to gather them. My hands feel like fumbling flippers.

“Careful there,” Dr. Johns chides, his annoyance pricking at my already frayed nerves.

“Sorry,” I murmur. From the corner of my eye, I see Roman shift in his seat, an unreadable expression on his face. “Look,” he says, leaning forward, his voice a low rumble of sincerity, “I honestly didn’t mean to start without you. I was just up here for labs and—”

“Save it.” The words slip out, tight and thin, betraying my simmering anger. I plaster on a smile and turn back to Dr. Johns, hoping my voice doesn’t tremble. “So, where were we?”

“Actually,” Roman says, “I was just telling Charles about Julia Martin opening her home.”

“Ah, yes,” Dr. Johns says, nodding appreciatively at Roman. “That’s a real coup. Well done.”

“Actually, it was Ava who—”

“Having the event at the Martins’ is a game changer,” Dr. Johns carries on, steamrolling over Roman’s attempt to redirect credit. “Their estate in Point Grey? We’ll be the talk of the town.”

I sit back, the binder in my lap suddenly weighing a ton. My throat constricts as I listen to Dr. Johns extol the virtues of a decision I orchestrated, with no acknowledgment of my part. I bite the inside of my cheek, the sting grounding me amidst the swirling injustice.

“Indeed,” I force out, my voice neutral. “It’s an excellent opportunity.”

“Absolutely,” Dr. Johns agrees. He leans back, fingers steepled, eyes gleaming. “We need to capitalize on this, make sure everyone knows the King George House fundraiser is where the action is.”

“Of course,” I say.

“Right then,” Dr. Johns concludes. “Let’s ensure this event is nothing short of spectacular. And the silent auction?”

“Absolutely. Definitely spectacular. As for the auction, I’ve used Cordelia’s letter from last year, and it’s been sent out to all those who donated previously,” Roman explains. “I have a group who will follow up on the letters, and Ava and I are working on securing new donations. We got one from Zeffirelli’s on Robson Street already.”

Dr. Johns nods absently. “Point Grey,” he says, glancing over the invitation mock-up, his pen hovering like a vulture. “It’s spelled with an a, not an e. Gray.”

I bite my tongue, the urge to correct him squashed by the need to appear professional, even as he guts the word of its British heritage. It’s Point Grey, named after a viscount, not some color on a dreary painter’s palette.

“Of course, Dr. Johns,” I murmur, taking the corrected invite back and feeling the weight of Roman’s gaze.

“Excellent work,” Dr. Johns says, directing his praise at Roman. “Though I’m sure Ava could be doing more.” His eyes lock onto mine, a challenge issued without words.

“Dr. Johns, I’ve been a part of all of this,” I assure him. “And I’ll make sure to follow up on additional leads this week.”

“Good.” He nods, as though granting me a favor. “Remember, I’m the head of the promotion board, and I have the memory of an elephant.”

I swallow bile. Our efforts are suddenly Roman’s alone, and I’m just the shadow behind him.

“Thank you, Dr. Johns,” Roman says.

Does he sound smug?

“Let’s wrap this up,” Dr. Johns announces, standing. “Next week, I want results.”

“Understood,” I respond, my voice a fraction too late to sound convincing.

We exit, the hallway stretching before us like a gauntlet. Roman’s steps quicken until he’s beside me, his voice a hushed whisper.

“Listen, I’m sorry. Dr. Johns started on time, and—”

“Save it,” I cut him off, my heels clicking against the marble floor. “Your glass of whiskey was half empty. The ice had begun to melt.”

“It was bourbon,” he corrects, and I pause. Not an apology, not an excuse. Just a correction.

“Do you think that matters?” I snap, turning away from him. The sting of betrayal is a bitter pill.

“Please, let me explain—” he says, but I’m already moving, my stride purposeful.

“Later,” I say, though we both know there will be no later. Not today.

I stride ahead, my pulse thrumming in my ears. The cool air of the hospital corridor does nothing to ease the heat flushing my cheeks. Roman’s steps hasten behind me, apologetic tones reaching for me like tendrils.

“Look, I honestly didn’t know you weren’t there yet,” he pleads, his voice laced with urgency. “I thought—”

“Thought what?” I whirl on him, my eyes blazing. “That this was your chance to shine? You knew I was waiting for you in my office, and you let Dr. Johns think you’re the hero of the fundraiser.”

“Of course not,” Roman insists, his brow furrowed, hands outstretched. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then explain it to me,” I demand. “Make it make sense, because right now, all I see is sabotage.”

“I didn’t do anything on purpose. It’s just…” He falters.

“Save your excuses. You knew how much this meant to me. My promotion, my reputation… You’ve jeopardized everything!”

“Please, don’t say that.” His voice cracks. “Let’s talk about this.”

“Talk?” A bitter laugh escapes me. “There’s nothing left to discuss.”

I turn away from him again, a swift pivot that marks the end of our conversation. I can feel his gaze, but I’m already moving away, each step a small victory over the quaking of my knees.

Behind the safety of my office door, I lean back against the wood, shutting my eyes as the dam inside me breaks. Tears stream down my cheeks, hot and unchecked. They are witnesses to my frustration, my heartache, and the shattered trust that lies fragmented at my feet.