20.

Ava

The rhythmic beep of the heart monitor continues as I close Mr. Hendricks’ file, his prognosis typed neatly in his records. It’s a small triumph, one patient closer to perfect health, or as close as possible in this tangled web of arteries and age. I step out and slip the folder into the rack outside his room, my mind already moving toward the pending fundraiser meeting with Dr. Johns.

“Nice work with Mr. Hendricks,” Katie Chang, my ever-efficient assistant, greets me with a stack of papers cradled against her chest. She’s the epitome of organized chaos, her hair pinned back, yet a few strands daring to escape.

“Thanks, Katie.” I nod, trying to mirror her enthusiasm despite my fatigue.

“Roman’s waiting for you,” she adds, tilting her head towards the waiting area.

Roman . My heart does an involuntary somersault at his name—the man whose presence is both a comfort and a constant challenge. I’ve avoided him since we had dinner at his house a little over a week ago, though we’ve exchanged emails and texts about the fundraiser. He’s tried a few times to talk about my lapse in judgment—not that he views it that way—but I haven’t been able to go there with him. He’s trying so hard to move back into my heart again, and I can’t let him.

When I emerge, Roman stands across the room, leaning casually against the wall. There’s the faintest crease between his brows, as if he carries the weight of the world—or at least the hospital—on his shoulders.

“Ready?” His voice is smooth, steady, like he hasn’t spent the last few years as a person who understands the pressure of holding a life in your hands.

“Let’s do this.” My response is automatic, but my pulse accelerates as he pushes off the wall to join me.

Katie hands me a stack of copies, their edges crisp and clean. “For everyone at the meeting,” she says.

“Thanks.”

As we walk upstairs, I can feel Roman’s gaze on me, a physical caress that I shake off. “You should lead the discussion,” he says, and I glance at him, surprised.

“Are you sure? We both worked on this.”

“Absolutely. You’re the one who connected us with Julia Martin. You know the ins and outs. I don’t want any confusion about who organized everything.”

“Okay.” I take a deep breath, steadying myself. This is it—the chance to showcase my leadership, to prove I’m more than capable of heading up cardiology’s fellowship program.

“Remember, emphasize the new silent auction items. That’s where the real money will come from,” Roman advises.

“Got it.” I run through the points in my head. “And we’ve already sold five twenty-five-thousand-dollar tables.”

“Yes! Good. Make sure Johns knows that. He needs to understand the value you’ve brought to this fundraiser. I’ve done my best to clarify since that disastrous meeting, but it’s best that he hear it from you.”

“Will do.” My fingers tighten around the papers.

We reach the top of the stairs, the office door looming before us. I exhale slowly, preparing to step into the fray. “Thank you,” I say, casting Roman a sidelong glance. “For letting me take the lead.”

“Thank you for being brilliant enough to deserve it,” he replies.

My skin tingles.

The door opens, and we step into the waiting area. I fidget with the stack of papers Katie has prepared. The muted buzz of hospital life drifts through the closed door of Dr. Johns’s waiting area. Then suddenly, his office door opens and closes. My gaze follows Eleanor Thompson—head of the emergency department—as she strides out, her usual demeanor replaced by tight shoulders and a furrowed brow.

“Roman,” I murmur, glancing at him as the door closes behind her. “Do you think she’s all right?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, she looked upset. You know her better, though.”

I nod, making a mental note to touch base with Eleanor later. She doesn’t often let her guard down, but the sight of her distress bothers me, a reminder that even the strongest among us have our moments.

“Dr. Johns will see you now,” his assistant announces, breaking through my thoughts.

“Thanks,” I reply. Roman and I rise in unison, and I lead the way.

“Dr. Johns,” I begin as we enter, extending the report toward him like an olive branch. “Here’s the summary of our progress on the King George House fundraiser. We’re calling it An Evening Under the Stars.”

He takes it from me as I sit, his expression as thunderous as the sky before a storm. Flipping open the cover, he scans the first few pages, his lips thinning with each turn.

“Tables for twenty-five-thousand dollars? Who do you think will buy those?” He scoffs, looking up at us.

“We already have five sold,” I say, forcing confidence into my voice. “The community response has been very positive.”

Dr. Johns leans back, his chair creaking with the shift in weight. “You’ve done a great job, Roman.”

My fingers tighten around arms of my chair, the urge to correct him almost overwhelming.

Roman, bless him, jumps in immediately. “Actually, Ava secured those sales. She arranged the meeting with Julia Martin where we got the commitments.”

“Is that so?” Dr. Johns replies. But his tone suggests he’s merely humoring us. He waves a hand dismissively and redirects his focus. “Continue, Ava.”

Resentment simmers within me, but I press on, detailing the new silent-auction items and menu selections. Each word feels like a brick in the foundation I’m building to prove my worthiness, not just for this fundraiser, but for the promotion I covet.

“Seems like you have everything under control,” Dr. Johns finally says, though his accolades still lean heavily toward Roman.

“Thank you,” I manage, my smile strained. “I agree.” We wrap up the meeting with a few more logistical details, including agreeing on when the invitations should be sent out. “Jack Flash, through his spokesperson has committed to being the emcee,” I add as a final note.

“Good work,” Dr. Johns adds as we stand to leave, his gaze lingering on Roman just a beat too long. “Absolutely stellar work, Roman.” There’s a note of genuine surprise in his voice, as if the idea of our success still bewilders him.

“Thank you, Dr. Johns. And again, Ava really is the leader on this,” Roman replies, his smile gracious.

I feel heat rising in my cheeks, and I force my lips into a semblance of a smile.

“Really, the level of commitment here is commendable,” he adds. “I just have another couple of thoughts…” The words are directed at Roman, but I’m the one scribbling notes, recording Dr. Johns’s request to be formally introduced at the event. “And make sure to put me down for a speech, right before the live auction.”

“Of course, Dr. Johns,” I say, my pen pausing just above the paper. “We’ll make sure the spotlight is on you.”

“Good, good.” He nods. “And those invitations need to go out in two weeks. No later.”

“Two weeks,” I concur. I can already see the assembly line of volunteers stuffing envelopes, a task I’ll likely oversee myself.

“Roman, this hospital is lucky to have you,” Dr. Johns concludes, ushering us out. He claps Roman on the back like he’s congratulating a star athlete.

“Thank you, sir. It’s been a team effort,” Roman says, looking my way again, but Dr. Johns is already turned toward his desk, rifling through papers.

“Right,” he mumbles. Barely looking up, he adds, “And thank you, Ava, for your…assistance.”

“Assistance,” I repeat, shaking my head. My contribution minimized to a mere footnote?

“Let’s grab some lunch,” Roman suggests once we leave Dr. Johns’s office.

“Actually, I need some air,” I say, detouring away from him, my hands clenched at my sides.

“Hey, wait up!” Roman calls after me, but I don’t slow down. I’m not angry at him. Not really. He certainly made every effort this time. It’s not his fault Dr. Johns has selective vision. But right now, I need distance—from Roman, from the unfairness, from the sting of being overlooked yet again.

“Dr. Johns…he has a skewed way of seeing things,” Roman says once he catches up. “But I see you. I know how hard you’ve worked.”

“Seems like I’m invisible to where he’s concerned,” I mutter. The frustration feels like it’s lodged in my throat, and I struggle to swallow it.

“Hey, that’s not true. I made it clear in there—”

“I know you did,” I cut him off, not wanting to rehash the meeting. “It’s not about you. It’s…everything else.”

“Okay,” he says quietly, and I can feel his eyes on me, filled with something like concern, or maybe it’s understanding. “So what now?”

I take a deep breath, feeling the pressure inside me start to dissipate. “Now? We keep going. And maybe I find a way to make him see me. Really see me.”

When we reach my office, I shed my white coat, letting it slump onto the back of my chair. “Can you believe that?” I say, whirling to face Roman. He’s leaning against the door, arms folded, a picture of quiet support. “It’s like…like my contributions are just footnotes in his big boys’ club handbook.”

Roman nods. “I know,” he says, and there’s no dismissiveness in his voice, only a deep well of understanding. “It’s infuriating.”

I pace. “And it’s not just the fundraising—every surgery, every diagnosis. It’s as if they think my smaller hands are just good for less-demanding tasks. But we both know empathy makes women better healers, better at connecting with patients.”

“Absolutely,” he murmurs, watching me move back and forth. “You’re one of the best surgeons I’ve worked with. Anyone can see that.”

I pause, my chest tight. “All I want is that promotion to head of cardiology, and managing the fellowship is the path to get there. It’s not just about recognition. It’s stability, something solid to build on.”

“You deserve that,” Roman says, pushing away from the door to stand closer. “But, Ava, you don’t need this fundraiser to prove your worth.”

His kindness is soothing, but it also stings, a reminder of wounds not quite healed. “It’s not always about what I deserve, is it?” My voice cracks, and I hate it. “When I got that fellowship and you didn’t, you… You acted as if I didn’t exist anymore. That hurt, Roman.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I was wrong to do that, to push you away when you needed support. I let my own issues get in the way, and I regret it.”

“Regret doesn’t change the past.” I blink back the threat of tears. “Sometimes it feels like nothing changes at all.”

We stand there, a breath apart, in the stillness of my office. I can almost hear my heart working overtime, fighting against the tide of old hurts and fresh frustrations.

Roman’s arms encircle me. “Ava,” he breathes, and his hold tightens. “I didn’t know it back then, but losing you, that was the wake-up call I needed.”

“Roman…” My protest is feeble, lost against the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

“I was an idiot,” he continues, his voice a low rumble against my ear. “The second I ended things, I knew I’d made the biggest mistake of my life.”

I want to scoff, to shove him away, but the raw honesty in his tone pins me in place. His confession wraps around the old ache in my chest, a bandage over a wound I want desperately to scar over.

“I’ve realized I’m not my brother.” He pulls back just enough to see my face, his eyes earnest. “I don’t have to chase Alistar’s shadow, fight Ebola, or prove anything. I just need to be happy with what I do. I want to have a whole life, not just a career. And more than anything else, that means being with you.”

A laugh bubbles up, surprising me. It’s airy, disbelieving. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly.”

I’m not ready to tackle our future together, but I do realize he might be on to something about life. There will always be work for me as a cardiologist; the heart doesn’t stop needing care because I step away from the OR. But what about when my hands are too unsteady, when age or fate dictates that I can no longer wield a scalpel with the precision that lives demand? What’s left for me then? Or even before then… I’m working to prolong people’s lives, but what’s my life truly about?

“Maybe,” I begin, the idea unfurling like the first cautious bloom of spring, “maybe there’s more than just surgery. Organizing this fundraiser? I’ve loved it. The thrill of bringing people together, creating something meaningful from nothing but ideas and effort. I can do more, allow myself more options.”

“Yes.” Roman’s smile is encouraging. “You’re incredible at it. Medicine isn’t just about the operating room. You have skills that go beyond that, and they shouldn’t be wasted.”

My heart swells. Could it be possible? To meld the structure and prestige of medicine with the vibrant tapestry of event organization? To find a new way to heal, to contribute, not just within the operating room, but beyond it?

And what about Roman? a voice inside me asks. Does making room for more than just my career mean taking a risk with him again? Seems it might…

“Thank you,” I tell him. The words are simple, but they carry the weight of a second chance—a chance for us, for me, for a future unburdened by the past’s heavy chains.

“Anytime,” he says. “For you? Anything.”