Page 3 of Doctored Vows

“What are you doing?”

His tone should startle me, but I barely balk since it is thrown around at least ten times a day.

Dr. Abdulov can’t say the same when I reply, “Assessing my supposed patient before surgery.”

He pffts, scoffs, and sputters before he rips Mrs. Ivanov’s file out of my hand. Even with my pulse beating in my ears, ripping paper can’t be missed.

“You’re a third-year resident?—”

“Whose name is all over a patient’s record I’ve never heard of until today.” Since I still can’t recall where I’ve heard the Ivanov name before, my tone dips in the middle of my statement, but only I am aware of the possible deceit in my reply.

Dr. Abdulov appears seconds from kicking me out of my residency, not solely Mrs. Ivanov’s room, so I speak fast.

I don’t take our conversation in a direction you’d expect from a person on the verge of homelessness.

“I believe Mrs. Ivanov has been misdiagnosed, and her surgery is gratuitous.”

Sweat beads at my temples from his furious glare. “How dare you. I have years of experience.”

“I’m not saying you don’t. Your accomplishments are known across the globe, but a B12 deficiency is often overlooked. Even by the greats.”

He scoffs so hard that his spit lands on my face. “B12 deficiency? That’s your diagnosis?”

It is the fight of my life to nod with his mocking laugh booming around the room.

“She has muscle aches, pale eyelids, and a smooth tongue. All signs?—”

“Of an anemic diagnosis.”

“Severe anemia also demonstrates those signs, but her skin is scaly, and her nails are brittle. I also don’t believe the bad hospital lighting is giving her skin that yellow hue.”

I respond as if he physically slapped me instead of mentally slapping Mrs. Ivanov when he says with a laugh, “Perhaps she’s a recovering alcoholic.” Any chance of keeping things professional is lost when he adds, “Or a barely functioning one. She has all the signs of an addict.”

“She has all the signs of a patient with an uncaring, arrogant, chauvinistic pig of a doctor misdiagnosing her. I get it. You have to straddle the line to please everyone, but a B12 deficiency is often overlooked because hospital administrators continually ride doctors’ asses for the most billable procedures.” I talk louder when he grabs my arm to remove me from the room. “If my diagnosis is correct, you will save your patient from an unnecessary medical procedure. Surely that is worth a slight dip in profits.”

He appears seconds from saying no, but a deep, manly voice from the other side of the room forces any reply he’s planning to give to the back of his throat. “Do the test she is suggesting.”

My throat is on fire from ensuring I had my say before being tossed out of a patient’s room, but it turns into the Sahara when the stranger’s face is exposed. Chiseled cheekbones, plump lips, soul-searing eyes, and a defined jaw hidden under dark stubble wraps up a package that showcases danger and sexiness at the same time.

As my unnamed savior steps out of the shadows the above-bed lighting casts over the corners of all the patients’ rooms, he folds his thick arms in front of his chest. Since a black A-shirt is the only clothing covering his chest, the cut lines of his arms stand out as evidently as the tic in his jaw when he drinks in Dr. Abdulov’s clutch on my arm.

The stranger doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. Within a second of his narrowed gaze scorching the skin high on my arm, Dr. Abdulov frees me from his grasp and takes a giant step back.

Even though it is clear who is now running the show, Dr. Abdulov tries to keep the playing field even. “The test Dr. Hoffman is suggesting is unnecessary. You have my word?—”

“Your word means nothing to me.”

The stranger steps closer, and my heart goes wild. I’ve never witnessed such an accurate display of raw arrogance before, and anyone who gave it a shot didn’t have pulse-spiking good looks like this mysterious man.

“I said to do the test.” His authority can’t be denied. He is used to getting what he wants and doesn’t care who he needs to trample to get it. “And I will not repeat myself for anyone.”

Dr. Abdulov’s head bobs in sync with his Adam’s apple. “Very well. I will organize it now.”

When he gestures for me to exit before him, I lock eyes with the stranger. I’m not seeking his permission to leave—though I’m sure he is accustomed to everyone in his realm doing precisely that. I am thanking him for his support before I lose the opportunity.

If the vein in Dr. Abdulov’s neck is anything to go by, I won’t just be marched out of the hospital for being insubordinate. My entire medical career is about to be trampled on. I doubt I’ll even be allowed to sterilize equipment after my performance. Tell me one medical student who has called their supervisor a pig and continued to practice medicine. I can’t think of a single incident.

Dr. Abdulov’s brisk breaths fan my neck when the stranger stops him from shadowing my steps by asking to speak with him.

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