Page 32 of The Surgeon's Secret

The finality in her words hit both of them. James was silent for a moment, his face a mask of indifference, but Catherine could see the flicker of something in his eyes—something between frustration and disbelief.

"I've been pretending for so long, James," she continued, her voice a soft, painful whisper. "Pretending that everything is okay. Pretending that I'm okay. But I'm not okay. I haven't been for a long time."

The confession hung in the air between them, thick and raw. James seemed at a loss for words, as if she'd finally pierced the armor he'd built around himself. But instead of softening, he snapped.

"Well, if you're so unhappy, maybe you should leave." The words were sharp, more of a challenge than an offer. "I'm not going to sit here and listen to you complain about how terrible your life is while I'm making a difference in the world."

Catherine recoiled, the sting of his words cutting deeper than she expected. That was it? After all this, all the years of marriage, of sacrifice, of trying to make it work—this was his response?

Her eyes filled with tears, but she refused to let them fall. No, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her break.

"I'm done," she said, her voice low, firm, and final. "I'm done pretending. Done being your afterthought. I'm so, so done."

Catherine felt the world tilt beneath her feet. It was almost like time slowed down, as though she could see every fleeting detail in sharp clarity: James's frustrated expression, his hand gripping his briefcase with a tightness that could crack bone, the air growing thick and heavy between them. Then, with a sudden, reckless motion, he stepped toward the door, muttering something about the trip and the unending demands on his time. He was so absorbed in his own frustration that he didn't even bother responding to her, he just pushed her out of his way as though she was no more than an inconvenience as he moved past her. Catherine's body jerked with the unexpected force, her feet slipping from beneath her as she tried to steady herself. Her arms flailed, but it was too late.

The corner of the coffee table loomed before her, too close to avoid, and she felt it—the sickening, sharp crack as the back of her head collided with the edge of the table. It wasn't violent, not in the way that would make her scream out in pain. It was more like a sudden, jolting shock, the kind that made everything go quiet for a heartbeat. The pressure and sudden force of the impact stunned her, and for a split second, everything went dark.

The throbbing pain in her skull was like nothing she'd ever experienced. It wasn't just a headache—it was like something inside her brain was tearing, twisting, and pulsing with every heartbeat. Her vision swam in and out of focus, everything blurring together until she couldn't tell where the walls ended and the floor began.

Catherine's breath hitched and her heart pounded in her chest, racing with fear as panic crept in. She was lying on the floor, her body still, her hands struggling to find something solid to grab onto. But all she could feel was the dizzying sensation of her world spinning, the ache growing sharper in the back of her head and threatening to engulf her completely. Her ears buzzed and her body felt as though it were floating, and the familiar pain of years of neglect and isolation in her marriage suddenly felt like nothing compared to this. The pain in her head was searing, relentless, and terrifying.

Through the haze, she could hear James's voice, frantic but distant. "Catherine—Catherine, Jesus, what the hell?" The words sounded muffled, like they were coming from underwater. She wanted to respond, to scream at him and tell him how much his carelessness had destroyed her, but all she could do was groan. She felt herself slipping further away, her body heavy, her thoughts scattered like smoke in the wind.

"Stay with me, okay? Stay with me," James was saying, but his words barely registered in her mind. She could feel him kneeling beside her, his hands hovering uncertainly over her body, as if unsure whether to touch her or not. But Catherine couldn't find it in herself to care. The world felt too far away, too hazy and distant for her to focus on anything beyond the sharp, insistent pain in her skull.

"Catherine…" His voice trembled, and then there was movement, frantic and rushed. She felt him lifting her, his hands around her shoulders, guiding her body in a way that felt wrongand disorienting. The pain in her head only intensified as she was pulled upright, and she gasped for breath, her body shaking as if it was no longer her own.

The sound of the door opening reached her ears, and she recognized the sense of urgency in James's voice. "I'm calling an ambulance. We need to get you to the hospital." His voice was so thin, so uncertain, that Catherine almost couldn't recognize it as his. But it wasn't comfort that she needed. She didn't need him to apologize or act concerned now, not when it was too late and the damage was already done.

Her head swam again, and she could feel herself slipping, her consciousness fading in and out like a distant, unreachable dream. But she couldn't fully surrender to it. Something in her—the little shred of herself that remained—fought to stay awake, to keep the world in focus, to keep herself from disappearing into the dark.

Catherine was vaguely aware of movement, cool air against her skin, and harsh light overhead as she was rushed through the hospital doors. Her body felt like it was on autopilot, her mind too foggy to make sense of anything. She felt herself being moved, pulled, then laid down on something hard and sterile. The smell of antiseptic was thick in the air, sharp and stinging in her nostrils. There were voices—too many voices—rising in pitch, demanding attention, giving orders. But it was all just a blur to her.

She could hear James's voice now, a low murmur at the edge of her consciousness. "I didn't mean to…she just…" His words trailed off, a string of disconnected sentences that didn't make any sense. Catherine wanted to snap at him and tell him howbadly he'd messed up, but she couldn't seem to form the words. Her mouth felt dry, her tongue heavy.

The lights above her were too bright, too harsh. She tried to turn her head, but the pain was too much. A wave of nausea hit her and she gasped, trying to keep the bile in her throat from rising. Her hands curled into fists on the bed, the only thing she could control in the chaos around her.

Someone—she couldn't tell who—placed something cold against her forehead, trying to rouse her, but Catherine could barely focus on it. The rhythmic sound of her heart monitor was the only thing she could hear clearly, the beeps echoing in her ears louder than anything else.

"Stay with us, Catherine," someone said, a doctor or a nurse, though she couldn't place the voice. "Stay with us; you're going to be okay. Just breathe for me, okay?"

But Catherine wasn't sure she could. Everything was slipping away, like she was losing her grip on the world…on her life.

The pain was still there, sharp and insistent, a reminder that this wasn't just some bad dream she could wake up from. This was real, and it hurt more than she'd ever imagined. The thought of Lexi crossed her mind briefly, her heart aching with the longing she'd tried so hard to suppress. But it felt so distant now, like another life, another world that had no place in this moment.

She closed her eyes, trying to fight the dizziness and keep herself from being swallowed by the darkness. But it was inevitable now. And all she could do was wait…for it to pass, or for it to pull her under.

17

LEXI

Lexi had just finished a late shift when her phone buzzed, its ring sharp in the quiet of the hospital hallways. She looked at the screen—an unknown number. She hesitated before answering, the strange flutter in her chest a mix of instinct and concern.

“Dr. Bond,” she answered.

“Dr. Bond, this is the ER. We have a critical patient coming in—head trauma. We need you in the OR, now.”

Lexi’s stomach dropped.Head trauma. Her mind instantly shot to the worst possible outcome. “What’s the patient’s condition?” she asked, her voice already urgent as she turned and started walking toward the OR.

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