Page 80 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

Just as the announcements began over the loudspeaker.

I made my way toward the front of the hall where the rest of the participants stood. Sleek floral gowns and elegant tuxes flanked me. A woman with crystal earrings offered a strained smile. Another man adjusted his cufflinks like he was preparing for battle.

“And now,” the announcer said, “the Special Award for Innovation & Impact…”

I didn’t hear the rest at first. Because I heard my name.

“Ruby Shea.”

There was a pause. Then applause—louder than I expected, genuine and warm.

Me?

Someone nudged me gently. “That’s you, sweetheart. Go.”

I stepped forward in a daze, my heels clicking softly on the polished stage floor. The presenter handed me a delicate etched plaque with an embossed gold floral motif. “For bravery in vision and beauty in story,” she read aloud. “This award honors the kind of artistry that doesn’t just impress—it heals.”

I swallowed hard, blinking fast.

My hands curled around the plaque like it might vanish if I let go.

A tear slipped out, trailing warm and slow down my cheek. “Thank you,” I said into the mic. “This isn’t about medals. It’s about finally blooming on my own terms. And I’m just… really grateful you saw that.”

More applause. A few whistles from the back.

I smiled, wide and shaking, then walked offstage.

Hazel met me near the exit, her arms open and her grin massive.

“Ruby freaking Shea, you did it!” she yelled, throwing herself into a hug that nearly knocked the plaque from my hands.

I laughed through my tears. “I didn’t win first.”

Hazel pulled back, hands on my shoulders. “Girl, you didn’t need first. You changed the rules.”

We stood there in the glow of string lights and camera flashes, and for the first time in my life, I felt it:

Not just loved.

Not just lucky.

Butseen. And enough.

Not because I fit in—but because I finally dared to stand out.

—

The hotel room was quiet, the kind of quiet that creeps in after a storm of adrenaline and applause. My shoes were kicked off by the door, my plaque resting on the nightstand beside an untouched cup of lukewarm chamomile tea.

I sank onto the bed, the softness catching me like a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

The thrill of the ceremony still pulsed in my chest, but beneath it was something quieter. Something… hollow. Not empty, exactly. Just incomplete.

I reached for my tote bag, thinking I might pull out my sketchbook, maybe jot down some flower combinations that had come to mind during the award ceremony. Instead, my fingers brushed against something firm, rectangular—and unfamiliar.

An envelope.

I blinked and pulled it out slowly. My name was written on the front in Damien’s unmistakably sharp, blocky handwriting. Like he couldn’t quite help his surgeon’s precision even when he was trying to be tender.

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