Page 57 of Crossing the Line
"But you didn't. You didn't end it because what we have is real. Because you love me the same way I love you."
The words crashed against her, each one making it harder to maintain the resolve she needed to protect Harper's future. "What I feel doesn't matter. Your career matters. Your relationship with your mother matters. Your reputation in the medical community matters."
"And what about what I want?" Harper's composure finally cracked completely, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Don't I get a say in what's worth risking for love?"
Carmen's throat constricted, making it difficult to speak. "You're twenty-six years old with your entire career ahead of you. You can't see past how you feel right now to understand what this could cost you long-term."
"Stop talking to me like I'm a child," Harper said fiercely. "I'm a qualified surgeon who's proven herself capable of making complex decisions under pressure. I'm also a woman who knows the difference between infatuation and love."
Carmen stood abruptly, moving away from the desk to put distance between them before her resolve crumbled completely. "Harper, every positive evaluation I've given you will now be questioned. Every surgical opportunity, every recommendation—all of it will be seen as favoritism rather than merit. Your reputation will be permanently damaged by the assumption that you slept your way into advancement."
Carmen watched understanding dawn in her expression—the recognition that their relationship hadn't just violated professional boundaries but had potentially compromised Harper's entire future in ways that couldn't be undone.
"Then we'll prove them wrong," Harper said quietly. "I'll work twice as hard, be twice as good. I'll make it impossible for anyone to question my abilities."
"You shouldn't have to do that." Carmen's voice broke despite her efforts at control. "You shouldn't have to spend your career overcompensating for my failure to maintain appropriate boundaries."
Harper stared at her for a long moment, and Carmen saw the exact moment when hope began to fade from her eyes. "So that's it? You're willing to throw away everything we have because you're afraid of what other people might think?"
Carmen turned toward the window, unable to watch Harper's face as she delivered the final blow. "I'm submitting your reassignment request tonight. You'll be transferred to Dr. Parker's trauma service effective immediately. Our professional relationship is terminated, and our personal relationship never should have existed."
The silence that followed was deafening. Carmen could hear Harper's breathing as she processed everything.
"I see." Harper's voice was eerily calm when she finally spoke. "So when you said you loved me and we'd figure this out together, none of it was real?"
Carmen closed her eyes, gripping the window frame until her knuckles went white. "Harper?—"
"No, I understand." Harper's footsteps moved toward the door. "You've made your choice very clear. Career over love. I won't bother you again."
The office door opened and softly closed, leaving Carmen alone with the administrative portal still glowing on her computer screen. She pressed submit on Harper's reassignment request, and the confirmation message appeared immediately: "Request submitted successfully. Processing will begin within 24 hours."
It was done. Harper would be transferred away from cardiac surgery, Carmen's supervision, and the daily interaction that had made hiding their relationship both impossible and necessary.
Carmen closed the computer tab and sat in the dark office, surrounded by the equipment and credentials that defined her professional identity. Everything she'd worked for was intact. Her reputation remained unblemished, her friendship with Natalie could potentially be repaired, and her career would continue exactly as it had before Harper Langston had walked into her life.
She'd protected everything that was supposed to matter.
So why did victory feel exactly like losing everything that actually did?
Carmen's townhouse echoed with emptiness that pressed against her chest like a weight. She dropped her keys on the entry table, the metallic clatter unnaturally loud in the silence.
Every surface held evidence of Harper's presence. The throw pillows on her couch remained rumpled from where Harper had curled against her side, and even the air seemed to hold traces of Harper's floral perfume, a ghost of intimacy that made Carmen's throat constrict.
She moved through her evening routine on autopilot: changing into comfortable clothes, reviewing surgical notes that blurred together on the page, and opening a bottle of wine. The mundane tasks that usually grounded her felt hollow, performed by someone going through the motions of living while everything meaningful had been stripped away.
Carmen sat on her couch, surrounded by the debris of what she'd destroyed, and finally allowed herself to process the magnitude of her choices. She'd protected her career, maintained her professional reputation, and preserved her friendship with Natalie—all the things that were supposed to matter. But the victory felt exactly like defeat in ways she couldn't have anticipated.
The wine remained untouched beside her as Carmen stared at the harbor lights through her floor-to-ceiling windows. Somewhere out there, Harper was probably packing boxes again, preparing to start over with a different supervisor who wouldn't look at her with the complicated mixture of love and regret that Carmen could never fully hide. Carmen had given Harper exactly what she'd claimed to want—professional distance, ethical boundaries, and a chance to succeed without the complication of their relationship.
So why did it feel like she'd amputated part of herself?
Her phone buzzed with a text from Julia."Heard there was some drama at the hospital today. You okay?"
Carmen stared at the message without responding. How could she explain that she'd voluntarily destroyed the best thing that had happened to her in years?
The doorbell rang at nine-thirty, cutting through Carmen's spiral of self-recrimination. She considered ignoring it, but the sound came again, more insistent this time. Carmen moved to the front door with leaden steps, already knowing who she'd find on the other side.
Julia stood on her doorstep in civilian clothes, her expression carrying the particular concern Carmen recognized from their years of friendship. Her dark hair was slightly mussed from the evening wind, and she held a bottle of wine in one hand—the good stuff from the vineyard they'd visited last summer.
