Chapter 1 Admission
ALIYAH – PRESENT DAY
The automatic doors of St. Harrington Memorial Hospital slid open with a soft pneumatic hiss, welcoming me with the sterile scent of antiseptic, cold metal, and liminal hope. My suitcase rolled quietly behind me, barely whispering against the gleaming tiles, as if it understood that I had returned not as a memory, but as a ghost wearing skin.
A new hospital ID badge rested against my chest:
Name: Dr. Aliyah Wynn, M.D.
Specialty: Trauma Surgery
Status: Attending — Permanent Placement
Not Selene Ward.
Not the girl who once believed love and ambition could coexist.
Not the woman who begged to be understood.
This time, I arrived as the surgeon who survived the fire someone else lit.
The lobby felt cavernous — high ceilings, polished chrome accents, framed articles praising medical breakthroughs. The environment screamed excellence, the same standard I had once lived for, the same standard that had been used as a weapon against me. A group of residents hurried past, laughing about a midnight adrenaline case, unaware that they brushed shoulders with a storm.
My heels clicked with soft conviction as I headed toward the reception desk, each step measured, composed, and rehearsed. The young receptionist — freckles, wide-eyed, untouched by the politics of medicine — brightened as I approached.
“Good morning, doctor. First day?” she asked cheerfully.
“Yes,” I replied with a polite smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “I’m here to complete my onboarding and meet the Chief of Surgery.”
She clicked through her system, nodding. “You’re scheduled for a quick tour before your departmental briefing. You’ll love it here — the staff is amazing.”
Amazing.
That word again.
The same word that once described him.
My phone vibrated in my coat pocket.
My pulse didn’t change; I only glanced.
UNSENT NOTE – PRIVATE FILE
If a heart can still beat after being shattered, we must ask: is it resilience… or refusal to die?
I slipped the device away as the receptionist continued. “After the tour, you’ll meet Dr. Meta Vale. He—”
My stomach tightened, but I kept my expression neutral.
Of course he would still be here — thriving, celebrated, unchallenged.
“He’s our lead cardiothoracic surgeon,” she added. “The hospital practically adores him.”
“I’m sure they do,” I murmured.
My past had become his foundation.
My silence, his promotion.
But now… I had returned to reclaim the voice he buried.
A soft chime announced the arrival of an elevator; I stepped inside alone. As the doors slid shut, I caught my reflection — the composed face, the sharpened eyes, the unbreakable frame. I no longer resembled the woman who once loved him more than she loved herself. Selene died the night her future was stolen; Aliyah was what rose from the remains.
The eleventh floor smelled different — colder, quieter, and more serious. Trauma and cardiothoracic cases shared the same wing due to emergency crossover protocols. Convenience, they called it.
I called it fate with a scalpel.
I walked down the hallway, absorbing the layout, memorizing escape routes, supply closets, and blind corners. Every hospital was a battlefield, every surgeon a soldier, but not everyone understood that wounds could be emotional, too.
Through the observation glass, I saw fellows analyzing scans, nurses organizing post-op files, and monitors blinking with steady rhythm. Life and death hummed here. But so did lies.
Then, just beyond the frosted partition, I saw a posture I knew better than my own — tall, confident, practiced in the kind of casual ease only someone chased by worship, not consequences could perfect.
Dr. Meta Vale.
He stood with his back to me, reviewing an angiogram, one hand in his coat pocket, the other holding a pen he unconsciously tapped — a habit I remembered from long nights studying side-by-side before betrayal tasted like iron.
My breath didn’t hitch.
My heart didn’t race.
Not anymore.
He turned slightly, speaking to a junior, unaware that a ghost was watching him with eyes he once traced with his fingers.
The Chief of Surgery, a composed woman in her late fifties, approached me with a firm handshake. “Dr. Wynn. Welcome to Harrington. We’re fortunate to have you.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” I replied.
“We pride ourselves on excellence. I trust excellence is what you deliver?”
A soft smile curved my lips. “Without hesitation.”
She studied me — a habit leaders learned. “You’ll share OR proximity with Dr. Vale. He leads many of our biggest cases. I expect productive collaboration.”
“I’m certain we will manage.”
And oh… we would.
Just not how she imagined.
Before we could continue, Meta turned, and our eyes finally met — or rather, his eyes met the face he did not recognize.
He offered a professional nod, polite but detached.
No spark of recognition.
No ghost of guilt.
Not yet.
“Welcome,” he said, voice warm, tone pleasant. “I’m Dr. Vale. Trauma surgeons are invaluable here.”
“Yes,” I replied, voice steady as steel. “I’m Dr. Wynn. It’s an honor.”
But what I really wished I could say was:
Tell me, doctor,
does your heart still beat normally
when the past walks back into the room?
PRIVATE JOURNAL — The Anatomy of Us
Day 1 — Returned without dying.
He looked at me and didn’t see the damage he designed.
Revenge requires proximity. Today, I secured it.
