E L A R A

The flashes don’t fade, even after the crowd scatters and the sirens are gone, they keep burning under my eyelids, white ghosts that pulse with my heartbeat. My phone won’t stop buzzing. Messages, tags, photos, hero couple. The words taste metallic, like blood after a bite to the tongue.

I sit on the edge of the clinic counter, scrubs damp, fingers trembling as I unroll gauze just to keep them busy. Everything smells like salt and adrenaline. Somewhere outside, Marina is already spinning the story, gloss, filters, brand slogans.

My inbox pings again.

“Statement draft: Dr. Quinn praises the Valcrosse legacy of safety.”

Delete.

Another.

“Need photo approval: you and Adrian at sunset, iconic!”

Delete.

Someone knocks, gentle, its Asha. “They want you upstairs. Press thing. You and Mr. Valcrosse.” of course they do.

I glance at the mirror, hair half out of its tie, eyes red from saltwater. Every part of me still hums from the rescue, from his hands steady on mine, from the moment I almost forgot there were cameras at all.

Asha hesitates.  “They’re saying… you saved him, and Adrian backed you up. People noticed.”

“Noticed what?”

“That you made the call, and he followed.”

Her words hit deeper than praise should, I swallow the heat rising in my chest and nod, forcing air into lungs that still feel underwater.
“I’ll handle it.”

As she leaves, I catch my reflection again. The doctor in the glass looks steadier than I feel. The woman behind her just wants to breathe.

“Handle it,” I whisper to myself, grabbing my ID badge and stepping into the hall.
“Before someone else does.”

The conference deck smells like champagne and sea spray. Rows of staff and cameras line the terrace where the sun’s bleeding into the horizon. PR banners flap against the railings, Seraphine Cares in gold script.

Marina’s already center stage, hair perfect, voice smooth.  “A swift, coordinated response from our leadership and medical team prevented what could have been a tragedy.”

She gestures toward Adrian and me like we’re props. My pulse kicks, but I step forward before she can hand me her script.
“If I can say something.”

Her smile freezes.
“Of course, Doctor.”

I face the cameras, the crowd’s hum fades. The ocean, the heat, the weight of the last hour, it all presses close.  “Credit doesn’t belong to one person. Mr. Valcrosse made the call to close the terrace and secure the scene. Without that, I couldn’t have treated the patient safely.”

A ripple through the staff, surprise, maybe admiration. I keep going.
“People talk about leadership like it’s headlines or donations. It’s not. It’s doing the right thing when it’s messy and inconvenient and everyone’s watching. Today, that’s what he did.”

For a second, nobody speaks, then a few claps, then more. A murmur of agreement, awkward but real. Adrian’s standing off to the side, hands in his pockets, shirt still half-rolled at the sleeves. His eyes meet mine, steady, unreadable, something flickering behind all that control.

Marina recovers fast.  “Beautifully said. True partnership at Seraphine.” The cameras flash again, hungry for faces. The crowd surges closer. Marina ushers us together for a photo, her voice low enough only I can hear:
“That was off-script.”

“Yeah,” I whisper back.
“That’s why it worked.”

She smiles like a blade.
“Or why it’ll bite.”

Adrian shifts closer, his arm brushing mine. Just contact, nothing more, but enough to ground me. The sea wind catches my hair and the crowd claps again. It looks like unity. It feels like standing on the edge of something sharp.

By the time the cameras cut, the whispers start. In the back corner, two senior managers are already dissecting my words, too emotional, too grandstanding. One laughs quietly.
“Smart move, flattering the boss. She knows how to survive here.”

I keep my back to them, jaw tight, pulse hammering, I shouldn’t care. I’ve been underestimated my entire career, but something about the smirk in their voices makes me want to throw my clipboard through the ocean.

Marina’s tablet pings. She scrolls, lips curling.  “See? They’re calling it a PR romance. Doctor defends lover. Perfect engagement numbers.”

Adrian stiffens beside me.  “She defended the truth.”

Marina laughs softly.
“Same thing these days.”

My throat burns.
“You don’t get to spin compassion into clickbait.”

“Everything’s spin, sweetheart.” before I can answer, Ethan appears from the fringe of the crowd.
“We’re done here.” His look says walk away.

So I do, down the corridor, through the glass doors, heart pounding so loud I barely hear the applause fading behind me. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Adrian turning toward me, like he wants to follow, then stopping when Marina says his name.

Figures.

In the elevator’s reflection, I still look calm and controlled, but my hands tremble as the doors close. I did what was right, I gave him credit, and somehow, it still feels like I just painted a target on my back.

The clinic feels too quiet after the noise of applause and cameras. The kind of quiet that makes your own pulse sound guilty. I scrub my hands again even though they’re clean, blood long gone, just the ghost of it left in the lines of my palms. Every movement feels mechanical. Wash. Dry. Breathe. Pretend the world didn’t just turn something sacred into spectacle. Then I heard Footsteps, heavy and measured.

“Couldn’t sleep without disinfecting the island first?”  Adrian’s voice, low, roughened by exhaustion, or restraint.

I don’t look up.
“Habit.”

He stands on the other side of the counter, sleeves rolled high, his hair still damp from the shower. Clean shirt, undone collar. There’s a bruise forming along his forearm where the railing caught him.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says finally.

“Do what?”

“Credit me, In front of them.”

“You earned it.”

His laugh is small, humorless.
“That’s not what they’ll hear.”

“I don’t care what they hear.”

“You should.”

“Why? So Marina can twist it into another brand slogan?” I snap harder than I mean to, then exhale.
“You led. You stayed steady. It mattered.”

He studies me, eyes dark in the half-light.
“You really think I was steady?”

“I was there,” I say softly.
“You were.”

Something flickers across his face, doubt, gratitude, maybe both. The air between us thickens. He moves a step closer. My pulse stutters.

“I’m not used to being defended,” he says quietly.
“Not by someone who doesn’t want something from me.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Maybe not, but I do owe you honesty.”

I meet his eyes.
“Then start there.”

He does, not with words, just a look, open, unguarded, something like apology. His fingers twitch against the counter like he wants to reach across it. He doesn’t. The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s waiting.

By morning, the storm has moved online, my phone lights up with pings before sunrise, screenshots, threads and staff group chats that weren’t supposed to include me. Half praise. Half poison.

“Doctor Quinn humbled the heir.”

“Finally, someone honest at Seraphine.”

“Watch PR bury her next.”

I scroll until the words blur, the hum of the espresso machine covers the ache in my chest. Asha slips into the staff lounge, her hair still damp, scrubs wrinkled like she hasn’t slept.
“You saw the feeds?”

“Unfortunately.”

She hesitates, lowering her voice.
“It’s not just the feeds, people are talking. Housekeeping, kitchen, even security.”

I glance up.
“Talking about what?”

“Choosing.”

That word hits different.
“Choosing?”

“Between you and them. Between care and image, I guess.” She tries to smile but it falters.  “For what it’s worth, most of us are with you.”

The coffee in my stomach turns to lead.
“That’s not a good thing, Asha. It’s going to make enemies.”

“Maybe,” she says.  “But it also makes change.”

Before I can answer, the door creaks. Ethan stands there, unreadable as ever.
“Meeting in ten. Full operations staff. Adrian’s calling it”. Of course he is, damage control. Asha squeezes my arm.
“You should know, Doc, people aren’t calling it damage anymore. They’re calling it leadership.”

She leaves before I can respond. The corridor outside is lined with windows that spill sunrise across the floor. The island looks peaceful again, like last night never happened. But peace here is always performance. Underneath, something’s shifting.

I pause halfway to the meeting room. Through the glass, I catch sight of Adrian on the terrace, speaking quietly to Ethan. His expression is unreadable, but when he looks up, his gaze finds me instantly. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.

Then Marina appears beside him, tablet in hand, her smile tight as armor. She says something I can’t hear, and he turns away, toward her, not me. It shouldn’t sting but
it does. 

I keep walking.

The staff room ahead hums with voices, my name threading through them like a current. I can’t tell if it’s reverent or dangerous. Maybe both. By the time I reach the door, my hands are steady again. Whatever this is, admiration, rebellion, or fallout, it’s already begun. I straighten my shoulders, push the door open, and step into the noise.