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When they entered the room, the conversation faded into the background as they approached the bedside. Janet was asleep, her small chest rising and falling in rhythm with the machines. Her mother sat by her side.
“Good morning,” Addie said quietly as she stepped up to the bed. “How’s she doing today?”
“About the same,” her mother said, her voice tired. “She’s still so weak.”
Giselle was already looking at the chart, her face a mask of concentration. She didn’t acknowledge the mother or offer any words of comfort or reassurance—she was too focused on the folder in front of her to bother.
Addie checked Janet’s vitals as her mother watched with a furrowed brow.
“She’s progressing,” she said calmly. “It’ll take time, but she’s getting there.”
She nodded, her eyes flicking to Giselle, who was now examining the surgical site.
“Her recovery looks good,” Giselle said. “No signs of infection.”
Addie glanced at her, surprised by the bluntness. She wasn’t wrong, but it wasn’t exactly the reassurance the mother sought.
“We’ll do our best to ensure she’s fine, okay?” Addie said.
The mother nodded, although Addie couldn’t tell if she believed her.
Her pager suddenly went off:
STAT SURGERY OR 3
Giselle’s went off, too. She moved toward the door, slowed down, and turned to face Addie.
“Where’s OR Three?” she asked.
For someone who’d sounded very detached a few seconds ago, she was all too willing to head into an OR and save a life. But then, that’s surgeons for you. Always ready to cut.
Addie smiled.
“Follow me,” she said.
3
GISELLE
The message was brief:911, OR 3 STAT.
That was all Giselle needed.
Dr. Addie Wolfe was sexy. Her scrubs didn’t hide her generous curves as she lead Giselle to the OR. Giselle slowed down, watching the doctor take brisk steps toward the operating room. She was gorgeous.
But that didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered now was the OR.
She didn’t hesitate as she moved down the hall, her shoes peeling swiftly off the floors. Her mind was zeroed in on the details she’d already memorized—female, six years old, ventricular septa heart defect. The girlhadn’t been prepped for surgery, so now it was a rush.
Panic wasn’t something Giselle had room for.
As she approached the operating room, the sound of chaos hit her. Nurses were clustered near the entrance. Behind them, a stretcher barreled down the hall, paramedics pushing it forward. The girl was strapped down, her face pale, the oxygen mask over her small nose and mouth barely moving with the rise of her shallow breaths.
“Coming through!” one of the paramedics shouted as they neared the doors.
The nurses sprang into action, guiding them into the OR prep area. The doors swung open, the bright lights spilling out as the girl was wheeled through.
Giselle stepped in and immediately felt eyes land on her. The OR team knew who she was—of course they did. Her name carried weight, so they watched every step she took and every move she made.