Page 18 of Dare to Love Me

He drags a hand through his hair. “I don’t have the mental bandwidth to do this with you right now. Will you be okay getting home?”

“Yes,” I say stiffly, forcing my chin up. “I’ll be fine.”

I step toward the door, managing to fumble the handle like it’s a goddamn Rubik’s Cube before turning back to face him. “Good evening, Edward. Sorry for the disturbance. And the . . . unauthorized use of your very nice sheets.”

Without waiting for his reply, I step out into the night, the cool air rushing against my overheated skin, leaving him and his judgment behind.

Except . . .

I can still feel his eyes on me.

Even long after I’m gone.

CHAPTER 6

Edward

If this laparoscopic anteriorresection is anything short of perfection, Daisy Wilson is entirely to blame.

Hardly the mindset I should have while navigating a patient’s abdominal cavity.

And yet, here we are.

My team stands in silent readiness, waiting for the next command.

Distraction is not an option. I will not allow last night’s chaos to compromise my performance.

I adjust the laparoscope with deliberate precision. On-screen, the high-definition monitor magnifies an intricate landscape of flesh and vessels.

Two hours of meticulous dissection have led to this—no turning back. My pulse remains steady, but beneath it, adrenaline hums—a silent current keeping my senses razor-sharp.

“Blood pressure, one-ten over seventy,” Nurse Yang reports.

“Good. Let’s keep it there.” My gaze never leaves the screen. Stability is paramount.

I begin the delicate task of isolating the diseased portion of the bowel. One wrong move could compromise weeks of surgical planning.

“Suction.”

The scrub nurse moves with efficiency, the faint hiss of the device clearing the field.

“Nearly there,” I murmur, blocking out everything but the controlled movement of my hands. “Matthews, prepare the stapler.”

The screen sharpens every detail—the fragile network of vessels, the curvature of the bowel, the precise point of connection.

The stapler locks into place. A quiet click.

A small sound.

Insignificant anywhere else.

Monumental here.

“Anastomosis secure,” I murmur, making one final assessment. Blood supply intact. No leaks. Everything as it should be.

“Dr. Matthews,” I say, my attention still fixed on the screen. “Close for me.”

“Yes, Sir,” Matthews replies.