Page 13 of Once Upon A Second Chance (Once Upon A Time…To Happily Ever After #2)

Chapter Ten

Penny

The automatic doors of Mount Juliet Medical Center hiss open, releasing a wave of antiseptic-scented air that usually smells like home. Today it smells like a battlefield.

Every head in the waiting room swivels toward me as I step inside. Mrs. Henderson pauses mid-sentence in her conversation with Darlene, her wrinkled lips pressing into a thin line.

Old Man Jenkins lowers his newspaper just enough to peer at me over the rim of his bifocals.

Even the toddlers in the play area seem to sense the shift in atmosphere, their plastic blocks hovering mid-stack.

Darlene doesn't greet me with her usual, "Mornin', sugar." Just taps her acrylic nails against the keyboard with more force than necessary and says, "Holloway wants to see you."

The reception desk where we usually trade gossip about patients and town drama now feels like enemy territory.

The photocopied papers stacked beside Darlene's elbow scream up at me—legal documents with "HOGAN" and "MALPRACTICE" in bold print.

Lena materializes at my side before I can process the full horror, steering me toward the break room with an iron grip on my elbow.

"Breathe," she mutters as the door swings shut behind us. "And don't punch anyone."

The break room smells like burnt popcorn and stale coffee. Someone left the microwave door ajar, the turntable still smeared with orange grease from last night's forgotten nachos.

I slump into a chair, my shirt sticking to my back. “How bad is it?”

Lena slams two coffee cups on the table—one black, one with the precise amount of cream and sugar I like.

“Half the staff’s treating you like you’re just another staff member caught in the middle of a drama.”

"Just give it to me straight."

She flips open her tablet to reveal a screenshot of the Mount Juliet Community Facebook group.

Rebecca's perfectly filtered face smiles up at me beside a post titled "Is YOUR Doctor Trustworthy?"

"Bitch has been busy," Lena growls. "Posted the lawsuit docs last night. Tagged every mom group and senior center in the county."

My stomach lurches. I scroll through the comments:

"Always knew there was something off about that city doctor...""My niece goes to him! Should we switch?""My cousin's a nurse in NYC—she says malpractice suits are NORMAL for surgeons..."

Lena snatches the tablet back. "Look, half the staff thinks Richard’s a probable butcher—"

"—and the other half?"

"—thinks Rebecca's a lying vindictive witch who wears too much designer perfume."

She leans in. "For what it's worth? Patel's been quietly pulling Richard's old case files all morning. And Jenkins told Simmons to 'shove his opinion up his ass.'"

The door creaks open. Nurse Patel peers in, her usually immaculate bun fraying at the temples. "Penny. Holloway wants you. Now."

The walk to Holloway's office feels like marching to the gallows. Every exam room door is suspiciously closed. Every whispered conversation cuts off as I pass.

By the time I reach his office, my nails have left half-moon indents in my palms.

Holloway doesn't look up from the paperwork spread across his desk. The same lawsuit documents stare up at me, highlighted and annotated in angry red pen.

"Sit," he grunts.

The chair groans under my weight. Outside the window, a cardinal lands on the feeder, its cheerful red plumage at odds with the storm brewing inside.

Holloway finally meets my gaze. "You knew about this?"

The question isn't accusatory. Just tired.

"I know the case was bullshit," I say, voice steadier than I feel. "The anesthesiologist screwed up, not Richard."

Holloway's bushy eyebrows climb toward his receding hairline. "That's not what these documents say."

"Because hospital lawyers buried the truth." My knee bounces under the desk. "You really think the man who stayed for fourteen hours stitching up tornado victims would cut corners on a kid?"

A long silence stretches between us, broken only by the ticking of Holloway's ancient wall clock. The cardinal flies away.

Finally, Holloway sighs and rubs his temples. "Tell Hogan I want those medical records by end of day so I can review them for myself." He flips the lawsuit papers face-down. "And Penny?"

"Yeah?"

"Staff meeting tonight. Mandatory."

As I step back into the hallway, the clinic's usual rhythms feel distorted—like someone pressed pause and then play again at the wrong speed.

The laughter in the break room is too loud. The silence in the exam rooms is too heavy.

And through it all, the unspoken question hangs in the air:

Who do you believe?

The clinic’s conference room was not designed to hold this many people. Chairs scrape against linoleum as nurses, receptionists, and doctors pack in, their voices layering into a low, buzzing hum.

The overhead fluorescents flicker just enough to set my teeth on edge.

I take a seat beside Lena, who’s already scowling at the room like she’s prepared to fight someone.

Across the table, Darlene fans herself with a stack of papers—copies of the lawsuit, no doubt—while whispering something to Simmons, the new OB, who keeps glancing at me like I’ve personally betrayed him.

Holloway stands at the head of the table, arms crossed, waiting for the chatter to die. It doesn’t.

"All right," he barks, and the room falls silent. "We’re not here to gossip. We’re here to decide if this clinic stands behind its doctors or lets some disgruntled ex-wife dictate our staffing."

Darlene snorts. "With all due respect, Doctor, this ain’t about his ex. It’s about whether we’re letting a surgeon with a malpractice suit hang his shingle here."

Lena’s fingers dig into my knee under the table.

Holloway’s jaw tightens. "You got proof he was negligent, Darlene? The suit ended up finding the anesthesiologist liable. So just how to you intend to hold Dr. Hogan responsible now?"

Simmons leans forward, his crisp white coat rustling. "The court documents—"

"—are worth less than the paper they’re printed on if you’ve ever dealt with a corporate legal team. The suit just alleges the circumstances, doesn’t prove them. You need to look at the final outcome, just like Dr. Holloway says," Nurse Patel cuts in, her voice sharp.

She slides a folder across the table. "I pulled the original OR reports. The anesthesia logs don’t match the court transcripts."

A murmur ripples through the room. Darlene snatches the folder, flipping through it with narrowed eyes.

Old Doc Jenkins, who’s been retired for a decade but still comes to these meetings like it’s his God-given right, lets out a wheezing laugh. "Christ almighty. Y’all ever think maybe the uptown New York doctor got railroaded?"

Simmons scoffs. "Or maybe he’s just another surgeon who thought he was God."

The words hit like a slap. Before I can stop myself, I’m on my feet. "You’ve worked beside him for three months, Simmons. You see how he treats patients. You really think he’d risk a kid’s life?"

The room goes still.

Simmons blinks, then shrugs. "People change when lawyers get involved."

Lena slams her palm on the table. "Oh, that’s rich coming from—"

"Enough." Holloway’s voice cracks like a whip. He pins each of us with a glare.

"Here’s how this is gonna go. Hogan stays unless someone brings me actual proof of negligence. And if I hear one more word from anyone about this during clinic hours, that person will be fired."

A beat of silence. Then—

Darlene tosses the folder back onto the table. "Fine. But the patients are gonna ask questions."

"Then we tell them the truth," Holloway says.

Mrs. Whitaker sits stiffly on the exam table, her knuckles white around the edges of her purse. I've been her physical therapist for three years, through two hip replacements and one very determined attempt at line dancing. She's never once flinched from my touch.

Until today.

“Maybe we should reschedule,” she murmurs as I adjust the settings on the therapeutic ultrasound unit.

The gel bottle slips from my fingers, hitting the floor with a wet smack. "Is your pain worse?"

Her eyes dart to the door, where Richard's—Hogan's—laughter echoes from the next exam room. "It's just... with everything going on..."

The unspoken accusation hangs between us like a scalpel.

I force my hands steady as I squeeze fresh gel onto her hip. "Dr. Hogan saved Tommy Higgins' arm after that tractor accident. Remember?"

She winces as I press the transducer to her skin. "Of course, but—"

"—but some papers from New York matter more than what you've seen him do here?" The words come out sharper than I intend.

The ultrasound screen blurs. I blink hard.

Mrs. Whitaker reaches for my wrist, her paper-thin skin warm against mine. "Oh, honey. I didn't mean—"

The door swings open. Richard—Hogan, dammit—pokes his head in, his smile fading as he takes in the scene. "Everything okay?"

Mrs. Whitaker's grip tightens. "Just fine, Doctor."

The lie tastes like ash.

The parking lot asphalt radiates midday heat through my scrubs as I push open the clinic's back door. Richard's voice carries from behind the dumpster enclosure—low, tense.

"—not what this is about."

"Bullshit." Jesse's growl sends a chill down my spine. "You show up here with a guilty conscience and zero warning, and now my sister's fighting your battles?"

I round the corner to find them squared off like prizefighters. Jesse's fists are clenched, his work boots planted wide. Richard—Hogan, Hogan, Hogan—stands with his back against the brick wall, his posture deceptively relaxed.

"You think I'm using her." It's not a question.

Jesse steps closer, close enough that his faded work shirt brushes Richard's scrubs.

"I think you left her once when things got tough and the grass looked greener somewhere else.

Now you're back with a trail of New York shit following you, and Penny's out here looking like she's ready to gut anyone who looks at you sideways."

The truth of it hits like a punch.

Richard doesn't flinch. "Ask me whatever you need to ask, Jess."

"Did you hurt that kid?"

The air leaves my lungs.

Richard's jaw works. "No. But I didn't prevent the problem either."

Jesse scoffs. "That some surgeon word game?"

"No." Richard meets his gaze head-on. "It's the difference between what the court said and what I know. I know the anesthesiologist got the numbers wrong and it harmed the patient, resulting in a bad outcome. My only crime was not insisting on double checking his math."

A car door slams in the distance. Somewhere, a dog barks.

Jesse turns—and spots me frozen in the alley mouth. His face does something complicated before settling into a scowl. "This isn't over, Hogan."

He shoulders past me, his work boots kicking up gravel.

Richard sags against the wall, rubbing his face. "How much of that did you hear?"

"Enough." My voice sounds raw. "I don’t think I realized you blamed yourself."

The admission hangs between us, fragile as a spider web.

Somewhere inside the clinic, a phone rings. A patient laughs. Life goes on.

Richard reaches for me. Stops. Lets his hand fall. "Where do we go from here?"

I take his hand anyway.

"Forward, of course."

The porch light flickers as I pull into the driveway, casting jagged shadows across the peeling paint of my front steps.

My shoulders ache from the day’s tension, my knuckles still stiff from gripping the steering wheel too tight. The clinic’s chaos, Jesse’s interrogation, Richard’s guilty feelings—it all swirls in my head like storm clouds.

I kill the engine, the sudden silence ringing in my ears. Bijou’s excited barks echo from inside—she must’ve heard the car.

But then I see it.

A shadow shifts on my porch swing.

Not Mrs. Delaney’s familiar silhouette. Not Jesse’s hulking frame.

Him.

My blood turns to ice.

Travis Dawson leans forward, the chains of the swing creaking as his boots hit the wooden planks.

Moonlight glints off the silver hoop in his ear, the one he’d gotten the summer after high school, back when I thought he was charming—before I knew he was manipulative and controlling.

Back before the calls at 3:00 in the morning, the "casual" drop-ins at work, the way his hands had tightened just a little too much around my wrists that last night.

"Hey, Pen." His voice is all honey and venom, just like I remember. "Heard you’ve hooked back up with doc from New York."

Bijou’s barks turn frantic, her paws scratching at the door.

Travis stands, unfolding to his full height—six-two, all lean muscle and bad intentions. He’s dressed like he just came from the auto shop, his grease-stained jeans and tight white tee a deliberate costume.

Remember how I used to fix your car for free? it says. Remember how you owed me?

My fingers tighten around my keys, the jagged edges biting into my palm. "Get off my porch, Travis."

He tsks, taking a step closer. The motion makes my stomach lurch.

"That’s no way to greet an old friend."

The scent of motor oil and cheap cologne hits me as he invades my space. My back presses against the door, the wood vibrating with Bijou’s frantic scratching.

Travis braces one hand above my head, his breath hot on my face. "See, Rebecca told me all about how Dr. Hogan left you once already." His smile makes my skin crawl. "You really think he won’t do it again?"

Somewhere down the street, a car door slams.

Travis doesn’t flinch. "I’m just looking out for you, baby. Like I always have."

The keys dig deeper. One sharp twist, and they’ll make a decent weapon.

But before I can move, headlights flood the driveway.

A familiar truck rumbles to a stop, the driver’s side door flying open before the engine even cuts.

Richard’s voice cracks through the night like a gunshot.

"Get the hell away from her."