The Surgeon's Revenge From Shadow to Spotlight

"How could you be so careless? Let me see."

"Tsk, the skin's broken. Let the nurses handle this kind of rough work. Those hands are meant for a scalpel."

I stood frozen, watching the scene unfold. Utterly absurd.

Three years ago, when a violent patient rushed at Adrian with a knife, I didn't hesitate. I threw myself in front of him.

The blade went straight through my left palm. Severed the nerves.

What did Adrian say back then?

At my hospital bedside, peeling an apple without looking up, his voice cold:

"Useless. Your hand's ruined. You're stuck doing paperwork now."

No comfort. No tenderness. Just disgust that I'd lost my value.

And now? Lily had scraped off a tiny bit of skin, and he acted like the sky was falling.

"Skip tonight's surgery. Go rest."

Adrian carefully applied a Band-Aid to Lily's finger. When he turned to me, his gaze went ice-cold.

"Wendy, I'm taking Lily to get familiar with Medical Affairs procedures tonight."

"Cover my overnight shift."

I stared at him in disbelief.

"My dad is still in the ICU. I need to stay with him—"

"The ICU has dedicated doctors and nurses. What are you going to do there, act as a ventilator?"

Adrian cut me off. No room for argument.

"Besides, the department's short-staffed. If you don't step in, who will?"

"Don't forget—you're just a paper-pusher now. Scheduling you at all is doing you a favor."

Lily peeked out from behind Adrian, giving me an innocent smile.

"Wendy, sorry to trouble you. Adrian said he's going to teach me so much tonight—it's really important."

"Oh, and that cake..."

She pointed at the chestnut cake on the table.

"Could you put it in the fridge for me? I'm worried it'll go bad."

Adrian wrapped an arm around Lily's shoulder and walked out without a backward glance.

"Forget about that cake. If you want one, I'll take you to the shop and have them make it fresh."

"Really? Adrian, you're the best!"

Their voices faded down the hallway until they vanished.

The locker room fell silent.

I stared at the cake box abandoned on the floor. The elegant packaging read: For My Love.

Just like eight years of my devotion—casually trampled and tossed aside like worn-out shoes.

I bent down, grabbed the cake, and hurled it into the trash.

A dull thud.

Like the first toll of a funeral bell for this disgusting relationship.

The ICU hallway's fluorescent lights cast a harsh, sterile white.

Disinfectant mixed with the scent of death. Suffocating.

I sat on the bench, gripping my phone, the screen's glow illuminating my ashen face.

Beep—beep—beep—

The monitor alarm shrieked from inside the room, sharp as nails on glass.

Doctors and nurses rushed in.

I shot to my feet. My legs buckled. I nearly collapsed.

"Dad!"

I tried to follow, but a nurse blocked me at the door.

"Family members wait outside! We're doing resuscitation!"

The heavy door slammed shut. Life and death, separated by inches.

I pressed against the glass, watching the frantic movement inside, watching my father—covered in tubes—jolt upward with each shock from the defibrillator.

My nails dug into the wall. Blood seeped out. I couldn't feel it.

Half an hour later, the attending physician emerged drenched in sweat. He pulled off his mask, expression grave.