Hermione
It remains a few hours before my shift is over. I don't have any surgery scheduled until the next two days. Mercifully.
As I step out into the hallway, my path is intercepted by Professor Patel.
He is one of the oldest doctors to have worked in the hospital, even though he attempts to appear young.
He never fails to dye his graying hairs into an obsidian black. He has that air of cheerfulness about him, which is a sharp contrast to my typical aloofness and icy personality.
Residents love to join his team rather than be under my mentorship.
"Impressive performance, as always, Professor Pierce," Doctor Patel says, clapping loudly.
My dad's name is Pierce - Jackson Pierce. My mom refuses to change her surname fully to his after marriage, hence the two surnames on my profile: Hermione Watson Pierce.
I introduce myself first as Hermione Pierce, before adding Watson as my other surname. Most of my colleagues are often baffled by this act of mine, wondering why I would hide my affiliation to the renowned Watson Foundation. If only they knew.
Sure, my family has loads of money - generational wealth; the luxury is secure and enviable. However, not all that glitters is gold. Beyond the glittering facade lies a darker reality.
"Mmn," I grunt low under my breath. "Did she request my audience?" I ask him.
"Don't be too rigid, Professor Pierce." He flattens his mouth into a semblance of a smile and draws a line across it with his finger. "Smile."
I ignore him, heading towards my mom's office.
"That insolent br..." I hear Professor Patel's strangled curse behind me, and a slow smile creeps onto my mouth.
Professor Patel is actually an interesting man. I could have gotten along with him and gleaned some knowledge from him; he's highly skilled in bypass surgery. However, he's too much of a sycophant, kissing up to anyone he regards as being in a prominent position.
That makes me wonder what his true nature is. I can't befriend a man whose true nature isn't apparent.
I knock on the door when I reach my mom's office.
"Come in!"
I turn the knob and push the door open, stepping inside. My mom is on a call, so I gently close the door behind me.
I sit on one of the couches set a few feet away from her desk, where she receives visitors. I recline into the plush chair, letting out a sigh.
My head whips toward my mom, and our eyes connect. The sigh was louder than I intended, and it catches her attention.
"Let's talk later, alright," she says, wrapping up her conversation. She sets her phone down on her desk and stands up, her desk chair rotating to the side.
Her heels click rhythmically against the polished marble flooring as she approaches me. She sits across from me, crossing her legs at the knee.
Her eyes are sharp as she assesses me. "Tea or coffee?"
I shake my head, unable to speak. My throat is dry, so I swallow and try again. "No, I'm good."
Her jaw twitches, but she holds back her comment. She rings for tea to be brought in for her.
I suspect I'm in for a lengthy and critical discussion, given that my mom is offering tea before opening her mouth.
My anxiety spikes, and tension builds in my bloodstream. I stiffen my legs and clasp my fingers over my thighs to hide my nervous reaction. I assume a leisurely pose, but my entire body is shaking with worry.
My mom's tea arrives, and the lady who brings it in sets it on the table and quickly exits the office. Mom doesn't appreciate the effort either. She raises the steaming cup of herbal tea to her mouth and sips.
The thick scent of chamomile with peppermint fills the air, and I struggle to hide my repulsion.
My mom is probably aware of my aversion to her choice of tea. It's either she prefers this torturous way of keeping me grounded, or she just doesn't care.
Right. I smack my lips, recollecting. In my mom's regard, I'm not a human being; I'm a mere robot. I have no feelings or thoughts of my own; I'm merely conditioned to act out her wishes.
I swallow the lump that forms in my throat. My stomach shifts under her intense scrutiny, and I wish earnestly for a reprieve.
"Are you feeling stressed?" Mom asks out of the blue.
My gaze snaps up to hers. "Pardon?" slips through my lips before I can help it.
A frown lines her forehead, and I immediately answer, "No." I hold my breath, searching for a fresh scent, but none can be found, not in Mom's office.
Mom inhales the steam from her tea, a smile of appreciation on her lips. I cringe inwardly, schooling my expression to maintain a mask of neutrality.
The cup clinks against its saucer when she sets it down. She produces a magazine from nowhere and flings it across the center table toward me.
I glance at the magazine, curiosity sparking. I don't reach out to pick it up, but I catch the headlines: "Alvin Dale Mendes: The Visionary Behind MD's Success."
I haven't heard of him. He's not the kind of news I'd follow, if I watched the news. I've always been too busy with research books and practicing late into the night to hone my surgical skills.
I meet my mom's gaze questioningly when she gestures for me to pick up the magazine.
"Acquaint yourself with every detail about that family," she says.
"Why?" I mutter, still trying to process the information.
"You will be getting married into that family soon," my mom states, her tone matter-of-fact.
"What?" I exclaim, squinting my eyes in shock. I glance down at the old man on the magazine. He looks to be around my dad's age, fifty-two, but appears much older.
I leap to my feet, a mix of disbelief and irritation sweeping through me. "This old man?" I seethe, flinging the magazine in my hand.
My mom's demeanor remains unchanged. "Calm yourself down. You will be getting married to his second son," she says with a finality to her tone. "He's around your age," she adds, as though that's something to rejoice about.
I feel a surge of anger and resentment. She's tying my future to some faceless man for her ambitions, and expects me to act the obedient child and say yes to this?
Hell, no. I can work myself to exhaustion, but I'm not settling for a loveless marriage.
"No," I breathe, facing my mom head-on. "I'm not getting married to anyone. That will be my choice to make. No," I say more firmly.
My mom doesn't react. Instead, she slowly folds her arms across her chest. Then, she begins to laugh – a dry, menacing cackle that has me withdrawing a step back.
When Ezra Watson Pierce laughs, it doesn't end well. It means someone's going to cry. And we both know who that person is in here: me.
Aiden "The investigation has been impeded because the sole witness refuses to say anything unless she sees you first," Detective Jordan says with a snicker. We are being driven by Kash, my driver, to the private care facility where my mother is receiving care. The day after my discharge, I called the detective and scheduled a meeting. Our phone call was brief. He still insisted on withholding his findings until he saw me and assured himself that I was medically cleared for a thorough conversation. I appreciated his concern, but I felt irritated. Now, my heart pounds with anticipation of seeing my mother again after years of her disappearance. And it constricts in pain at the thought of what I may find. She might have been reduced to a shell of her former self due to the trauma she faced, which may have forced her mind to shut inward as a coping mechanism.Detective Jordan glances out the window. "She's a blind old woman," he explains, propping one arm against the window frame and r
Aiden One and a half month later"You look terrible," I say, scrunching my face in disapproval. Despite her makeup, I notice the dark circles under Hermione's eyes. With my discharge date approaching, her visits have been occasional, and her appearance remains unchanged. "Is your mother working you too hard?" I ask, having overheard some nurses discussing Hermione's mother's demanding nature. I've started taking walks without assistance, and the orthopedic specialist has cleared me to resume my daily activities. Although my neuro rehabilitation hasn't yielded significant results, plans for hypnotherapy are underway. Dr. Hale is gradually introducing me to the process, with sessions scheduled after my discharge to help me recover my memories.Hermione's eyes flash at my question. "Are you getting back any memories?" she asks. I hesitate, trying to recall – but the memories of her, and everything associated with her, remain frustratingly out of reach. I had known, I'm certain of i
Hermione I knew better than to let my guard down so easily; Mom never lets transgressions go unpunished. The past week had been a barrage of surgeries, with Mom seemingly ordering in VIP patients from a queue. I spent most of the week operating on fumes, working on complex cases thrust my way, and barely getting enough rest. I appreciate the challenge, but the cost is too high. When it became clear that my overexerted state might compromise patient safety, I began assisting in surgeries. I couldn't help but wonder if Mom is indeed my biological parent. What kind of mother subjects her only daughter to such torture simply because I stood up to her and decided to take charge of my life? I take a sip of my fifth cup of coffee for the day, feeling the fatigue. I've been surviving on mostly two to three hours of sleep. Since Aiden's hospitalization, neither of us has set foot in our home. I always drag myself to my office and collapse onto the couch, exhausted, whenever I get a chanc
AidenA thrill runs through my body at her words. It's not the first time I've been propositioned by a gorgeous lady, but this moment with Hermione is incomparable. My body sparks to life with the feel of her hand in mine, our gazes connecting, and her radiant smile. Her voice washes over me like a soothing melody, filling me with warmth and comfort.I love her too; I know that. I'm probably falling in love with her all over again, and it's a good feeling. "How did we meet? How did we get married? Can you fill me in on our past?" I'm eager to get my memories back. Hermione scrunches her face, probably believing that might not be a good idea. "Just the safe parts," I add. "I don't know which parts of our history are safe, Aiden. You might experience overstimulation if I go too far." "I'll let you know if I'm feeling out of sorts, so you can stop. Tell me, please." I'm dying to know. "Did I approach you and ask you out..." She shakes her head before I finish my question. "No, our
Hermione "It's alright," I assure Raymond. He told me about Aiden's memory lapse, expressing his wonder at how Aiden could have forgotten me. Raymond runs his hand through his hair. "It's kinda hard to believe." I press my lips together, managing a small smile. "He will get through this." He appraises me with a sympathetic look. "This shouldn't be happening. If there's anything I can do to help, just give me a call, alright?" I nod, waving a brief goodbye to him as he leaves.I spend the night at the hospital, having no reason to return to that large house alone. I might feel miserable there. I've become so attached to Aiden's company that I'm certain if I return home, I won't be able to focus on my studies or sleep for the night. Even now in the office, thoughts of him dominate my mind. I deliberately chose not to meet him when Raymond informed me of his request to see me; it was too late at night, and he needed rest. So did I; I was exhausted. If he now knows that I'm his wi
Aiden I find myself unable to tear my gaze away from the beautiful doctor as she leaves the room. Despite being told she's not my attending physician or a nurse, her presence seems significant. She's a professor, I've been informed. Her youthful appearance and fresh-faced beauty are striking. Given her frequent visits and interest in my condition, I'm tempted to wonder if she might have a personal interest in me. The hospital director's visit doesn't surprise me, considering my father's influence, but the question she posed puzzles me. The doctor explained that I've lost some vital memories due to the accident, assuring me that they'll guide me through every step of my rehabilitation and therapy until I'm back to full health. "Is that doctor anyone significant to me?" I ask Raymond, my brow furrowed in curiosity. My mind is blank; I have no recollection of ever meeting her or getting involved with someone like her. She appears to be under thirty, and with her accomplishments, I