The Pediatrics Wing

Six months can feel incredibly fast, or it can feel like a hundred years. 

For me, the last six months felt like a flat line on a heart monitor. My life had turned into a robotic routine. I woke up at five o’clock every morning in my tiny apartment. The loose floorboards still squeaked when I walked on them, but I didn't care anymore. I drank plain black coffee from a cheap mug, put on my old green hospital clothes, and walked to work. 

I didn't work in the fancy, private hospital wing anymore, where my dad's money could buy special treatment. Instead, I moved down into the basement—the public kids' clinic for poor families. 

It was a world away from Forbes Park.

The charity wing was always loud, always hot, and always bursting at the seams. The walls were painted a cheap yellow color that was peeling off. Instead of private rooms with leather couches and TVs, we had fifty metal baby cribs crammed side-by-side in one giant room. There was no air conditioning. We only had big plastic fans on the walls blowing the hot, sticky city air around. 

The air smelled of baby powder, eucalyptus oil, cheap disinfectant, and the faint, copper smell of sickness.

But I loved this place. I loved it because it was real.

Children do not know how to lie the way adults do. They do not care about public relation profiles, international investors, or family empires. If a three-year-old boy in Bed 12 felt pain from his pneumonia, he cried. If the medicine worked and his fever broke, he smiled and reached for his plastic toy. There were no hidden motives here. There were no secret envelopes full of cash to cover up a crime. 

In the charity wing, life was simple: a beating heart, a good breath of air, and a mom praying over a crib. 

I buried myself in the work. I pulled double shifts, sometimes staying in the hospital for thirty-six hours straight. When the other residents wanted to go home to their families, I volunteered to take their night watch.

The other doctors thought I was a saint. They thought I was just incredibly dedicated to helping poor kids. 

But the truth was much darker. I was using the kids' pain to hide my own. When I was fixing a medicine tube or listening to a sick baby breathe, I didn't have to think about how empty my life was. I didn't have to think about Scarlet. I didn't have to think about the terrifying, cold look in my dad's eyes when he told me I was dead to him. 

Working all the time was the only thing keeping my own heart beating. 

Every morning, before I started checking on my patients, I went to the staff bathroom to wash my face. And every morning, I had to look at a ghost. 

I would look into the small, cheap mirror above the sink. Because Scarlet and I were identical twins, looking at my own reflection was like looking at a dead person. I had the same straight nose, the same shape of the jaw, the same dark eyes.

But over the last six months, the differences had started to grow.

Scarlet’s face was always bright and glowing, and she always wore beautiful makeup. My face in the mirror was skinny and pale. My cheekbones stuck out because I often forgot to eat. My eyes used to look bright and curious, but now they just looked heavy, guarded, and completely exhausted. 

My parents had successfully erased me from their world.

Three months ago, I passed a newsstand outside a convenience store. The cover of a prominent business magazine featured a large photograph of Damien and Calista Ford. They were standing at a ribbon-cutting ceremony for a new luxury resort in Boracay. They were both smiling. My mother looked beautiful in a purple linen dress—Scarlet's favorite color. The article spoke about the family's incredible resilience after the tragic, sudden loss of their youngest daughter, Scarlet.

The article did not mention Snow. It was as if Damien Ford had only ever had one child.

I stood on the dirty sidewalk, breathing in the car smoke, and realized I truly didn't exist to them anymore. Their lawyers probably took me out of their wills. My name was gone. 

I was completely alone in the city. 

But my mind was still clear. In the quiet hours of the night, when the pediatric ward was asleep and only the soft breathing of the babies filled the room, I would sit at the nurse's station with my old notebook.

I had not forgotten Ana Del Rico.

I had written down every detail I could remember from that terrible week: the silver bumper of Scarlet's sports car, the grey hazard bag in the ICU, the names of the security team members who worked for my father, and the silence of Tito Robert. I knew I couldn't go to the police yet. If I walked into a police station with no proof, my dad's expensive lawyers would just lock me up in a mental hospital. 

I needed real, hard evidence. I needed the traffic camera footage that had vanished from the server. I needed to find the person who had accepted the bribe.

I was waiting. I was building my strength, waiting for the right moment to strike a match and let the truth burn the Ford empire to the ground.

I did not expect that the match would walk into the hospital on a Tuesday afternoon.

"Dr. Snow, you need to change your scrubs," Nurse Grace said, peeking into the room where I was checking a little girl's throat. 

I blinked. "Why? Is there a medical emergency?" 

"No, it’s the annual Hospital Foundation Charity Drive," Nurse Grace said, her eyes wide with excitement. "The big donors are arriving in the main lobby. The hospital director, Dr. Jose, sent a memo. All junior consultants and residents from the charity wing must be present to show the donors where their money goes. You know how it is—they want the pretty doctors at the front."

I sighed. My stomach felt tight. I hated these parties. They felt just like the fake parties my parents used to throw—rich people in fancy clothes drinking wine and talking about poor people. 

"I have two more patients to check, Grace," I said, trying to get out of it.

"Dr. Jose specifically asked for you, Doc," Grace said, dropping her voice into a whisper. "He said since you... well, since you have a background with high society, you would know how to speak to them. Please, Snow. If we don't look good, they might cut our budget for the new incubator machines."

The incubator machines. That was my weak spot. We had three premature babies in the ward right now, and our current incubators were old, their heating elements failing twice last week.

"Fine," I muttered. "Give me ten minutes."

I went to my locker, took off my stained green scrubs, and changed into a clean, simple white doctor’s coat over a plain black cotton shirt and trousers. I didn't put on any makeup. I didn't have any jewelry. I just pinned my hospital ID badge to my lapel. It read: Dr. Snow Ford, MD – Pediatrics.

The main lobby of Metropolitan General Hospital had been transformed.

The hospital lobby was totally transformed. The waiting chairs were gone. Instead, there were tables with fancy tablecloths, expensive tiny foods, and fancy juice. A small band was playing classical music. 

The crowd was exactly what I expected. Wealthy businessmen in sharp barongs, high-society women carrying designer leather handbags, and local politicians shaking hands with the hospital board directors.

I hid in the back next to a big concrete pole. I watched Dr. Jose lead a group of wealthy donors toward the pediatric display boards, his face split into a wide, corporate smile.

"He's trying a little too hard, isn't he?" a voice said right next to me. 

I jumped slightly, turning my head.

A tall man was leaning against the pole next to me. He was wearing a perfectly fitted dark blue suit. He had dark black hair and a very handsome, smart face with a strong jaw. His eyes were the color of dark coffee, and he was looking right at me with an amused expression. He had his hands shoved deep into his pockets. 

He wasn't holding a food plate or a juice glass. He had his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets.

"Excuse me?" I said, my defensive walls immediately going up. Six months of isolation had made me wary of strangers, especially handsome, wealthy ones who looked like they belonged in my parents' living room.

The man smiled. It wasn't the fake, corporate smile Dr. Jose was using. It was a warm, confident smile that showed a row of perfect white teeth.

"The director," the stranger said, pointing his head at the hospital director.  "He has been talking about the hospital’s 'deep commitment to the underprivileged' for twenty minutes, but I noticed he hasn't mentioned that the charity wing's roof has a leak in Sector 4."

I stared at him, my mouth opening slightly in surprise. "How do you know about the leak in Sector 4?"

"I read the hospital's financial audit and maintenance reports before I came," he said matter-of-factly. "I don't like giving money to institutions unless I know exactly where the holes are. And right now, your wing has a lot of holes, Dr. Ford."

He knew my name. My eyes moved down to my lapel, realizing he had read my ID badge.

"And who are you?" I asked, stepping back slightly. "An auditor?"

The man took his right hand out of his pocket and extended it toward me. "Blake. Blake Buenaventura."

The name hit me like a small electric shock.

Even though I had isolated myself from the high-society world, you couldn't live in Manila without hearing about Blake Buenaventura. He was the senior managing partner of Buenaventura & Partners, one of the most powerful and ruthless corporate law firms in the country. He was known as a legal prodigy. At just thirty-two years old, he had won cases against major international conglomerates. The papers called him "The Iron Viper" because once he took a case, he never let go until his opponent was completely destroyed.

He was brilliant, high-profile, and incredibly wealthy. He was the kind of man my father would hire to protect the family assets.

I looked at his extended hand but didn't take it right away. "A corporate lawyer at a pediatric charity event? Are you lost, Atty. Buenaventura? The corporate tax haven seminars are usually held at the Shangri-La, not a public hospital basement."

Blake didn't get mad. His smile just got bigger, and his dark eyes looked very interested.

"Sharp," he said in a smooth voice. "They told me the doctor twin was the prickly one. They were right."

My heart skipped a beat. The doctor twin.

He knew exactly who I was. He didn't just see a random doctor; he saw Snow Ford, the kicked-out daughter of the Ford family.

"If you are here on behalf of my father, you can leave," I said. My voice was freezing cold, but I was panicking inside. Was my dad sent his lawyers to monitor me? Were they going to try to take away my medical license next? "I have nothing to say to the Ford Group. I don't use their money, and I don't live in their house."

Blake lowered his hand, but he looked very serious and gentle. It caught me totally off guard. 

"I am not here for your father, Snow," he said softly, using my first name without permission. "In fact, your father's legal team is currently trying to sue one of my corporate clients. We are definitely not on the same side."

I looked at him closely, trying to find the lie in his face. As a doctor, I knew how to read micro-expressions—the slight twitch of an eyelid, the tightening of the jaw, the rhythm of the breathing. But Blake’s face was perfectly still, a flawless mask of calm sincerity.

"Then why are you here?" I demanded.

"My mother passed away from a heart condition when I was a teenager," Blake said, looking away for a second.  "Before she died, she used to volunteer at public pediatric clinics. Every year, on her birthday, I pick a charity wing in the city and provide a direct grant for whatever equipment they need. No red tape. No corporate speeches. Just a check for the hardware."

He looked back at me, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made it hard for me to breathe.

"This year, I picked Metropolitan General. And when I asked the nursing staff who handles the most critical cases in the charity wing, every single one of them said the same name: Dr. Snow Ford."

I froze.

For six months, rich people had only ever blamed me, hated me, or called me a bully. I was so used to people judging me. But Blake wasn't judging me. He was looking at me with pure respect.

"I heard about what happened," Blake said very quietly, making it feel like we were the only two people in the room. "And I heard how your family kicked you out. I am so sorry, Snow. You didn't deserve that." 

A hot, painful lump formed in my throat. 

I wanted to push him away. I wanted to tell him to mind his own business, that I didn't need his pity or his legal charms. But my heart was weak. For six long months, I had been starving in a desert of complete isolation, and Blake Buenaventura had just offered me a drop of clean water.

"I don't need sympathy, Attorney," I said, though my voice didn't sound as cold as I wanted it to.

"I’m not offering sympathy," Blake said, taking a step closer. I could smell his cologne—something subtle and clean, like clean rain and wood. "I’m offering three new German-made pediatric incubators with built-in oxygen monitors. I already signed the purchase order this morning. They will be delivered to your wing on Friday."

I gasped. "Three? Those models cost nearly half a million pesos each."

"Like I said," Blake smiled, his eyes wrinkling happily. "I don't like holes in the roof. If I'm going to fix something, I fix it completely."

He reached into his jacket and handed me a fancy, heavy black business card. He placed it gently between my fingers. The card felt heavy, the letters Blake Buenaventura – Senior Partner raised in elegant silver script.

"If the delivery team gives you any trouble on Friday, or if you need anything else for the ward, call me directly," he said.

I looked down at the black card in my hand, then back up at his face. "Why are you doing this, truly? A man like you doesn't just hand over millions of pesos without wanting something in return."

Blake laughed softly, a low, rich sound that seemed to vibrate in my chest. He leaned in slightly, his face just inches from mine.

"You really don't trust anyone, do you, Doctor?" he whispered. "Let’s just say... I like people who work really hard in the dark while everyone else is just showing off in the light. It’s super rare to find." 

He stepped back, nodded politely, and walked away. The crowd moved out of his way, but he didn't stop to talk to anyone. He walked right out the front doors into the sunshine. 

I stood by the pole for a long time, squeezing his black card so hard that it started to bend. 

My emotional armor had been totally solid for six months. But right then, a tiny crack opened up. I didn't know it yet, but a trap had just been set, and the bait was exactly what my lonely heart had been begging for.