My Father Ordered Me To Operate but the Floating Words Warned Me

"Emma, get your ass back to the OR right now!"

My father, Arthur Hale, the hospital director, barked into the phone, leaving no room for refusal.

I'd just finished a 12-hour surgery.

I sat in the driver's seat, so exhausted I could barely keep my eyes open.

My grip tightened instinctively on the steering wheel.

"Arthur, my shift is over. I've already completed my handoff.

"Anna's covering the ER now. She's the doctor on call tonight."

I tried to keep my voice steady.

He let out an impatient huff.

"Cut the crap! A VIP was just rushed in, and he's in critical condition.

"Anna can't handle it alone. Get back here and assist her!"

I took a deep breath. It felt as if a boulder were pressing down on my chest.

"I've done two surgeries back-to-back. My hands are shaking.

"Operating in this condition would be reckless."

His voice turned shrill, and he didn't bother hiding the threat.

"Don't you dare make excuses, Emma!

"I don't care. You have three minutes to get yourself into OR One.

"If you're not there, I'll use my authority as director to block your credentialing as an attending physician next year!"

My eyes burned with unshed tears.

I didn't want to go, but with my career in my father's hands, I had no choice but to swallow my bitterness.

"Fine. I'm on my way."

My voice trembled.

I hung up, started the car, and prepared to turn around and head back to the ER.

That was when several floating comments suddenly appeared before my eyes.

[Don't go back! It's a death trap!]

[The patient is the old Don. His son, Marco Rinaldi, arranged the hit so he could take over.]

[If you walk into that OR and save him, his psycho son will have you killed to keep you quiet.]

[If you don't, he'll shoot you on the spot and send you to the grave with the old man!]

[If you go, you're taking the fall for Anna!]

I slammed on the brakes and stared at the warnings flashing wildly in front of me.

I gripped the steering wheel and cried silently.

After all these years, when had life ever been fair to me?

It was all because Anna's mother, my stepmother Vanessa Hale, chaired the largest pharmaceutical company in the city.

My late mother, by contrast, had been an ordinary woman.

To keep my stepmother happy, my father passed the talentless Anna off as a surgical prodigy.

And me? I was the gifted one, but his threats had reduced me to Anna's stand-in.

For the past three years, I'd performed every surgery that lasted 12 hours or more. I did every one entirely on my own, though each was supposedly a joint effort with Anna.

Time after time, sweat soaked through my scrubs.

And my dear little sister?

She'd lounge in her office with a pour-over coffee, scrolling through Instagram.

She'd wait until I'd tied off the very last stitch.

Only then would she put on a fresh, clean set of scrubs and walk in.

Then she'd accept the gratitude of the patient's family and bask in praise online.

Take last winter, for example.

I'd worked two overnight shifts in a row, then handled an emergency case from a multi-car pileup.

My body finally gave out, and I passed out cold on the locker room floor.

When my father arrived, he didn't let me rest. He snatched the chart from my hand.

He made me sit there hooked up to a dextrose IV and spend the whole night revising Anna's paper for her promotion.

"Anna's up for an award. You can't even handle one little thing like this?"

I can still picture the cold look on his face.

Just last month, the hospital named its Rising Star in Surgery.

The review committee had unanimously chosen me.

But my father used his power as director to secretly replace my name with Anna's.

He even transferred my entire cash award into Anna's account and used it to buy her a limited-edition sports car.

My mother died when I was young.

Once, I had been naive enough to believe that obedience and hard work would be enough.

Surely, they would one day earn me even a shred of my father's approval.

Then one day, I happened to walk past the director's office.

I heard my father say to Anna, "Don't worry. You're my daughter. You deserve the best of everything and all the glory.

"Emma's your big sister. Being your stepping stone is the least she can do."

We were both his daughters, but he'd never spared a single thought for me.

Amid all that grief and rage, one detail struck me: during the call, my father had only told me to assist Anna.

For a moment, I let myself hope. If I were only the assistant, maybe the blame wouldn't fall on me?

But a second later, reality shattered that fantasy.

My father always favored Anna, and they were both vicious. Only one outcome made sense.

If the old Don died on that table, they would pin all the blame on me.

They would claim I had botched the operation and offer me up as the perfect scapegoat to appease the mafia.

My gaze settled on the reinforced concrete wall under construction outside the ER.

An idea took shape.

I fixed my eyes on the wall and floored the gas pedal.

The engine roared.

I drove straight into it, head-on.

A deafening crash split the night.

The airbag deployed, and dust and smoke filled the air.