CHAPTER FIVE: STORM

Chapter 5: The Storm

His words had trailed after me through every single lecture, every ward round, and every patient interview I’d conducted that afternoon.

"Don’t let yourself get distracted."

The more I turned those five words over in my head, the less certain I became about what he’d actually meant by them.

By ten to six, with a heavy squall brewing over the skyline, I found myself heading back toward the VIP wing.

The first thick drops of rain were already splattering against the glass doors of the entrance as I stepped inside.

Within seconds, that initial drizzle exploded into a downpour.

Thunder rumbled low and heavy somewhere directly over the city.

The usually frantic corridor felt eerie in its quiet.

Most of the consultants had already drifted off for evening rounds, leaving behind only the soft, ambient glow of the wall lights reflecting off pristine, polished floors.

I paused right outside his door, tucked the stack of papers tighter under my arm, and knocked twice.

“Come in.”

His voice sounded entirely composed, cutting clearly through the thick wooden door.

I pushed it open.

The office was noticeably dimmer than usual. The main overhead lights hadn't been switched on,

leaving the space illuminated only by the moody, fading grey light filtering in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Outside, rain was streaking heavily across the glass.

Dominic Reid was standing over by the window.

The white lab coat was gone, as was the tailored navy suit jacket he typically wore.

His sleeves were neatly rolled up to his forearms, revealing the crisp, dark cuffs of a charcoal shirt underneath.

One hand was resting in his trouser pocket, while the other held a heavy crystal tumbler half-filled with an amber liquid.

He didn't turn around right away.

“You’re early, Miss Vale.”

“I’ve learned that punctuality tends to make life easier around here.”

The very corner of his mouth twitched upward.

Almost.

“I see.”

I walked across the room and set the file down cleanly on his desk.

"The revised paper, sir.”

Only then did he turn to face me.

His gaze dropped briefly to the document before shifting directly up to my eyes.

“I figured you’d have it rewritten.”

“I did.”

He picked it up without another word.

A heavy silence settled across the room.

Outside, rain beat relentlessly against the windowpane.

Inside, the only real sound was the slow, steady rustle of turning pages.

He didn't skim.

He never skimmed. Every single page received the exact same razor-sharp scrutiny—every metric, every citation, every concluding thought.

I stood there quietly with my hands resting behind my back, trying my best not to shift my weight back and forth every few seconds.

Finally, he closed the folder.

“Better.”

That was it. A single word. Yet somehow, coming from him, it felt almost like winning an award.

“Thank you, sir.”

His pencil tapped twice against the cover. “Walk me through this conclusion.”

I took a small step closer as he pointed down at the bottom paragraph.

“You’ve recommended early surgical intervention across all patients presenting with severe mitral regurgitation.”

“The current literature supports moving to surgery earlier,” I said.

“It supports earlier surgery in selected patient groups.”

I frowned slightly. “The overall survival rates show clear improvement—”

“They show clear improvement when left ventricular function is still preserved.”

“I accounted for that variable.”

“No,” he said, sliding the paper an inch closer to me. “You assumed it.”

I looked down at the paragraph, scanning the lines once, then twice.

Annoyingly enough… he was completely right.

“I should have explicitly stated the baseline criteria.”

"Yes, you should have.” His tone remained strictly neutral.

"Making the fix is useless if you don't actually grasp why the distinction matters in practice.”

I looked up at him. For a short, suspended beat, neither of us said a word.

It wasn't uncomfortable—just remarkably intense, like standing across from someone who simply refused to accept anything less than your absolute best effort.

Outside, a brilliant flash of lightning split the dark skyline.

A single heartbeat later—

The lights died.

Total darkness swallowed the office.

The quiet background hum of the air conditioning cut out instantly, and the soft chime of monitors out in the hallway went dead silent.

Rain slammed against the exterior glass with sudden, aggressive force.

For one suspended second, the entire building seemed to hold its breath.

Instinctively, I took a step backward in the dark.

My heel caught the hard edge of the leather sofa.

“Oh—”

The floor gave way beneath me.

Before I could hit the ground, a firm hand closed down securely around my forearm.

Another hand came up, steadying my lower back.

The reaction was lightning-fast, precise, and entirely automatic—the kind of pure muscle memory that only belongs to a surgeon.

I ended up barely inches away from him.

Neither of us breathed a word.

The darkness hid practically everything except the sound of the storm outside and the quiet, synchronized rhythm of our breathing.

Mine.

His.

I couldn't make out his expression at all—just the sharp outline of his silhouette, his broad shoulders, his fixed posture, and the faint scent of cedarwood mixed with the smoky warmth of whiskey.

Without even thinking about it, my fingers gripped a little tighter into the fabric of his shirt sleeve.

He didn't pull away.

Neither did I.

Another sharp bolt of lightning tore across the sky outside, pouring a sudden wave of harsh, silver light straight into the office.

For a fraction of a second, I saw his face clearly.

It wasn't cold. It wasn't distant or detached. It wasn't even surprised.

He was just… looking down at me.

As if, for one impossible moment, he had completely forgotten that he was supposed to let go.

Then the darkness crashed back in.

Deep below the building, the emergency generators kicked into gear with a low rumble.

Soft yellow safety lights flickered on overhead, casting a dim glow across the room.

Reality flooded right back in with it.

He immediately released his grip on my arm and stepped back, creating more than enough space to re-establish every professional line that had just blurred.

A sudden, sharp crack echoed off the floor tiles.

I glanced down.

The crystal tumbler was lying shattered right next to the base of the sofa, amber liquid pooling slowly across the floor.

It must have slipped right out of his hand the second he reached out to catch me.

Without thinking, I dropped into a crouch.

"I’ll get—”

A warm hand wrapped gently, firmly around my wrist.

“Don’t.”

I looked up.

His face had completely smoothed over, returning to its usual guarded composure.

“You’ll cut yourself on the glass.”

For a second, we just stayed like that.

His hand was still wrapped around my wrist—steady, solid, and warm.

Then, almost as if he’d only just registered that he was holding onto me, he let go.

“I’ll have housekeeping clean it up.”

His voice was entirely level again.

Professional.

Controlled.

I gave a small nod. “Yes, sir.”

I picked up my papers, packed them away into my bag, and turned toward the exit.

The office felt noticeably different now.

My hand reached out and wrapped around the brass door handle.

“Miss Vale.”

I stopped in my tracks.

Turned back around.

“Yes, sir?”