CHAPTER TWO: THE VIP DEN

Chapter 2: The VIP Den

By six forty-five the next morning, I had already convinced myself I wasn’t nervous.

It was a lie.

Theatre Three sat at the end of a narrow corridor washed in harsh fluorescent light, its double doors sealed shut as if they guarded a different world entirely.

The changing room was already half full. Lockers clanged shut as residents and students hurried through their morning routine. I slipped my backpack onto a narrow wooden bench and opened an empty metal locker.

One by one, I peeled away the pieces of myself that belonged outside the operating theatre.

My earrings.

My wristwatch.

My white coat.

I folded my clothes as neatly as I could before pulling on the oversized blue hospital scrubs. The trousers were a little too loose around my waist, forcing me to tighten the drawstring twice before they stayed in place.

I gathered my curls into a tight bun, smoothing down the stubborn strands that had escaped around my face. The scratched mirror above the sink reflected a girl who looked far more confident than she felt.

“You’ll survive,” I muttered to my reflection.

I hoped.

I tightened my grip on the folded hospital scrubs draped over my arm.

It’s just theatre, I reminded myself.

You’ve watched surgeries before.

He’s just another consultant.

My traitorous heartbeat disagreed.

The smell of chlorhexidine lingered in the air, sharp enough to sting my nose. Somewhere beyond the theatre doors, monitors beeped in steady rhythm while the wheels of a trolley rattled over polished floors. The hospital was already awake.

I bent to pull disposable shoe covers over my trainers, pressing the elastic beneath my heel.

The theatre doors swung open.

A scrub nurse hurried past carrying a sterile tray covered in blue drapes.

Without breaking stride, she called over her shoulder,

“Consultant’s coming.”

The room changed instantly.

Conversations stopped.

A registrar straightened his posture.

Another nurse glanced automatically at the wall clock.

No one panicked.

They simply… prepared.

The operating theatre buzzed with quiet efficiency.

I stood silently near the wall, careful not to get in anyone’s way.

My gaze drifted to the digital clock mounted above the theatre doors.

6:59 a.m.

"One minute,” one of the scrub nurses murmured without looking up from her instrument tray.

Another gave a small smile.

“Seven on the dot. As always.”

A quiet chuckle came from somewhere behind me.

“He’s terrifying.”

“Maybe,” another voice replied.

A brief pause.

“But if my mother needed heart surgery…”

Another pause.

“I wouldn’t trust anyone else.”

The theatre doors swung open.

No one announced him.

No one needed to.

The room simply grew quieter.

Dr. Dominic Reid walked in exactly as the clock struck seven.

He didn’t acknowledge the room.

His attention was already on the patient’s chart in his hands as he crossed to the scrub sink.

The tap came on.

Chlorhexidine foamed beneath his fingers as he scrubbed methodically to his elbows, every movement precise, practiced, unhurried.

No one spoke.

By the time he stepped away from the sink, the sterile towel was already waiting.

He dried his hands without looking up.

A scrub nurse held open his sterile gown.

He slipped his arms through the sleeves in one fluid motion.

The circulating nurse secured the gown at the neck.

The waist ties were fastened.

A pair of sterile gloves was presented.

He gloved using the closed technique without breaking his focus from the chart.

Only when everything was in place did he hand the chart to the circulating nurse.

He stepped into the sterile field.

And, without raising his voice or giving a single instruction, it felt as though the entire operating theatre had begun moving to his rhythm

The circulating nurse drew back the sterile drapes.

The patient lay motionless beneath them, only the prepared surgical field exposed beneath the bright theatre lights.

Dr. Reid accepted the chart.

For the first time since entering the theatre, his eyes lifted.

A single sweep across the room.

Anaesthesia.

Scrub nurse.

Residents.

Medical students.

His gaze paused on me for the briefest heartbeat.

No expression.

Then it moved on.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding.

Good.

Maybe he’d forgotten about me.

He stepped toward the operating table.

“Knife.”

The scalpel was already waiting.

The first incision was clean.

Precise.

“Suction.”

“Thank you.”

“Forceps.”

“Retractor.”

Metal clicked softly against metal.

Monitors beeped in steady rhythm.

No one hesitated.

No one asked him to repeat himself.

The theatre moved with him, each instrument appearing in his hand almost before he requested it.

His hands were different now.

Outside the theatre, they belonged to the intimidating man who had turned my life upside down.

Inside the sterile field, they belonged to a surgeon.

Steady.

Certain.

Completely at home.

I found myself watching the way he worked instead of the operation itself.

Every movement had a purpose.

Every decision came without hesitation.

For a moment, I forgot I was supposed to be afraid of him.

I simply watched.

For nearly fifteen minutes, he didn’t acknowledge my existence.

I faded into the background scribbling hurried notes whenever I could while struggling to keep up with the rhythm of the operation.

The monitors beeped steadily.

Metal touched metal.

The theatre moved with quiet precision around him.

For the first time that morning, I allowed myself to breathe.

Maybe he’d forgotten I was there.

Maybe yesterday had been nothing more than an unfortunate encounter between an exhausted student and an impossible consultant.

I lowered my eyes to my notebook.

A few hurried lines.

The vessels exposed.

The graft preparation—

“Miss Vale.”

My pen froze.

The sound of my name cut cleanly through the theatre.

Every heartbeat seemed to stop with it.

I looked up.

Dr. Reid hadn’t turned around.

His attention remained fixed on the open chest before him, his gloved hands working with the same calm precision as before.

“The structure directly beneath my forceps.”

For one terrifying second, my mind went completely blank.

Every pair of eyes in the operating theatre shifted toward me.

The anaesthetic monitor continued its steady rhythm.

Someone adjusted the overhead light.

No one spoke.

I forced myself to focus.

Not on him.

On the anatomy.

I followed the line of his forceps.

The exposed vessel.

The surrounding structures.

“It… it’s the right pulmonary artery, sir.”

Silence.

He continued operating.

My stomach sank.

Was I wrong?

I tightened my grip on my notebook, already preparing myself for the humiliation that was surely coming.

Nothing.

Not a single word.

The operation continued as though the question had never been asked.

Five minutes passed.

Maybe more.

I had almost convinced myself he’d dismissed my answer entirely when his voice broke the silence once again.

“Correct.”

Just one word.

Nothing else.

Not a single glance in my direction.

Yet somehow, that single word settled somewhere far deeper than a hundred compliments ever could.

I lowered my eyes to my notebook before anyone noticed the ridiculous smile threatening the corner of my mouth.

He stepped back from the operating table.

The scrub nurse untied the waist of his sterile gown.

Another loosened the fastening at the neck.

He slipped his arms free without a word.

The gloves came off next.

One.

Then the other.

His surgical mask disappeared.

A hand swept once through his slightly flattened dark hair.

In the space of a few quiet movements…

The surgeon disappeared.

Dr. Dominic Reid returned.

Without a word, he turned and walked out.

I blinked.

Should I follow him?

He had told me to observe.

Surely that meant until the end.

Clutching my notebook against my chest, I hurried after him.

The theatre doors swung shut behind me.

The corridor stretched ahead, quiet and empty.

He was already gone.

I looked down at my notebook.

Every page was filled.

Every movement.

Every answer.

I had come expecting to learn about surgery.

Instead…

I had spent the last hour studying the man holding the scalpel.

The library was unusually quiet that afternoon.

Sunlight spilled through the tall windows, stretching across rows of worn wooden tables where students sat buried beneath towering piles of textbooks.

I dropped into the chair opposite Cassie with a sigh.

She looked up from her pathology notes.

Her eyes widened.

“You survived.”

“Barely.”

She closed her textbook.

“He yelled at you?”

“No.”

“He embarrassed you?”

I shook my head.

“He threw you out of theatre?”

“No.”

Cassie frowned.

“Then why do you look like you’ve just witnessed a miracle?”

I stared at my notebook for a long moment.

“I’ve never seen anyone operate like that.”

“So the rumours are true.”

Silence settled between us.

“You admire him.”

“I admire his skill,” I corrected quietly.

“There’s a difference.”

A slow smile spread across Cassie’s face.

“That’s how it starts.”

I rolled my eyes.

“It starts with me passing surgery…”

“…and staying very far away from Dr. Dominic Reid.”

Cassie laughed.

“I hope so.”

“So do I.”

But for some reason…

I wasn’t entirely convinced.

I like it

The VIP wing of the university teaching hospital felt like a different world.

Downstairs, the hospital never slept. Porters hurried through crowded corridors, monitors beeped without pause, and anxious relatives filled every waiting area.

Up here, silence carried a price tag.

The carpets swallowed every footstep. Soft lighting replaced harsh fluorescent bulbs. Even the air smelled different—white tea, polished wood, and expensive discretion.

At the very end of the corridor, a brass plaque gleamed beneath the lights.

Dr. Dominic Reid

Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery

I tightened my grip on the folder in my hands.

Today’s theatre notes.

Every observation.

Every answer.

Every correction.

Don’t let him intimidate you.

I knocked.

“Enter.”

His voice was as calm as it had been in theatre.

I stepped inside.

The office looked more like the study of a Fortune 500 CEO than a consultant’s room.

A single desk lamp cast a warm pool of light across a broad mahogany desk.

Dominic sat behind it, typing steadily on a laptop.

His suit jacket rested over the back of his chair.

The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled neatly to his forearms.

He didn’t acknowledge me.

Not immediately.

The only sound in the room was the quiet rhythm of his fingers against the keyboard.

I waited.

Another few seconds passed.

Only then did he stop typing.

“You’re late, Miss Vale.”

“I finished an emergency ward rotation an hour ago.”

His eyes lifted to mine.

“A trauma patient arrived with a crushed chest. I stayed to assist with a chest tube.”

A long silence.

Then a single nod.

“You chose the patient.”

“I did.”

“Good.”

The word caught me off guard.

He extended a hand.

“The notes.”

I placed the folder on the desk.

He opened it without another word.

Page after page turned beneath his fingers.

His expression never changed.

The silence stretched long enough for me to become painfully aware of my own breathing.

Finally, he stopped.

“You cited a 2025 Lancet paper.”

“Yes.”

“It contradicts the protocol currently taught here.”

“It does.”

His eyes met mine again.

“And yet you used it.”

“The evidence is stronger.”

Another silence.

He looked back at the page.

“What outcome improved?”

“Twelve percent higher long-term survival following early intervention in selected paediatric Fontan patients.”

He didn’t answer immediately.

He simply turned another page.

“I read the paper.”

“I assumed you had.”

The corner of his mouth moved.

Not quite a smile.

Not quite approval.

Just… recognition.

“You don’t impress easily, Miss Vale.”

“I wasn’t trying to impress you.”

“No.”

His gaze settled on me again.

“You were trying to convince me.”

“Yes.”

Another page turned.

“You argued your case well.”

He closed the folder.

For reasons I couldn’t explain, that single sentence felt strangely satisfying.

“I expect tomorrow’s notes on my desk by seven o’clock.”

“I’ll be here.”

“I know.”

The office phone buzzed.

He answered on the second ring.

“Reid.”

His posture changed instantly.

Whatever trace of conversation had existed disappeared behind the calm authority of the chief surgeon.

“I’m on my way.”

He ended the call, slipped into his jacket, and picked up the folder.

“You are dismissed, Miss Vale.”

I stepped into the elevator just as the doors began to slide shut.

The quiet hum of the lift filled the silence.

Only then did I finally let out the breath I’d been holding.

The meeting was over.

I hadn’t embarrassed myself.

He hadn’t torn my work apart.

He had actually…

Taken me seriously.

The thought followed me all the way down to the second floor.

The elevator chimed.

The doors opened.

I stepped out.

Made it three strides down the corridor.

Then froze.

My blood ran cold.

“…No.”

I looked down at my arms.

The folder was there.

My bag was there.

But—

My notebook.

My notebook wasn’t.

“No, no, no…”

I spun around so quickly I almost collided with a passing nurse.

“I’m so sorry.”

I barely waited for her response before breaking into a hurried jog toward the elevator again.

Please.

Please let it still be there.

The ride back to the fourth floor felt impossibly slow.

By the time the doors opened, my pulse was pounding in my ears.

The corridor was as silent as before.

I hurried to his office and knocked twice.

“Come in.”

I pushed the door open.

Dr. Dominic Reid was exactly where I’d left him.

Except…

My notebook lay open on his desk.

My heart stopped.

He rested one hand lightly against the page, his eyes moving over the neat lines of handwriting.

For one impossible second, I couldn’t breathe.

He turned another page.

His expression didn’t change.

Not even slightly.

Then, almost to himself—

“Hm.”

Just one quiet syllable.

Nothing more.

He looked up.

“You came back.”

“My notebook.”

The words escaped far more quickly than I’d intended.

“I… I left it.”

His gaze dropped briefly to the worn black cover before returning to me.

“So you did.”

I took a hesitant step forward.

“I need it.”

“I know.”

Neither of us moved.

The room seemed strangely quieter than before.

“It’s personal.”

His eyes remained on mine.

“I gathered that.”

Heat rushed into my face.

“I didn’t mean to leave it.”

“No.”

“You can give it back now.”

He closed the notebook.

Not hurriedly.

Not reluctantly.

Simply…

Closed it.

Then he placed one hand on top of it.

“You’ll have it tomorrow.”

I stared at him.

“…Tomorrow?”

“I’d like to finish reading it.”

For the first time that evening, I had absolutely no response.

“It isn’t part of my assignment.”

“I know.”

“It’s private.”

Another pause.

“I know.”

My fingers curled tightly around the strap of my bag.

“Dr. Reid—”

“You are dismissed, Miss Vale.”

His voice wasn’t unkind.

It was final.

The conversation was over.

I stood there for another heartbeat, hoping he might change his mind.

He didn’t.

Instead, he reached for another page.

Without looking at me again.

I slowly turned toward the door.

Each step felt heavier than the last.

The soft click behind me echoed through the empty corridor.

I walked to the elevator in a daze.

The doors slid shut.

Only then did panic truly settle in.

That notebook wasn’t filled with lecture notes.

It wasn’t an assignment.

It wasn’t something I’d ever intended another person to read.

Between those pages were the questions I was too afraid to ask aloud…

The passages from the novel that had made me cry…

The thoughts I couldn’t explain to anyone.

And now…

Dr. Dominic Reid was reading every single one of them.