Trapped by the Cold Doctor

Damien Cole POV.

The sharp scent of antiseptic clung to the air, laced with the faint metallic tang of blood. The operating room was cold and sterile, like everything else in my life lately.

I stepped away from the surgical table, my limbs dragging with exhaustion. The heart transplant had been a success, but it had drained every last drop of energy from me. Six straight hours, every second spent dancing on the edge between life and death. That’s what I do to pull people back from the edge. Even when I’m the one hanging off it.

My hands were shaking as I peeled off my gloves. The adrenaline was still buzzing in my veins, refusing to let me rest. I wanted to feel triumphant. Relief. But lately, the victories have felt hollow.

I tossed the gloves and scrubs into the bin and splashed cold water onto my face. The shock of it stung, but it was the only thing that felt real. Gripping the sides of the sink, I leaned in and stared at my reflection.

The man in the mirror barely looked like me anymore.

Sunken eyes, dull and empty. A few days’ worth of stubble clinging to a jaw I used to keep meticulously clean-shaven. Shadows etched themselves into my skin like bruises, not just from fatigue but from everything else. Grief and Guilt. The kind of sorrow that doesn't bleed out when you cut yourself open. The kind that sits in your chest like a ticking bomb, and no stethoscope could ever detect.

I looked at myself and wondered how long it had been since I’d really felt anything that wasn’t clinical or numbing. Since I’d smiled for a reason other than protocol.

With a sigh, I reached for a paper towel and wiped my face dry, the scent of antiseptic still clinging to my skin like a second layer. My body ached as I walked slowly to my office, each step dragging with the weight of hours spent in the OR. The moment I stepped in, I collapsed into my leather chair not like a man who had worked all day, but like someone carrying

Years of exhaustion on his back.

"I reached for my phone."

I had silenced it before the surgery, not wanting any distractions especially if the call came from the one person who could unravel me with a single word.

Emily.

My daughter. My reason for breathing. My only light in a life that had grown unbearably dark.

"Two missed calls."

My heart lurched.

Not Emily but her school.

Shit.

I sat upright and immediately redialed, my fingers trembling slightly. The ringing felt like thunder in my ears, each tone stretching the tightness in my chest.

“Hello, Mr. Damien Cole,” a warm, polite voice answered on the third ring. “This is Miss Daniya speaking from Emily’s school.”

I froze.

My grip on the phone tightened, the air suddenly heavier in my lungs.

“Is everything okay?” I asked the question roughly and too quickly. I could already feel the dread coiling in my gut like a loaded spring, bracing for impact.

“Oh yes, no worries. We just wanted to remind you about the kindergarten family event next Friday. We’re encouraging both parents to attend if possible.”

Of course. The event.

Emily had told me about it last week. Her little face lit up with hope, her voice soft, almost unsure.

“Will Mom come this time?”

Her eyes had searched mine, wide and full of impossible dreams.

I smiled. And lied.

"Yes, Mom will definitely come, princess," I had whispered, pretending the lump in my throat didn’t exist.

She giggled. “Okay, Daddy. I love you.”

"I love you more, Em," I replied, my voice cracking like thin ice under pressure.

She’d run off to her room, her curls bouncing behind her, leaving behind a silence that choked me harder than any scalpel ever could.

I don’t know why I said yes.

Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was just the way she’d looked at me hopeful. Trusting.

God, I hated myself for that lie.

Because I knew the truth.

Her mom wasn’t coming.

She never did.

I forced a polite smile into my voice. Thank you, Miss Daniya. “Of course. We’ll be there.”

The call ended, but I stayed frozen, phone still in my hand, staring at the dark screen as though it might offer me answers I didn't already hate.

I let the phone fall to the desk and leaned back, a dull ache blooming at the center of my chest. I was a heart surgeon. I could hold a dying man’s heart in my hands and bring him back to life. But I couldn’t fix the one heart that mattered most to me.

Emily’s.

Not when I was the one who kept breaking it.

I closed my eyes, pinched the bridge of my nose, and tried to suppress the pressure building behind my eyes. I couldn't sit still. Couldn't breathe. Not here.

I grabbed my car keys and walked out of the hospital without a second thought.

The sign Velvet Ember pulsed with life. Glowed like a bleeding wound in the dark. Neon red, pulsing. Loud music bled through the thick glass, wrapping itself around the night like a drunken lover.

I pulled into the parking space and killed the engine. Sat still for a moment.

The air inside the club hit me like a punch to the chest: sweat, perfume, smoke, desperation. The place reeked of people trying to forget. I was no better. I wasn’t there to drink. I wasn’t even sure why I was there.

I just needed to stop feeling like me.

Women drifted past, trailing whispers, laughter too sharp to be real. Painted lips. Hungry eyes. Predators. Prey. All blurred into one aching picture of survival. Some looked at me like a fresh paycheck.

I ignored them all.

I walked to the farthest booth, slipped into the sticky leather seat, and the heat of the place clung to my skin. My heart thudded dully in my chest. The buzz of the room faded into white noise.

Then she appeared.

She wasn't the prettiest woman in the room, not the loudest.

But she stopped me cold.

There was something about her. She didn't look like the others. Her dress was short, her makeup light, her heels too thin, but her eyes.

They were tired not just from the night, but from life. And yet, beneath the exhaustion, I saw something else. A flicker of dignity. A thread of pride that hadn’t yet been snuffed out. She didn’t move like the others. She didn’t wear that same hollow smile.

She walked toward me, calm and composed.

“Vodka?” she asked. Her voice was low, steady. Like someone who had been numb for a very long time.

I nodded.

She poured.

I took a sip, but the burn barely registered. My eyes hadn’t left her face.

“Do you offer private services?” I asked. My voice was quiet, steady like I was discussing a patient’s chart, not asking for intimacy.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t play coy.

Instead, she just looked at me. Really looked. Like she was searching for something beyond the question.

“Yes,” she said finally, her voice just as calm. “But you’ll have to speak to Madam Rose.”

“And where is she?” I asked, glancing around. “I didn’t see her.”

She lifted her hand and pointed to the far corner, where a plump, overdressed, and clearly in command woman sat laughing with a group of high society vultures in designer gowns.

“There,” she said.

I followed her gaze.

And then, without another word, I walked toward Madam Rose.

She caught sight of me and smiled warmly, that familiar polished charm in her expression.

"Mr. Damien Cole. How are you? What a pleasant surprise to see you."

"I'm fine," I said, my voice steady but laced with fatigue. “It’s been a while since I came around.”

She nodded knowingly, always quick to read between the lines.

"I hope you’ll find a way to entertain me tonight," I added, offering her a small, tired smile.