Heartbeat 4

I’ve always believed that being a doctor is more than just a career—it’s a calling, a responsibility that consumes you in ways most people don’t understand. It’s not just the long hours or the late nights. It’s the emotional toll, the way you pour yourself into others without expecting anything in return. The patients are what matter, not you. And that’s how I’ve lived my life—always putting others first, always keeping my emotions at bay.

But sometimes, the walls we build around ourselves are made of more than just logic and duty. They’re shaped by past experiences—hurt, loss, and the things we wish we could forget but can never quite escape.

I’d never been one for personal relationships. I’d always told myself that love, affection, and connection were distractions, things I didn’t need, things that would only get in the way of what I truly cared about. My career. Saving lives. Fixing broken hearts, both literally and figuratively. There was no room for anything else. No room for love.

The walls I built were strong, fortified by years of disappointment, but they were there—etched into every decision I made, every path I chose. And at the heart of those walls was my father.

I don’t often talk about him. He’s a part of my past I’d rather leave behind, a chapter I wish I could erase. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t. It’s always there, lurking in the corners of my mind, a constant reminder of why I chose the life I did.

Flashbacks often come to me in pieces, fragmented moments that don’t always make sense but still haunt me. It’s like I’m walking through a haze, unable to fully escape the past.

I remember the first time I saw him after everything fell apart. My father—distant, cold, as always. But this time, something was different. There was no anger in his eyes, no harsh words. Just an emptiness that seemed to stretch between us, a silence that spoke louder than anything he could have said.

I had just graduated from medical school, and I was eager to prove myself. I had spent so many years trying to make him proud, trying to live up to his expectations. But it was never enough. It was never going to be enough.

I remember that day so clearly. It was a weekend, and I was at a family gathering. My mother was there, of course, always trying to keep the peace between my father and me. But it never worked. She never understood what it was like to try to get his approval, to try to be good enough for him.

"You’re still single," he said, his voice low, just loud enough for me to hear across the room. "How are you supposed to do anything with your life if you can’t even manage that?"

The words stung more than they should have, but I didn’t show it. I never did. It was easier to push the pain down, to pretend it didn’t hurt. I looked over at my mother, who was already avoiding eye contact. She knew better than to try to intervene. This was how it always went—me, trying to please him, and him, never satisfied.

I remember feeling that familiar sense of frustration building inside me. The frustration of never being good enough, of never meeting his standards. It was a feeling I’d carried for years, and at that moment, it seemed impossible to escape.

"You need to focus on your career, Olivia," he continued, his tone critical, like I had somehow failed in life by not being married, by not settling down. "A woman with your potential shouldn’t waste her time on frivolous things like relationships."

That was the moment I decided. The moment I made up my mind. I wasn’t going to try anymore. I wasn’t going to bend to his will, to his expectations. If I couldn’t make him proud on his terms, then I’d make him see that I didn’t need him. I didn’t need anyone.

I walked away that day, not just from the conversation, but from the idea of love. I didn’t need a man to define me. I didn’t need anyone’s approval to prove my worth. And as for relationships? They were just another distraction, another way for people to get hurt. I’d seen enough of that growing up. My mother was the perfect example. She had spent her entire life trying to make my father happy, trying to gain his affection. But nothing worked. Nothing ever would.

So, I buried myself in my studies, in my work, in saving lives. Medicine became my refuge, my escape. It was something I could control, something that didn’t require vulnerability, something that didn’t ask for love or affection. I was good at it. I was brilliant, even. And that’s all I needed.

But even with all the success, there was always a part of me that felt… empty. It’s a feeling I’ve learned to live with. The hollow ache of never truly allowing myself to be seen. Never allowing myself to trust.

And then James Hawke came into my life.

At first, I didn’t think much of it. He was just another arrogant billionaire, another man with more money than sense. But as our interactions continued, something shifted. It wasn’t just his wealth or his success that drew me in—it was the way he carried himself, the way he challenged me.

James wasn’t afraid to push back. He wasn’t afraid to confront me, to question my authority, to question my decisions. It was infuriating. It was frustrating. But it was also something I hadn’t experienced in a long time.

I found myself watching him, studying his every move. His fear of vulnerability mirrored my own, but in a different way. He couldn’t accept his own weakness. He couldn’t accept that there was something outside of his control. He couldn’t surrender to the process, couldn’t let go of the need to be strong all the time. It was like looking into a mirror—my own reflection, only more fragile, more desperate.

I couldn’t help but wonder if I, too, had built these walls around myself for the same reason. To avoid feeling weak. To avoid the pain that came with trusting someone. To avoid the heartbreak that was inevitable when you let someone in.

It was a cycle. A pattern. A defense mechanism. And the more I interacted with James, the more I saw it. The more I saw the fragile humanity behind the arrogance, the more I saw the possibility of vulnerability, of something more than just cold professionalism.

But I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t allow myself to open up, to risk feeling anything. Not again.

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes, letting the memories wash over me—the pain, the disappointment, the fear. And for a moment, I wondered what would have happened if I had let myself love, if I had allowed someone to truly see me.

But then, I pushed the thought away. I couldn’t afford to dwell on what-ifs. Not now. Not when I had a job to do. I had lives to save. And that was enough.

That had always been enough.

But as I thought about James, about his struggle to accept his condition, a small part of me wondered if he, too, was just like me—afraid to face the vulnerability of needing someone else. Afraid to let go of control. Afraid of what would happen if he truly trusted me.

The truth is, I could help him, but only if he let me. And I could only help myself if I let down my walls. It wasn’t just about James anymore. It was about me, too.

But that was a battle I wasn’t ready to fight. Not yet.