Chapter 4

The moment my words fell, the corridor went so silent you could have heard a pin drop.

Adrian's eyes locked onto me, and something in them finally changed.

It wasn't simple anger. It was more like suspicion being pried open by force—carrying with it a dawning, belated dread.

That line— I did have a child once —had finally given him something to grasp amid the chaos. He was beginning to overlap the doctor named Hart standing in front of him with the woman from his memory, the one who should have vanished long ago. Piece by piece, the images were converging.

His voice sank.

"What did you mean by that?"

I didn't answer.

He stared at me, his brow knotting tighter and tighter.

"Do you know me?"

He took a step forward, his voice colder still.

"Or are you telling me you came here today because of me?"

Sophia sensed something was wrong, too. Her eyes were still red, but her fingers clenched instinctively.

"What exactly are you trying to say?"

"Noah is still in there. Who are you trying to scare with this nonsense?"

I looked at her. My expression didn't shift.

Sophia, seeing me stay silent, only grew more frantic.

"Everyone knows you're the only one who can do this surgery."

"You clearly can save him, but you'd rather stand here and waste time."

"You just want to force us to our knees, don't you?"

Adrian's gaze never left my face—as though he were trying to see through the mask, to make something out.

After a long moment, he could no longer suppress that rising unease. His voice was low and strained.

"Who… are you?"

I looked at him, and suddenly I found it laughable.

So after all these years, he could barely even recognize me.

He only ever remembered the people he chose to remember. As for those he'd discarded, betrayed, ground into the dirt—why would they be worth keeping in mind?

Sophia stared at me.

"Noah is only seven. He can't hold on much longer!"

I spoke, my tone faint:

"Seven."

"What a coincidence."

"If my daughter hadn't died, she'd be seven this year too."

Sophia went still.

I looked at her.

Her expression froze. The panic in her eyes was almost impossible to hide.

Adrian seemed to finally remember something. His gaze on me sharpened, and then turned complicated.

I didn't continue looking at them. I simply said, evenly:

"Withdraw the complaint."

"Restore everyone's clinical privileges."

"Do that, and then we can discuss what comes next."

Adrian stared at me, his eyes dark.

"Why should I?"

"Because right now, I'm the only one with the best chance of saving him."

I met his gaze.

"You don't have another option."

He stared at me for several seconds. In the end, he pulled out his phone and made the call.

"It's me."

"The complaint I just filed—withdraw it."

Ten minutes later, Morrison received the news.

Complaint withdrawn.

All physicians' clinical privileges restored.

No further action.

Adrian put his phone away. His voice was pressed very low.

"Now, can you go in?"

I looked at him, my tone so flat there wasn't a single ripple in it.

"What I agreed to was giving you a chance to talk."

"Not letting you withdraw a complaint and then stand here giving me orders again."

Adrian's face went dark.

"You played me?"

"Played you?"

I tugged the corner of my mouth.

"Compared to what you've done, this is nothing."

His fury ignited almost instantly, his hand already reaching for his phone.

"I can make that call again anytime and have your entire department suspended."

"Go ahead."

I looked at him calmly.

"But let me remind you—it's not that this surgery can't be done by someone else."

"It's that the moment you switch surgeons, the success rate drops to a number you wouldn't dare bet on."

That sentence nailed him where he stood.

His chest heaved violently, his finger pressed against the phone, but he didn't move again.

Because he knew I was telling the truth.

Just then, a nurse came sprinting down the corridor, her voice shaking.

"Dr. Hart, the patient's blood pressure is still falling—it's dropped below fifty!"

"If we don't get on the table now, it'll truly be too late!"

Sophia's legs buckled, her face white as paper.

This time, she was genuinely terrified.

She stared at me, tears finally falling, but her voice still held a last sliver of its edge.

"What do you want?"

"Do you actually want to watch my child die?"

Adrian's eyes locked on me. It was as though he had finally crushed every last scrap of pride.

"Name your terms."

"Money. Status. Resources."

"Whatever you say, I'll agree to it."

I said, coldly:

"I don't want any of that."

His brow knotted even tighter.

"Then what grudge do you have against us?"

I didn't answer.

The alarm from the operating room suddenly shrieked again. Shrill, urgent, shredding everyone's nerves.

The nurse's voice was nearly breaking:

"Blood pressure is still dropping!"

"Dr. Hart, if this goes on any longer, the child will die on the table!"

Sophia collapsed into sobs.

And in Adrian's eyes, something appeared that had never been there before.

Not anger.

Not a threat.

Fear.

He was finally feeling it—the same desperation I had felt four years ago, kneeling on that gravel road, clutching Lily, begging him.

I looked at him and asked, softly:

"Adrian, do you know what it feels like to watch your child die right in front of you?"

His pupils contracted sharply.