The fluorescent lights of Mercy General's surgical wing buzz overhead as I push through the double doors, still tying the drawstring of my scrub pants. I'm late. Twenty minutes late for what should be a routine mitral valve replacement, except Margaret Hargrave is seventy-three with a history of arrhythmia and the kind of family money that makes hospital administrators sweat when they sign consent forms. The hallway smells like disinfectant and fear. I'm halfway to the scrub room when someone steps directly into my path. She's blonde. Tall. Wearing a cream cashmere sweater that probably costs more than my monthly rent, and her smile is the kind that doesn't reach her eyes. "Elara Cross," she says. Not a question. I stop. "Do I know you?" "Not yet." She pulls a manila folder from her designer bag and holds it out. "But you're about to know me very well." I don't take it. "I'm scrubbing in for surgery in five minutes. Whatever this is—" "Julian wanted me to give you these personally." She opens the folder, and I see the header before I can look away. *Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.* The floor tilts slightly beneath my feet. "He wanted you to know," she continues, and her voice is smooth as silk and just as cold, "that he never wants to see you again. You can sign them now, or you can sign them later, but either way—" She steps closer, and I catch the scent of expensive perfume. "—you're done." My throat tightens. "Who are you?" "Cassidy Vale." She says it like I should already know. Like everyone should already know. "Julian's girlfriend. Well—" Her smile sharpens. "—more than that now, really." The words hit like a physical blow, but I don't let it show. Three years of marriage, and this is how it ends. Not with a conversation. Not even with Julian himself. With a stranger in a hospital hallway holding unsigned divorce papers like a weapon. "I'm working," I say quietly. "I don't have time for this." "Make time." She shoves the folder into my hands. "Julian was very clear. He doesn't want you calling. He doesn't want you showing up at the house. He especially doesn't want you making this difficult." Something hot and sharp rises in my chest. "Difficult? He sends his *girlfriend* to—" "Dr. Cross to OR-2. Dr. E. Cross, report immediately." The overhead page cuts through the hallway like a knife. Cassidy's eyes narrow. "You need to sign these now." "I need to save someone's life." I try to step around her, but she moves with me, blocking my path. "You really think you're that important?" Her voice drops. "Julian told me all about you. The girl who couldn't let go. The one who kept showing up, kept begging—" "I never begged for anything." "Dr. Cross, patient is crashing. Dr. Cross to OR-2 immediately." The page is more urgent now. I can hear the edge of panic in the surgical nurse's voice. I push past Cassidy, but she grabs my arm. "You don't walk away from me." "Let go." "Not until you—" "Security to surgical wing. Security to surgical wing, code white." Two guards round the corner at a jog, and Cassidy's hand drops from my arm. She steps back, her expression shifting to something almost theatrical—wide-eyed, frightened. "She tried to grab the papers from me," Cassidy says, her voice suddenly shaking. "I just wanted to deliver them, and she became aggressive—" "That's not what happened—" "Ma'am, you need to come with us." The taller guard reaches for my elbow, and I pull back instinctively. "I'm a surgeon. I have a patient coding in OR-2." "We have a complaint of aggressive behavior," the second guard says. "You need to leave the surgical wing." "My patient is *dying*—" The taller guard takes my arm, firmer this time, and I feel the folder slip from my hands. Papers scatter across the linoleum—*Petitioner: Julian Hargrave. Respondent: Elara Cross*—and Cassidy bends to gather them with a small, satisfied smile. "It's for the best," she says softly, looking up at me as the guards pull me backward. "He's moved on. You should too." I try to wrench free, but the second guard has my other arm now, and they're walking me toward the exit. Past the scrub room. Past the surgical board with my name listed next to Margaret Hargrave's procedure. Past the life I built here. "Please," I say, and I hate the desperation in my voice. "Just let me—" "Dr. E. Cross, code blue in OR-2. Dr. Cross, code blue." The overhead page echoes through the hallway as they push open the exit doors, and the last thing I see before they drag me out is Cassidy Vale standing in the surgical wing, divorce papers in hand, smiling. And the embroidered name on my scrub pocket—*Dr. Cross*—facing away from her the entire time.