Chapter 1: Scalpel, Spotlight, Sabotage

The day I turned in my resignation, the hospital admin told me to step aside and let Autumn Daniels—a resident barely two and a half years in—take the lead on a surgery. I couldn’t believe it. He even had the nerve to say I should be generous, give the next generation more opportunities. I just stared at him for a second, trying to process. Was he serious?

His words hit me like a slap across the face. Nearly two decades here—my whole career, my reputation, built from nothing—and now I was supposed to hand things over to someone who still needed to check the manual before tying a surgical knot? The fluorescent lights in his office buzzed and flickered, making everything feel even harsher. My resignation letter sat right there on his desk, the ink barely dry. But he just looked right past it. Like my years of work were nothing but a line on a spreadsheet. I wanted to say something—anything—but all I could do was clench my jaw and swallow the humiliation.

Later, in the middle of an emergency case, I found myself asking Dr. Daniels, "Well, the patient’s chest is already open—so, doc, which part of the heart should I slice first?" I raised an eyebrow, half-serious, half-mocking. Trust me, I got the irony. Even in a crisis, this place couldn’t get its priorities straight. For a split second, I almost wanted to hand her the scalpel and see what would happen. Almost. The whole thing was so ridiculous, I nearly laughed—if I hadn’t been so damn tired.

I almost laughed. Almost. The absurdity of it all was enough to make me want to scream. But I was too exhausted for that, too.

No doubt about it. Most absurd day of my life.

I’d seen a lot in my time—nurses fainting in the OR, interns dropping like flies from the smell of cauterized flesh—but nothing like this circus. The whole day felt like a fever dream. The kind where you wake up drenched in sweat, blinking, not sure if you’re really awake yet.

Right before we went into the OR, I saw the lead surgeon’s name on the electronic board switch from mine to Autumn Daniels. The next second, I realized the patient was already on the operating table. We were still doing pre-op checks, the anesthesiologist was still prepping—how the hell had the patient already been wheeled in?

The board flickered again. My name disappeared, replaced by Autumn’s in that neat, soulless corporate font. I blinked, thinking maybe I was seeing things. But there it was. My badge suddenly felt heavier on my chest. Perfect. Just perfect. Meanwhile, the patient—who was supposed to be in holding—was already sprawled out under the overhead lights, his skin almost blue in the glare. The anesthesiologist kept fiddling with his notes, totally oblivious to the chaos. My gut screamed: something is very, very wrong here.

Autumn Daniels stood frozen under the surgical lamp, a scalpel trembling in her hand. It was surreal—this wasn’t her job, and she wasn’t even supposed to be holding that blade. I was just about to intervene when, all at once, a crowd burst in behind me, hauling in equipment and snapping photo after photo of Autumn.

Flashbulbs exploded like the Fourth of July. People swarmed in—some with cameras, some with clipboards, and not a single one looked like they belonged in an OR. I caught a whiff of cologne and coffee, not the clean, sharp tang of disinfectant. The whole thing felt like a dream I couldn’t wake up from. Autumn’s hand shook, the scalpel catching the light. My jaw locked tight. If nobody stopped this, someone was going to get hurt. Or, at the very least, we were looking at a lawsuit. And fast.

Some of them weren’t even wearing scrubs or surgical shoes.

A woman in heels clacked across the tile, swinging a camera lens the size of a grapefruit. Some guy in a suit and tie looked like he’d wandered in from a boardroom. Someone’s phone chimed with a pop song ringtone. I could practically hear the infection risk ticking up by the second.

"Dr. Daniels, could you switch poses a few times?"

The photographer gestured wildly, as if this were a fashion shoot. I watched Autumn fumble with the scalpel, her knuckles turning white. The whole thing felt like a bad episode of Grey’s Anatomy—except this was real, and the patient was still breathing on the table.

"Yes, yes, just like that. This looks really professional."

The camera clicked and whirred. I bit back a groan. Nobody seemed to care that the supposed star of the show looked about as confident as a freshman at their first keg party.

"Dr. Daniels, try to look a bit more serious—show how challenging this surgery is."

She furrowed her brow, lips pressed together, like she was auditioning for Grey’s Anatomy. Sweat beaded at her hairline, just under the cap. The effort was almost painful to watch.

"Let’s get a few shots of you and the team in intense discussion. Actors, get ready!"

A gaggle of fully suited-up extras gathered around Autumn, faces screwed up in mock concentration, while Autumn put on her best righteous, heroic expression and pointed her scalpel at the sleeping patient.

One of the actors leaned in, nodding like they were debating the meaning of life—or maybe just the finer points of cardiac anatomy. Someone else scribbled on a clipboard, arms flailing with over-the-top gestures. It was pure theater—except the props were real, and so was the risk.

"Excellent, this is exactly the look a genius young doctor should have."

I don’t even have words for how I felt—because Autumn was holding the scalpel backwards. If these photos got out, our hospital would be the punchline of every late-night show in the state.

It took everything I had not to snatch the scalpel from her hand. The blade pointed up, handle down—like she was about to carve a Thanksgiving turkey. My stomach twisted. If this ever hit the news, we’d be a meme by sundown.

"Let’s get a few shots of you giving the patient an injection."

An injection? Seriously? That’s not even the lead surgeon’s job!

I shot a look at the anesthesiologist, who just shrugged helplessly. The absurdity of it all made my head spin. Since when did the lead surgeon double as a nurse for a photo op?

Autumn picked up a syringe, aimed at the patient’s arm, and with a shaky hand jabbed the needle into the skin. The patient yelped and jerked upright.

The poor guy bolted upright, eyes wide, looking more like he’d been goosed than sedated. I recognized him instantly—his cheeks burning with embarrassment. The room erupted in awkward laughter, cameras still snapping away.

"Ben?"

Ben was an intern in our department. When he saw me, he flashed an awkward smile and said to Autumn, "Come on, Dr. Daniels, you don’t have to actually jab me—just make it look real."

He rubbed his arm, grinning sheepishly. Ben always tried to play the clown, but even he looked rattled. He caught my eye, silently pleading for rescue.

Autumn rolled her eyes. "It’s just a shot, what’s the big deal?"

She acted like Ben was being dramatic. But I saw the flicker of uncertainty cross her face. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with—well, a scalpel.

"Doc, if it were anyone else, I wouldn’t complain, but you haven’t touched a needle in two and a half years. If you go all in and shoot me full of air, I’m toast."

He tried to joke, but his voice cracked. I could tell he wasn’t entirely kidding. The rest of the room tittered, oblivious to how close they were to a real disaster.

"Enough talking. Lie down!"

Autumn’s voice was sharp, trying to sound in charge. Ben hesitated, then flopped back onto the table with a dramatic sigh, tossing an arm over his eyes like a silent movie star.

Reluctantly, Ben lay back down and covered his face. Poor kid. He really didn’t sign up for this.

Click, click, click…

Camera shutters snapped in rapid fire. I watched the scene through a haze of disbelief, feeling like a bystander in my own OR.

"All right, this looks great—wrap it up!"

The crowd left the OR as quickly as they’d come.

They streamed out, still chattering and laughing, leaving muddy footprints and the lingering scent of perfume. The room was a mess—equipment scattered, wrappers on the floor, the sterile field shot to hell.

"What are you all doing? The surgery’s about to start and now we have to re-sterilize everything!" I was furious. This surgery mattered—my most critical patient today.

My voice echoed off the tile. The head nurse shot me a sympathetic look, but everyone else just ignored me. I felt my cheeks burn—anger, humiliation, both. This was my OR, my case, and now it looked like a high school play had just wrapped.

As she peeled off her gown, Autumn called over, "Good timing. You clean this up so you don’t delay the surgery."

She snapped off her gloves and tossed them carelessly into the bin. Her tone was breezy, almost mocking. I stared at her, dumbfounded. Me. The chief of cardiothoracic. Mopping up after her PR stunt? Give me a break.

Her instructions left me completely baffled. She was just a resident—not even an attending—while I was the chief of cardiothoracic surgery. And yet she was ordering me to clean up her mess in the OR. What world was this?

I opened my mouth, searching for words, but nothing came out. The hierarchy used to be clear as day. Not anymore. Now, everything was upside down.

She took off her mask, walked right past me, patted my shoulder, and smiled. "Make sure it’s spotless."

She was wearing makeup, too—a serious breach of protocol. I caught a faint trace of lipstick inside her mask. Her lashes were perfectly curled. In this business, that wasn’t just a style choice—it was a safety risk. But Autumn seemed untouchable, floating through the chaos as if the rules didn’t apply.

Once the OR was quiet again, the head nurse came in and asked, "Should we still proceed with the surgery for room 72?"

She looked exhausted, dark circles under her eyes. I knew she’d been up since dawn, juggling three other cases. Her voice was careful, tiptoeing through a minefield.

Anger boiling over, I snapped, "What’s going on today? Why didn’t anyone tell me?"

My words came out sharper than I meant. The head nurse flinched, shrinking into her scrubs. Guilt stabbed at me, but the frustration was eating me alive.

The head nurse looked aggrieved. "Huh? The hospital said you’d agreed to all this."

She held up her hands, palms out, like she wanted no part of the blame. Her eyes darted to the door, probably wishing she could vanish.