The Exit
I slammed the office door behind me, laptop bag slung over one shoulder, the sting of Nick’s accusation still raw in my ears.
My tires screeched as I cut through the parking lot, the building’s fluorescent glare fading into the gray morning.
The clinic sat a few blocks away, its red cross sign blinking like a beacon of mercy I’d just ignored for too long.
Inside, the hallway smelled of antiseptic and stale coffee; a nurse glanced up, her eyebrows raising at the sight of my agency’s logo plastered on the bag.
“You’re late,” she muttered, eyes flicking to the clock.
I pushed past her, heart pounding louder than the echo of my own footsteps.
The triage room door swung open to reveal a stretcher—white sheet draped over a figure whose shoulders were unmistakably those of a woman I’d seen collapse just minutes before.
She lay unconscious, a faint pulse flickering on the monitor, a thin scar of blood on her temple.
My breath caught when the attending doctor lifted the sheet just enough to catch a glimpse of a name badge: “Maya Chen, Vice President, Orion Creative.”
Orion Creative—our rival agency, the one we’d been trying to poach that very morning.
“She’s alive,” the doctor whispered, his voice a mix of relief and urgency. “But she’s not out of this yet.”
I swallowed, the weight of my bag suddenly feeling like a shackle.
“Do whatever you need to keep her stable,” I said, my voice hoarse. “I’ll stay.”
She didn’t answer, but her hand twitched, fingers brushing the blanket in a silent acknowledgement.
The Clinic
The doctor’s brow furrowed as he reviewed the monitor. “She suffered a massive coronary event. We need to get her to surgery now—within the hour.”
My mind raced. “What about the account? Nick will—” I stopped, the thought dying in my throat.
“You can’t think about that now,” the doctor snapped, snapping his gloved fingers on the scalpel. “She needs a bypass, and we have to prep her quickly.”
I nodded, the reality of a life‑or‑death situation sinking in deeper than any corporate deadline ever could.
While the surgical team scrubbed in, I paced the waiting area, the hum of machines a relentless metronome.
My bag sat on a plastic chair, the agency logo stark against the sterile beige.
A security guard in a dark uniform stepped out from the hallway, his eyes narrowing as he caught sight of the emblem.
He lingered, hand hovering over his radio, then leaned in close enough that I could hear his breath.
“They’ve been watching you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the beeping monitors.
The words hung in the air, a chill cutting through the antiseptic scent, and I realized the rescue was only the beginning of something far larger.
Recovery and a Request
I sat on the plastic chair beside the operating room door, the fluorescent lights buzzing like a nervous bee.
The surgeon emerged, his white coat still damp with sweat, and nodded. “She’s stable. The blockage cleared.”
