Chapter 1 - The Surgeon and the Selfie
The sterile corridors of St. Jude Memorial Hospital hummed with the quiet urgency of mid-afternoon. Sunlight poured through tall arched windows, casting long, sharp shadows across the polished white floors. Chloe Vance strode forward with practiced grace, her pink tweed crop top and matching miniskirt catching the bright light. In the crook of her left arm, she cradled a shivering teacup Pomeranian named Mochi, whose damp black nose twitched nervously. In her right hand, her diamond-encrusted smartphone remained raised, the front-facing camera glowing with the amber ring light she used for her daily livestreams. Beside her, Nurse Gretchen Miller plodded along in gray scrubs and a medical cap, her expression entirely flat as she stared at the clipboard clutched against her chest.
Chloe paused near a vibrant display of artificial orchids, framing the shot to maximize the contrast between her luxury lifestyle and the bleak medical backdrop. She nudged Gretchen’s shoulder with her elbow, flashing a pearly white smile at the lens while pulling a playful, exaggerated pout.
“Come on, Gretchen, live a little,” Chloe chirped, holding her phone up so both of their faces filled the screen. “My two million followers need to see that the hospital staff isn’t completely robotic. Pose for the aesthetic, babe.”
Gretchen sighed, a long, weary sound born of endless double shifts, and sluggishly raised her own battered phone to document the bizarre moment. Gretchen closed her eyes, maintaining a deadpan, emotionless stare that screamed utter exhaustion. Chloe giggled, tapping her screen to save the image before addressing her live chat directly.
“Smile for my followers, sweetie,” Chloe said, turning the phone toward Gretchen, who steadfastly refused to change her blank expression.
The heavy double doors at the end of the hallway swung open with a pneumatic hiss. Dr. Aris Thorne stepped through, his white lab coat crisp and spotless, his wire-rimmed glasses catching the glare of the overhead fluorescent lights. He walked with a heavy, deliberate pace directly toward them, a thick manila folder tucked firmly under his arm. Chloe dropped her phone to her side, her cheerful demeanor instantly evaporating into a mask of pure entitlement.
“Can you fire her right now?” Chloe demanded, pointing a manicured finger at Gretchen’s chest. “She’s completely dead inside and totally ruined my aesthetic video!”
Dr. Thorne stopped, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He looked from Chloe to Gretchen, his expression carved from stone.
“She’s the head surgeon operating on your father today,” Dr. Thorne said calmly, his voice dangerously low.
May you like
Chloe froze, her phone slipping from her grip and shattering loudly against the hard tile floor.
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