Page 26 of One Reckless Night

11

JARED

The operating room was silent except for the steady beep of the monitors and the soft hum of the equipment. I stood over the patient, a child with a brain tumor that had been giving us hell for weeks.

Unlike a lot of surgeons, I didn’t like music on while I was working. I had to hear everything. Sometimes, I swore I could hear my patient’s heart beating.

That was always a good thing.

My hands were steady, my focus razor sharp, but I could feel Gemma hovering behind me, her presence like a dark cloud. She’d been trying to butt in all morning, offering unsolicited advice and second-guessing my every move. It was infuriating.

“Jared,” she said, her voice sharp, “if you just adjust the angle⁠—”

“I’ve got it,” I snapped, not looking up. “Focus on your own role, Gemma.”

She huffed and muttered under her breath but didn’t say anything else. For now. The surgery was delicate. This was the kid I pulled out of the Miami hospital, against Dr. Mitchell’s recommendation. I promised his parents my aggressive approach was the right way to go. I couldn’t let them or their son down.

I blinked, clearing my vision and looking through the operating microscope. Gemma’s breathing was annoying, but I ignored it. All I could see was the boy’s brain. I couldn’t afford any distractions.

The tumor was nestled in a tricky spot. One wrong slice could leave the kid with permanent damage. Possibly death. And the tumor was deep. No other surgeon would dare touch it. But I wasn’t just any other surgeon. I took a deep breath, steadying myself, and continued.

The hours blurred together as I worked, my hands moving with precision, guided by years of experience and an unshakable confidence in my abilities. The tumor was stubborn, clinging to healthy tissue like it had a right to be there. But I wasn’t about to let it win. Not on my watch.

There was no going back. I couldn’t put the piece of his skull back on and tell his parents good luck. The only way out now was through. I couldn’t quit.

“Jared, you’re going to kill this kid,” Gemma hissed.

I ignored her. “Clamp,” I said, my voice calm but firm. The nurse handed me the instrument without hesitation. I adjusted my grip, leaning in closer to the microscope. “Suction.”

Gemma hovered nearby, her frustration palpable. She hated being sidelined, hated that I didn’t need her input—or anyone else’s, for that matter. But this wasn’t about her ego. This was about the kid on the table. This was about doing what no one else could.

“Careful,” Gemma muttered, unable to stay silent any longer.

I paused, my jaw tightening. “I know what I’m doing.”

“You’re taking too many risks,” she shot back.

“And you’re wasting my time,” I said coldly, not sparing her a glance. “If you can’t stay calm, leave. Get it together, doctor.”

The tension in the room was thick, but I didn’t care. My nurses knew me. I knew them. We had done this dance in my OR hundreds of times. They anticipated my needs and never questioned me. They all knew how high my success rate was.

Gemma was less impressed with my work. She was there to assist, but it seemed she wanted to be in charge. Fat chance of that. Not in this lifetime and not in my operating room.

“Fine,” she said sullenly. “Please proceed.”

I turned my attention back to the stubborn growth in the boy’s brain. There were just a few dicey sections left. In my head, I could see the cuts I needed to make.

“Got it,” I murmured. “I’m right there. Come out you son of a bitch.”

“Jared…” Gemma’s fear was certainly warranted, but I couldn’t pay attention.

A millimeter too far, and everything could go wrong. My hands didn’t waver as I isolated the tumor, my movements slow and deliberate. The monitors beeped steadily, a reminder that the kid was strong. If I got this right, he would have a long life ahead of him. But I could feel the tension in the room, the collective breath everyone seemed to be holding.

Gemma’s voice cut through the silence again, sharp and insistent. “You’re going too deep.”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t afford to. My focus was entirely on the delicate tissue beneath my hands, on the fine line between saving this kid’s life and destroying it. Gemma was like background noise now, an annoying buzz of a mosquito. The only thing that mattered was getting this tumor out—cleanly, completely, safely. Everyone was leaving this operating room alive.

“Almost there,” I whispered, more to myself than anyone else. My fingers isolated the last stubborn tendrils of the tumor.