Chapter 17

The sterile air of the operating theater clung to my skin as I stepped out, my pulse still racing from the high-stakes surgery. But it was when I saw them—the desperate, weary faces of Makki's parents—that my heart swelled with both relief and purpose. Their hopelessness had been replaced by a fragile glimmer of hope, and in that moment, I knew this was the pinnacle of my career—the sweet spot where medicine met humanity.

Leaving the couple behind, I walked down the corridor, my senses heightened. And there he was: Patric, holding two steaming cups of coffee. I ran to him, my heart pounding, and threw my arms around him. In his embrace, I found solace—the rhythm of his heartbeat against my cheek a lullaby for my weary soul.

"The rooftop is free," Patric said, his voice as calm as ever. "No one will see us there. Let's go."

I nodded, wondering how he maintained that serenity even amidst the chaos of the hospital. We ascended to the rooftop, where the sky stretched out before us—a vast canvas of darkness adorned with stars. I loved the stars—their silent brilliance, their oblivious beauty. They didn't know they were stars; they simply shone.

Beside me, Patric stood like a constellation—a blend of intelligence and allure. He was handsome, yes, but more than that, he was essential to this hospital, just as vital as the stars were to the night sky. I recalled the board meeting last week, how he'd deftly outmaneuvered the Salvadors. His mind was a galaxy of strategy and precision.

"I love the stars," I murmured, gazing into his deep eyes. "They don't even know they're stars, yet they're so beautiful."

He remained nonreactive to my admiration, his focus unwavering. But then he spoke, his tone serious: "Today, what you did wasn't right. What if you couldn't make it?"

I understood instantly—he was a man of procedure, and my impulsive decision to operate on Makki had annoyed him. But I couldn't regret it. I had to save that child, even if it meant risking everything. When the ECG had faltered, I'd felt my own heartbeat stutter.

"I had to do it," I confessed. Tears welled up, and I buried my face in his shirt. "Patric, you have no idea how it felt…"

He hushed me, cradling me like a fragile thing. "It's okay, babe. You saved her. That's something to be proud of."

Life, I realized, was fragile. Our hearts beat, our breath flowed, but one day, it would all stop. Rahel had taken Heni from me overnight, and I feared losing Patric too. But I vowed to fight—to hold on fiercely.

He tilted my chin, our eyes locking. His forehead touched mine, and the world narrowed to the space between us. "Don't think that," he whispered. "You saved her. You brought laughter to her parents' faces. That's your quality."

We were too close now—close enough for attraction to spark. And then he kissed me—a gentle press of warmth and desire. My heart soared, and I melted into him, disappearing into a world of love and affection. My fingers tangled in his hair, craving more.

The next day, I took a long shower, butterflies dancing in my stomach. Shyness touched me as I ate breakfast with my mom. Dad was out for a business meeting. As I left for work, I carried the memory of that rooftop kiss—the stars as witnesses to our fragile, beautiful connection. This hospital had been my home for years, and now, with Patric, it held a promise of something more. A love story written under the starlit sky.

The morning sun painted the hospital corridors with a hopeful glow as I stepped inside. My heart danced with the memory of last night—the rooftop, Patric's kiss, and the stars as silent witnesses to our fragile connection. Shyness clung to me like dew on petals, and I smiled, wondering if love could bloom in the shadow of life-saving surgeries.

My office door beckoned, and there it was—a bucket of roses, their crimson petals a vivid contrast against the sterile white walls. A card nestled among them, and I read the words: "To the queen. From the king." Patric, always eloquent, had left his mark. The roses brightened my workspace, their fragrance mingling with the promise of something more.

Yet, despite the blossoms and the thrill of newfound affection, a shadow lingered. I couldn't be fully happy. Not when Heni's absence gnawed at my heart. The man who'd once shared morning coffees with me, whose laughter had echoed through these halls, was missing. Two days without him felt like an eternity.

"Heni," I murmured as my office door swung open. But it wasn't him—it was my secretary, efficient and unyielding. "Good morning, Boss. Dr. Patric Solomon wants to see you."

I forced a smile, grateful for her departure. Habitually, Heni would have been here by now, whisking me away for coffee, his jokes a balm for my soul. But today, he'd vanished, leaving me with memories and unanswered questions. Where was he? What kept him away?

Determined, I stepped out of my office, my heart caught between roses and the echo of Heni's laughter. Patric awaited me, and as I walked toward his office, I wondered if love could bloom twice—once under the starlit sky, and now, amidst the petals and thorns of my choices.