Julian didn’t step away. He laughed. A dry, hollow sound that bounced off the stainless steel cabinets. He crossed his arms, the fabric of his black suit pulling tight across his chest.
“You’re bluffing, Sarah,” he said. He used my first name. A deliberate power play. “You know who I am. You know who my uncle is. If you call security, I’ll tell them you’re having a psychotic break. I’ll tell them you’re incompetent.”
Arthur let out a shaky breath. The heart monitor sped up. Beep. Beep. Beep. The numbers on the screen climbed. 110. 115. 120. The green line spiked, a frantic mountain range against the black screen.
“Julian, please,” Arthur whispered. His voice was thin, reedy. “Just let her work.”
“Shut up, old man,” Julian snapped without looking at him. He kept his eyes locked on me. “You have thirty seconds to sign the discharge papers. Or I’m calling the board.”
My thumb pressed down on the silent alarm. I didn’t blink. I didn’t look away from his eyes.
“You’re not calling the board, Julian,” I said. My voice was perfectly level. “Because the board doesn’t know you’re here. And they certainly don’t know why your uncle’s hand looks like it was put through a meat grinder.”
Julian’s jaw tightened. A muscle twitched in his cheek. He took a step toward me, invading my personal space. He was tall, broad-shouldered, built like a linebacker. I was five-foot-four in my blue scrubs.
“You’re making a mistake,” he hissed. He reached out and grabbed my arm. His grip was tight, bruising. “You’re a glorified stitch-pusher. I run this hospital.”
Arthur gasped. He tried to sit up, his good hand gripping the metal bed rails. “Don’t touch her!” he cried out.
The heavy double doors of the trauma bay burst open.
Two hospital security guards stepped in. They were big men, wearing dark blue uniforms. Behind them was Marcus, the Chief of Security, and Dr. Aris Thorne, the CEO of Mount Sinai.
Julian let go of my arm instantly. He smoothed his suit jacket, his face shifting from rage to a slick, practiced smile.
“Marcus, thank God,” Julian said, pointing at me. “This doctor is refusing to treat my uncle. She’s holding him hostage. I want her removed from the premises immediately.”
Marcus didn’t look at me. He looked at Julian. His expression was completely blank.
“Mr. Vance,” Marcus said. His voice was flat, professional. “Step away from Dr. Lin.”
Julian blinked. The smile faltered. “Excuse me? I am the VP of Operations. I am giving you a direct order.”
Dr. Thorne stepped forward. He was a stern man with silver hair and a reputation for ruthlessness. He walked right past Julian and stopped at the foot of Arthur’s bed.
“Arthur,” Dr. Thorne said softly. “Are you alright?”
Arthur nodded weakly. He looked at me, his eyes filled with relief.
Dr. Thorne turned to Julian. The look in his eyes was pure ice.
“Julian, you are not the VP of Operations anymore,” Dr. Thorne said. The words hung in the air, heavy and absolute.
Julian’s face drained of color. “What? What are you talking about? My father is the Chairman. He signed my promotion last week.”
“Your father signed a power of attorney over to Arthur three days ago,” Dr. Thorne said. He pulled a folded document from his pocket. “Arthur is the majority shareholder. He owns fifty-one percent of this network. And this morning, at 6:00 AM, he called me from his car.”
Julian took a step back. He hit the stainless steel counter. The instruments rattled.
“He told me you’ve been embezzling from the pension fund,” Dr. Thorne continued. His voice didn’t rise. It just filled the room. “He told me you’ve been isolating him. Forcing him to sign over his shares. And he told me that if anything happened to him, it was your doing.”
Julian looked at Arthur. The arrogance was completely gone. He looked like a cornered animal.
“You… you set me up,” Julian stammered. “You faked the fall. You cut your own hand.”
Arthur didn’t flinch. He looked at his nephew with a profound, exhausting sadness.
“I didn’t fake anything, Julian,” Arthur said. His voice was stronger now. “You did this to me. In the study. When I refused to sign the transfer.”
He held up his bandaged hand.
“Sarah didn’t just find the wound,” Arthur said. “She found the security footage from the house. The one you thought you deleted.”
Julian’s breath hitched. He looked at Marcus.
Marcus stepped forward. He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt. The metal glinted under the harsh fluorescent lights.
“Julian Vance,” Marcus said. “You are under arrest for elder abuse, assault, and corporate fraud.”
“You can’t do this!” Julian shouted. He lunged toward the door. “I’ll sue! I’ll take this to the press!”
The second guard stepped in his path. He didn’t say a word. He just grabbed Julian’s arm and twisted it behind his back. Julian cried out, a sharp, ugly sound. The cuffs clicked into place.
They marched him out of the trauma bay. The heavy doors swung shut, cutting off his shouting.
The room was quiet again. Just the steady, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor.
I turned back to the bed. I picked up my needle driver and the suture thread.
“Let’s get this cleaned up, Arthur,” I said.
He smiled, a small, tired smile. “Thank you, Doctor.”
I pulled the blue glove tight. The snap echoed in the quiet room. I looked down at the jagged cut, and began to stitch.