Chapter 3 - THE GHOST FROM THE PAST
The room beyond the doors had once been Everett’s master bedroom. It had now been converted into a sterile, private intensive-care unit complete with humming monitors, oxygen tanks, and locked medical cabinets.
A man in a crisp white coat stood beside the bed, adjusting Everett’s IV line.
He looked up as Willa entered.
Willa’s body instantly turned to ice.
Dr. Alan Whitfield had more gray woven into his silver hair than he had three years ago, but she recognized the silver-framed glasses and the familiar, patronizing smile immediately. He was the physician who had deliberately destroyed her life.
Three years ago, Willa had been an elite ICU nurse at St. Ambrose Medical Center, praised for remaining ice-calm during cardiac arrests and mass-casualty emergencies. Other nurses specifically requested her during difficult shifts because Willa’s hands never shook.
Then a patient named Harold Fisk died after receiving a massive overdose of a medication Willa had never administered.
The fatal order, however, carried her electronic signature.
Whitfield had taken the stand and testified that he had repeatedly warned her about carelessness and fatigue. Hospital administrator Grant Allison pressured the review board to close the case quickly to protect the hospital's liability.
Willa lost her nursing license, her career, her savings to legal fees, and every chance of finding stable work. Her fiancé left within a week.
And now, the exact man responsible for her ruin was standing beside the unconscious man she had been forced to marry.
Whitfield’s eyes swept over her worn shoes and cheap dress without a flicker of recognition.
“To avoid any confusion,” Whitfield said smoothly, “I handle everything involving Mr. Kane’s medical care. You are not to adjust his medication or interfere with the equipment in any way.”
He reached out, removed a small glass vial from the infusion pump, and slipped it carefully into his leather case.
“What was in that vial?” Willa asked, her voice dropping into a dangerous register.
Whitfield’s polite smile vanished.
May you like
“You were given an instruction, Mrs. Kane.”
He turned and walked out of the room, leaving behind the faint, sickening scent of his expensive sandalwood cologne.
