The antiseptic tang of Hart Plastic Surgery Center clung to the air as Dr. Elena Frost pushed through the break room door, her white coat slung over one arm.
The low hum of conversation died instantly.
Three nurses—Mia, Lila, and Gina—froze, their heads snapping toward her like startled birds.
Mia's coffee cup clinked against the counter; Lila's phone screen went dark, the glow dimming too late to hide the headline: Hart's "Star Surgeon" Graduated from Community College?
Elena's fingers tightened around her stethoscope.
She'd known the whispers were spreading—patients had started arriving with wary glances, colleagues hesitated before asking her for case reviews—but hearing them here, in the heart of the hospital where she'd poured five years of her life, felt like a scalpel to the throat.
"Morning, ladies," she said, her voice steady, a blade she'd honed through a decade of high-stakes surgeries.
Mia cleared her throat, too loud.
"Dr. Frost—we were just… discussing the new flu shot schedule."
Lila nodded, too eager.
"Yep. Flu season's brutal this year."
Gina's gaze darted to the floor.
"Right. Flu."
Elena's smile didn't reach her eyes.
"Fascinating. Do let me know if you need help drafting the memo."
The nurses scattered, their shoes squeaking against the tile.
Elena watched them go, the silence loud in their wake.
Her reflection stared back from the vending machine's glass—dark hair pulled into a tight bun, hazel eyes sharp but shadowed.
Thirty-two, she thought.
Too young to feel this old.
A soft knock at the door.
"Dr. Frost?"
Siri Rayne, her assistant, poked her head in.
The fashion editor-turned-medical assistant had traded sequins for scrubs six months ago, but her pixie-cut hair still held a rebellious curl, and her tone was pure New York sarcasm.
"You've got ten minutes before the Yvonne Kane consult. Also—" She stepped inside, closing the door behind her, "—Tara James was in the cafeteria this morning, buying lattes for the OR staff. With your name on the receipt."
Elena's jaw tensed.
Tara, the senior surgeon who'd blocked her promotion last year, had never hidden her disdain.
"And the rumors?"
Siri's mouth flattened.
"She's been 'overheard' in supply closets, 'accidentally' leaving chat logs on shared computers. Classic passive-aggressive psycho." She paused, softer now.
"Also… Yvonne's friends with Lucas Hart. The Lucas Hart—the one who just flew back from London to take over Hart Group's finance division. They were at the Met Gala together last week. Thought you'd want to know."
Elena's breath hitched.
Lucas.
The name was a spark in a dry field—hot, sudden, dangerous.
They'd met at Harvard, two scholarship kids burning bright: her in med school, him in business.
Six months of stolen nights in the library, weekend hikes to Walden Pond, a promise to "never let the world make us small." Then her mother's sudden death, his internship in London, a fight over "priorities" that ended with her deleting his number.
Eight years.
No calls.
No texts.
Just the occasional headline: Hart Heir Rises in London Finance, Lucas Hart's Billion-Dollar Deal Closes.
"Elena?" Siri waved a hand.
"You're white as a sheet."
"Just… tired." Elena turned to the sink, splashing cold water on her face.
The lie tasted bitter.
"Let's prep Yvonne's file. And Siri—" She met her assistant's gaze in the mirror, "—don't let Tara see you're worried. She feeds on weakness."
Siri grinned.
"Copy that, Dr. Frost."
The exam room was a sterile haven—white walls, soft lighting, a wall of before-and-after photos (Elena's work, all of them).
Yvonne Kane sat on the exam table, legs crossed, a Gucci bag slung over one arm.
She was in her late twenties, with a face that had been "enhanced" so many times it looked carved from marble—high cheekbones, a too-sharp jawline, lips that pouted even at rest.
Her eyes, though, were alive with malice.
"Dr. Frost," she drawled, not bothering to stand.
"Took you long enough."
Elena flipped open the chart, her tone professional.
"Ms. Kane, we've discussed your request for a rhinoplasty. Based on your facial structure—"
"—is why I'm here," Yvonne interrupted, plucking a cigarette from her bag.
"Because your 'expertise' is so stellar." She lit it, the flick of the lighter a sharp crack.
"Tell me, does Hart Center hire anyone with a pulse, or do you have to pay for the privilege?"
Elena's fingers tightened on the chart.
"I'm not sure what you mean."
Yvonne exhaled a smoke ring.
"Oh, come on. The whole internet's talking. Community college, fake transcripts, sleeping your way to the top—"
"Enough." Elena's voice cut through the room, colder than the OR.
"If you're here to discuss your surgery, I'm all ears. If you're here to spread gossip, I'll have security escort you out."
Yvonne laughed, a brittle sound.
"Ooh, feisty. But you know what they say—where there's smoke…" She stubbed out the cigarette on the exam table, leaving a burn mark.
"I'll take my business elsewhere. Somewhere with real doctors."
She swept past Elena, her perfume cloying, and into the lobby.
"Wait!" Elena called, but Yvonne was already shouting, "—can't even handle a simple consultation! How do you people sleep at night?"
The lobby froze.
Patients looked up from their phones; receptionists stared.
Yvonne's voice rose, a spotlight.
"And that resume of hers? A joke! If she wants to operate on my face, she should at least earn the right!"
Elena's chest ached.
This wasn't just about her—it was about every late night in the ER, every patient she'd saved, every paper she'd published.
Her career, her life, reduced to a tabloid headline.
Then, a voice.
Deep, calm, with the faintest British lilt she'd memorized.
"Ms. Kane."
All heads turned.
Lucas Hart stood in the doorway, snow flurries clinging to his charcoal overcoat, a silk scarf loose around his neck.
He was taller than she remembered, broader, his jawline sharpened by time.
His gray eyes locked on hers for a heartbeat—long enough for her to see the flicker of recognition, the old warmth—and then he turned to Yvonne.
"If you're unhappy with Dr. Frost's care," he said, "I'll personally arrange for you to see our head of surgery. But I suggest you lower your voice. This is a hospital, not a fish market."
Yvonne's smirk faltered.
"Lucas—we're friends! I was just—"
"—wasting my time," he finished.
"Dr. Frost is one of the best surgeons in this city. If you don't trust her, you shouldn't trust anyone."
Elena's throat tightened.
He'd always been her fiercest defender—back when they'd shared a dorm, when she'd aced her first anatomy exam, when her mother's funeral had left her hollow.
Now, here, in the place that had become her battlefield, he was doing it again.
Yvonne huffed, grabbing her bag.
"Fine. But I'm writing a review. A detailed one."
She stormed out.
The lobby buzzed back to life, but Elena barely heard it.
Lucas was still looking at her, his expression unreadable.
"Elena," he said, stepping closer.
She opened her mouth, but her phone buzzed.
A text from Siri: Yvonne's post-op is Thursday.
She's scheduled.
Good luck.
Elena's pulse quickened.
Thursday.
She'd have to face Yvonne again—with Lucas watching.
"Dr. Frost?" A nurse called from the desk.
"Your next patient's here."
Elena nodded, her gaze still on Lucas.
"I… have to go."
He inclined his head, a small, knowing smile.
"I'll see you around, Elena."
As she walked away, her white coat swinging, she felt his eyes on her back—warm, unwavering, a promise.
And somewhere, in the quiet of her mind, a thought flickered: This isn't over.

Chapter 2 Snow Night Reunion and Prelude to the Storm
Thu