Post Surgery, I Saw His Bias For Her

Summary

Past midnight after my twelfth surgery, exhaustion and cramps left me bent double. Shivering, I went to Preston’s office for my cashmere blanket. He already had it draped over Brooke. “She’s fragile,” he said coldly. “You’re stronger, Summer. Don’t be difficult.”

For three years, I’d written his charts, covered his shifts, taken abuse from families. His only praise: “You’re always the mature one.” Now I saw maturity meant being left in the cold. Brooke settled in as he handed her hot brown sugar water. I stood nearby, scrubs stiff with blood, invisible to him.