On the day of our three-year anniversary, my otherwise surgically precise, clean-freak doctor boyfriend, Greg, surprised me by coming home early. He wanted to cook a grand meal for me himself. But when I returned to our apartment, the place was empty. My call went straight to voicemail, and he texted back an apology. Emergency surgery, he explained. He’d been called back to the hospital to scrub in. I ended up microwaving a pathetic frozen lasagna for one. Later that night, after I’d finished eating in the quiet apartment, I saw a new post on Instagram from Summer Fields, one of the resident interns at Greg’s hospital. The photo was close-up: a pair of pale, delicate feet resting on a velvet cushion. Beside them, a set of defined, surgeon’s knuckles held a cotton swab, carefully tending to an injury. I knew those hands. I knew the way they held a scalpel, the way they checked my designs, the way they had intertwined with mine for the last three years. Summer’s caption read: “My mentor says it’ll be a long recovery for this sprained ankle. What will I ever do? Waaah.” I watched the likes and heart emojis pile up, and suddenly, all the tension just left my body, replaced by a profound, weary flatness. I pressed the ‘Like’ button and commented, perfectly calm: “Considering the bedside service, should I start prepping for the bridal shower?” 1 It took less than three minutes for a dedicated ringtone to rip through the silence. Greg Elliott. I answered, laid the phone on the desk, and continued modifying my design draft on the computer. It was a silver filigree pin, its fluid lines inspired by the architectural geometry of a place Greg had once taken me—a memory I now found myself mentally dissecting. “Kendall Blair! What the hell is that supposed to mean?” His voice was strained, pressed through his teeth, barely contained. “Delete that comment, now!” I nudged my mouse, zoomed in on a detail of the pin, and adjusted a curve. “Do you know the entire department is laughing at me? You completely humiliated me! My reputation is shot!” His voice grew louder, thick with the indignation of a man whose control had been publicly challenged. “Why are you being so dramatic?” I stopped working, leaned back in my chair, and looked out at the darkening city sky. The city lights were coming on. Usually, at this hour, I’d be bustling around the kitchen, timing dinner for when his rigorously punctual SUV pulled into the garage. “Can’t you just be a little more mature?” He began his usual lecture. I picked up the phone, held it to my ear, and said softly: “Greg Elliott.” He hesitated. He hadn’t expected me to use his full name, or to sound so utterly devoid of emotion. “I’m tired,” I said. “I’m going to go to bed early.” Then, before he could form a response, I hung up. The phone immediately started ringing again, relentlessly. I didn’t answer. I powered it down, unplugged the charging cord, and tossed it into a drawer. The whole world instantly went quiet, leaving only the sound of my own breathing and the distant hum of traffic outside. On the screen, the unfinished pin design shimmered with a cold, elegant light. I stared at it for a long time, then picked up my stylus and deleted the single, small dewdrop I had originally designed to cling to the silver filigree. No dewdrop. The pin stood alone. It didn't need any flourish to justify itself. 2 The faint sound of a key turning in the lock came from the front door. He was home. My stylus didn’t stop moving. I was now sketching the fine detail of a ring band. After I’d deleted that metaphorical dewdrop the night before, the entire design had felt like it came alive. The ideas were flowing, unobstructed. Greg walked in, bringing with him the familiar scent of disinfectant and exhaustion. He hung his blazer on the hall rack, his movements precise and methodical. I didn't turn around. I heard him change his shoes, followed by the long, unbroken sound of running water—he was washing his hands, from wrist to fingertip, over and over, his habitual ritual. Finally, his footsteps stopped right behind me. “About yesterday.” He spoke, his voice carrying the tone of a superior offering a condescending truce. “Summer is just a young resident, fresh out of school. She twisted her ankle. As her mentor, it’s completely normal for me to help with a minor wound dressing.” He said it so casually, as if stating an indisputable medical fact. I simply hummed in acknowledgement, zooming in on the design to check the structure of a prong setting. He clearly hadn’t anticipated that reaction. He paused, then his voice gained a sharp edge of impatience: “Your comment on social media created a huge problem. The whole floor is talking. How am I supposed to manage the residents now? You’ve made me look ridiculous.” My pen slipped, distorting the line. I pressed 'Undo,' and started again. “She’s just an intern. She has a fragile personality. Why are you making a fuss over her?” Seeing my continued silence, he raised his voice again, using that tone I knew so well—the impatient, irritated cross-examination. “Can’t you just be mature about this?” I finally put down the pen, swiveled my chair, and faced him. He was wearing an immaculately pressed white shirt. His eyes, behind the gold-rimmed glasses, were heavy with fatigue and a distinct irritation that his schedule had been disrupted. He had probably planned an entire speech: a mixture of calm reassurance, mild chastisement, and ultimately, a path for me to admit my fault, allowing him to be the magnanimous one who Greged forgiveness. It had been our fixed script for three years. Unfortunately, I wasn't playing the part tonight. “Are you finished?” I asked. He looked stunned, as if I’d spoken in a foreign language. “Because if you are, I need to get back to work.” I gave him a brief nod, a courtesy acknowledgment, then turned my chair back around and picked up my pen. “The deadline is tight.” He just stood there behind me. I could feel his gaze—cold and sharp. The air was so still I could hear the faint hiss of the humidifier misting the room. It was a long time later, after I had drawn the final polishing line on the ring, that he spoke again. His voice was cold, flat, carrying the non-negotiable tone of a physician issuing a command. “Stop drawing.” He said, “The Chair is hosting an important dinner this weekend. You need to prepare to attend with me.” 3 I didn't even look up at him. I simply rotated the ring on the tablet screen and replied calmly: “I can’t this weekend. I have plans.” The air went silent for about three seconds. In those three seconds, I could perfectly picture the look of sheer disbelief on Greg’s face. “Plans?” he repeated, the word twisted into an absurd interrogation. “With who?” “Phoebe Davies,” I said. “We booked this weeks ago.” “Cancel it.” He clipped the word out, treating it like a mandatory medical order. “You know how important this dinner is for you. The Chair’s wife admires your design work. I went to great lengths to secure you this access.” Oh, he helped me. He made it sound like a selfless act for my career. In the past, I might have felt a rush of grateful tears, but now, I just found it vaguely insulting. This opportunity felt less like a gift and more like a prop—one he’d handed me so I could play the part of the 'respectable, agreeable girlfriend' in his elite social circle. I finally raised my head and looked straight at him. “Save your effort for dressing your resident’s wounds. I told you, I have plans with Phoebe. I’m not canceling.” His brows furrowed into a tight knot. The gold-rimmed glasses couldn't hide the temper that was beginning to boil up behind the lenses. He was used to my compliance, my 'It's okay, I understand.' He was used to the routine where he'd toss me a small reward and I’d gratefully snap it up. “Kendall Blair.” He weighted my full name heavily. “What is with this attitude? You’re going to throw away this kind of opportunity for a pointless night out? Can’t you just be mature for once?” There was that phrase again. I didn't reply. Just then, his phone rang. Sharp, intrusive. He glanced at the caller ID, his brow instinctively twitching, and walked onto the small balcony to answer. His voice was a low murmur, but I still caught a few key phrases: “Supply closet,” “locked from the outside,” “stay calm.” I kept still, putting on an earring. A few minutes later, he returned, snatching up his car keys. “Summer got locked in the hospital’s supply closet. She has claustrophobia. I have to go deal with this, now.” His words were clipped, an urgent notification that left no room for discussion. I watched him in the mirror, silent. He must have anticipated a breakdown or a fight because he added, impatiently: “The dinner is important. Take a cab and call me when you get there.” The door slammed shut with a sharp CRACK. My phone buzzed. A text message, as concise as a surgical report: Summer emergency. Dinner you drive. G. He hadn't even bothered with punctuation. I looked at my reflection and slowly, I smiled. I picked up my phone and called Phoebe. “So, what’s the verdict? Are you going to that boring old doctor shindig or not? If you bail, I swear I’ll drive over and cut up that fancy dress of yours!” Phoebe’s voice was loud and excited on the other end. “He left,” I said. “He went to rescue his junior resident. He told me to go by myself.” Silence stretched for three full seconds, then erupted into a thunderous laugh: “Hahaha! Fate, Kenna! The universe is handing you the damn knife! Go! You have to go! Put on the ‘Soliloquy’ and slay the whole damn room! Let him see that you can fly without him as a crutch!” I hung up, walked to my closet, and pulled out the garment bag holding the dress I’d prepared for this evening. The dress was called “The Soliloquy.” A floor-length gown of moon-white silk, sharply tailored, with a scattered belt of tiny, pale blue sapphires tracing a winding star river across the waist. It was my most ambitious work, and originally, my armor to announce my status as “Greg Elliott’s girlfriend.” Now, it was just Kendall Blair's armor. 4 The moment I walked into the grand ballroom alone, I drew every eye. No one recognized me, but they were all curious about the woman who arrived solo, yet held a self-possession that easily dominated the space. I didn't gravitate toward a corner. I walked directly to the buffet, poured myself a flute of champagne, and took a slow sip. “Ms. Blair?” a kindly, cultured voice asked. I turned and saw a distinguished gentleman standing with an elegant woman in a cheongsam. I recognized them instantly: Dr. Lee, the hospital’s Chair, and his wife. “Dr. Lee, Mrs. Lee.” I smiled and gave a slight nod. “Where is Greg? Why did you come alone?” Dr. Lee asked. “He had an urgent surgical consult. A doctor’s life, you know—it’s never truly his own.” I dismissed it lightly, my voice devoid of any complaint. Mrs. Lee, however, was focused on my brooch. “That ‘Morning Star’ pin is extraordinary. Did you design it?” “I did,” I said, smiling. “It’s my pleasure.” We fell into an easy conversation that flowed from jewelry design to the latest art exhibitions, from Paris fashion trends to the specific needlework of the embroidery on her dress. Mrs. Lee found me so engaging that she insisted on introducing me to her friend, a prominent gallery owner. I had become the focus of the room. I was no longer anyone's appendage. I was Kendall Blair, the designer. Just as the atmosphere reached its peak, the heavy ballroom doors swung open. Greg stood in the doorway, looking disheveled. His blazer was crumpled over his arm, his shirt collar was undone, and his face was etched with the fatigue and anxiety of having just dealt with a 'crisis.' His eyes instantly found me in the center of the crowd. I was holding a champagne flute, laughing easily with the Chair and his wife. The light hit me, making me look more luminous than he had ever seen me. He stared at me, his eyes wide with a confusion and loss of control I’d never witnessed. He looked like a late, irrelevant supporting actor, while the spotlight of the entire stage was fixed only on me.
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "390711", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel