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The monthly staff meeting at Seattle Grace Medical Center was proceeding as usual—updates on hospital policies, scheduling changes, and upcoming training sessions. I sat straight-backed in my chair, my notebook open with neat annotations while most others scrolled through their phones. Nine years of co-founding and running this place had taught me that details matter, especially in medicine. "Next item," I said, glancing at the agenda. "Mandatory infection control training next Tuesday. Everyone needs to attend, no exceptions." From across the conference table, Kenna Young—Frederick's newest surgical resident—rolled her eyes dramatically. The fluorescent lights caught her glossy lip color as she whispered something to Dr. Patterson beside her. "Is there a problem, Dr. Young?" I asked, keeping my voice level. "I have a scheduled procedure that day," she said with a dismissive wave of her French-manicured hand. "I'll just catch the next one." "The training is mandatory," I repeated. "We'll need to reschedule your procedure." Kenna's perfectly arched eyebrows shot up. "I've already done infection control at my previous hospital. This is redundant." "Hospital policy requires annual—" "God, here she goes again," Kenna stage-whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear. "The menopausal rage monster strikes whenever anyone questions her precious rules." The room fell silent for one horrifying second before nervous laughter rippled around the table. My face burned as I glanced toward Frederick—my partner, my fiancé of three years—waiting for him to step in. He was studying his coffee cup with sudden interest. "The training is mandatory," I repeated, my voice tight.