Chapter 1
At two in the morning, Arthur Russell took off his surgical gown.
The scrub nurse was practically nodding off. Arthur murmured, "Good job tonight," then bent down to check the last few instruments and set them in the tray.
The harsh lights in the OR stretched his shadow across the floor.
He walked over to the sink and turned on the faucet. The cold water ran over his fingers, and the faint marks from years of wearing surgical gloves stood out under the harsh light.
The old scar on the inside of his left forearm, about three inches long, was a faded white.
He glanced up at his reflection in the mirror. His deep brown eyes were bloodshot.
Today was his thirtieth birthday.
It was also the third anniversary of his marriage to Maisy Russell.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He dried his hands and pulled it out. It was a message from Maisy, sent at seven that evening. He hadn't had a chance to check it while he was in surgery.
[I'm having dinner with investors tonight. We'll make it up another time.]
That was all. No "Happy Birthday." No "Happy Anniversary."
He stared at the screen for a long time, until the phone went dark and his own face was reflected in the black glass. He typed a single word with his thumb and sent it.
[OK.]
Then he opened the restaurant booking app and canceled the reservation he'd made two weeks ago. The restaurant was called Skyline, on the sixty-eighth floor of the city's tallest building.
He'd booked a window seat with a view of the entire city at night. When he made the reservation, he thought she might not remember what day it was, but he could remind her.
He'd even planned the menu, which was her favorite truffle risotto. He'd checked with the chef ahead of time to make sure they had the ingredients.
But now, he didn't see the point in reminding her.
The cancellation confirmation screen popped up, asking for a reason. He selected "Other," typed a few words in the notes field, then deleted them, leaving it blank.
There was no one else in the break room. Arthur leaned against the row of cold metal lockers, opened his phone, and scrolled aimlessly.
Then he saw it.
Maisy had posted on her Instagram at eleven o'clock. The photo showed her in the hospital's largest VIP consultation room, holding a champagne glass with her whole team.
Dexter Dixon was on her left, Asher Stafford from anesthesia on her right, and a few new consultants squeezed in the back, all smiling so wide their eyes nearly disappeared.
Behind them, an LED screen read: [Congratulations to Maisy Medical Aesthetics for exceeding 3 million dollars in monthly revenue at the new location.]
The caption read: [The harder you work, the luckier you get.]
The likes and comments went on forever. Colleagues from the hospital, industry partners, and investors was chiming in.
[Dr. Russell rocks!]
[Dr. Russell is a legend!]
[Maisy Medical Aesthetics is going places!]
She hadn't sent him a single message.
Arthur flipped his phone over and set it face down on his knee. The fluorescent lights in the break room hummed softly.
Outside, an ambulance siren wailed, growing louder, then fading into the distance.
Leaning against the cold metal lockers, he suddenly remembered the surgery he'd performed that afternoon. The patient was a twenty-four-year-old girl who'd had a nose job at an unlicensed clinic.
The implant had poked through, and the infection was severe.
The repair took four and a half hours. He had to meticulously remove the dead tissue, rebuild the cartilage framework, and stitch it up with thread finer than a strand of hair.
When the surgery was over, he told the nurse, "List Dr. Dixon as the primary surgeon."
The nurse shot him a glance, looked like she wanted to say something, but in the end just wrote it down.
He'd been doing this for three years. At first, it felt strange, but now he was numb to it. Dexter was the "star doctor" Maisy had poached with a high salary.
His resume was impressive, he was a smooth talker, and he'd even been on a few variety shows. His face was plastered all over the hospital's promotional materials.
But when it came to the really complicated, high-risk surgeries, Arthur was always the one who handled them in the end.
Arthur didn't mind. He never had.
He believed that if he kept doing his best, she would finally see him.
As dawn approached, he took a blank medical record sheet from the nurse's station and began to write with the fountain pen his adoptive father had left him.
The pen made a soft scratching sound as it moved across the paper. He wrote slowly, calmly.
[Divorce Agreement. I, Arthur Russell, voluntarily dissolve my marriage to Maisy. I will leave with nothing, no disputes, no demands, no claims. No further requests.]