Chapter 2

After leaving the hospital, I hailed a cab.

But I didn't go home.

I gave the driver an address on the other side of the city — a quiet brownstone in the old quarter, tucked behind iron gates and overgrown ivy.

That was where Vincent Corsetti lived.

Professor Corsetti — or as everyone in the medical world still called him, "the Old Don of cardiothoracic surgery." He'd been my and Dante's mentor during our residencies, the former chief of surgery at St. Clair Metropolitan, and even in retirement, his name carried more weight than most living surgeons could dream of. Specialists who'd published in The Lancet still deferred to him.

He'd once considered me his most promising student. More than once, he'd pushed for me to stay on his research team — to inherit his legacy in the field.

But back then, my head was full of Dante.

Instead of following the path Corsetti had laid out for me, I left the hospital. I took a consulting job at a private medical firm — grueling, thankless work — because Dante and I needed money for a house, for a future, for a life I thought we'd share.

I swallowed my pride so he could keep his. I gave up my career so his could rise.

And Professor Corsetti never said a word against me for it. He simply respected my choice.

Now, standing at his door with a failing heart and nothing left to lose, I owed him at least an apology. If the surgery didn't work, I might never get another chance.

I rang the bell.

Footsteps. Then the door swung open, and Corsetti's weathered face broke into a warm smile.

"Arabella! Come in, come in. I was just telling my wife — once your transplant is done, you and Dante should finally set a date. That boy's kept you waiting long enough."

The words hit like a dull blade dragged across an old wound.

After I'd told Corsetti that Dante and I were getting serious, the old man had been nothing but supportive. He'd even warned me, years ago, not to wait too long — "A girl like that is sensitive, Arabella. If you don't lock it down, doubt will eat her alive."

How bitterly prophetic.

I opened my mouth to tell him the truth — that the transplant was gone, that Dante and I were finished —

But before I could speak, footsteps echoed from the hallway behind me.

Dante walked in, Serena on his arm, her smile sharp enough to cut glass.

"Professor Corsetti, don't say things like that." Dante's voice was deliberately light, performatively casual. "Arabella and I are done. She's old news."

He turned to Corsetti with a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Let me introduce you — this is Serena Vale. My girlfriend. And this" — he placed a gift bag of high-end supplements on the table — "is a little something from her."

"We're getting engaged soon, actually. You'll be at the wedding, won't you, Professor?"

As he spoke, he made sure I saw. The matching rings. His hand resting on Serena's waist. The deliberate intimacy of two people performing for an audience of one.

Serena's eyes flicked toward me — checking that I was watching — before she leaned into Dante and smiled up at Corsetti with practiced sweetness.

The old professor's expression froze.

"Done? New girlfriend?"

His gaze moved between me and Dante. Then, slowly, disbelief crept across his face.

"Dante — do you have any idea what this woman has done for you?"

"She gave up her residency so you could have the promotion spot. She handed you her research data when your thesis fell apart a month before submission — then stayed up for thirty days straight to redo her own from scratch."

"She nearly got expelled for late submission. And before that, when the department only had one fellowship slot, she went to the board herself and —"

Dante's jaw tightened. Serena's smile flickered.

Before Corsetti could finish, Dante cut in — voice cold, clipped.

"Enough, Professor."

"That's ancient history. It doesn't matter anymore."

"Besides, no one held a knife to her throat. She made her own choices. She's a grown woman — she should take responsibility for her decisions instead of using them to guilt-trip me."

I said nothing.

I'd already heard this speech. Different words, same meaning: everything I sacrificed for him was my own fault for being stupid enough to do it.

But Corsetti wasn't finished. He turned back to Dante, his voice hardening.

"Even so — you can't just throw away a decade for some girl you barely know."

"Some girl?"

Serena's mask cracked. Her eyes went wide with theatrical hurt, and she clutched Dante's sleeve like a child reaching for safety.

Then — right on cue — she pulled away.

"I understand," she whispered, lip trembling. "I shouldn't have come. Professor Corsetti is right. I'm nothing. I'm nobody compared to her."

She slid the ring off her finger and pressed it into Dante's palm.

"Take it back. I don't deserve this. I don't deserve you."

And she ran.

The performance was cheap. Transparent. A soap-opera exit designed to trigger exactly one response.

Dante didn't disappoint.

"Serena — wait — !"

He turned on me, fury blazing.

"This is your doing, isn't it? You told Corsetti to humiliate her. You poisoned him against her."

"I swear to God, Arabella — if anything happens to Serena because of this, I will make sure no hospital in this city ever touches you again."

Then he was gone, chasing after a woman who had already calculated exactly how far she needed to run.

Corsetti and I stood in the silence she'd left behind.

The old man studied me for a long moment. Then he sighed — heavy, bone-deep.

"Tell me everything. From the beginning."

So I did.

I told him about the misunderstanding — how Serena had fed Dante a doctored photo of me with a male classmate, convincing him I'd been unfaithful, that he was nothing but a stand-in for someone else. How that lie had poisoned eight years. How Dante had grown cold, then cruel, then reckless.

And how, in the end, he'd stolen my donor heart — the one I'd waited a decade for — and given it to a woman who wasn't even sick.

When I finished, Professor Corsetti rose slowly from his chair.

He picked up the gift bag Serena had placed on the table and kicked it clean down the hallway.

"She's lost her mind," he said, voice shaking. "She's completely lost her mind."

"Does she understand what she's done? Reassigning a patient's organ donor — that's not just unethical. It's a crime."

"What happened to the girl who used to say every life matters equally? The one who swore she became a surgeon to save people?"

I had no answer.

I'd been asking myself the same question for eight years.

Corsetti must have seen it on my face — the exhaustion, the resignation — because his expression softened. He placed a hand on my shoulder, and when he spoke, his voice was iron wrapped in warmth.

"Arabella, listen to me."

"I still have connections — here and abroad. I'm getting you into the best surgical suite in this hospital. Private wing. Top priority."

"This bypass surgery — whether we need to fly someone in from Berlin or drag them out of retirement in Tokyo — I will find you the best cardiac surgeon alive."

"And the investigation into Dante's misconduct? I'll be on that committee personally. You are my student. I will not let you fight this alone."

My eyes burned.

I'd been an orphan, passed between relatives who didn't want me, surviving on scholarships and Corsetti's quiet patronage. He'd given me a future when no one else would.

And I'd repaid him by throwing it away — chasing a man who didn't deserve a single year I'd given him, let alone ten.

I took a breath. Steadied myself.

"Thank you, Professor."

"If I survive this surgery — whatever you need, wherever you go — I'll follow you."

Corsetti looked at me. Something shifted behind his eyes — surprise, then a fierce, unmistakable pride.

He squeezed my shoulder.

"Then we have a deal."