Doctored Vows - Chapter 1

I hadn’t expected a position I accepted solely to pay student loans to take up so much time. Alas, with increased surgeries comes a demand for the sterilization of reusable medical equipment.

When accepted into medical school, I thought the most challenging part of the transition from college graduate to wannabe surgeon would be the long study sessions and textbooks that cost more than my first car.

I was poorly mistaken.

My tuition was more than I could afford. I barely get five hours of sleep a night, and although my studies have now switched to a somewhat paid position, I have to accept jobs on the side just to make ends meet.

By ends, I mean rent. My student loans are still in the red, and I’m drowning in personal credit card debt, but I have a roof over my head, and my family is taken care of, so I guess I shouldn’t complain.

With the surgical department shockingly quiet, I detour through the space that smells like the chemicals that soak through my gloves each night while sterilizing the equipment used by this very department.

The rancid scent is the only reason my grandmother hasn’t questioned my latest moonlighting position. As far as she is aware, I’m doing double shifts at the hospital every night.

I am—just not in the way she believes.

Although there’s no shame in admitting you collect and sterilize medical equipment, I don’t want anything to taint the gleam in her eyes when she tells her Bura teammates that I’m a soon-to-be world-renowned neurosurgeon.

I cringe when I cross theater three. There must have been a last-minute add-on to the surgical register outside the usual operating hours. The room is void of a soul, but used medical equipment is strewn from one side to the next.

My sluggish steps toward the mess slow when a voice from behind me says, “I’ll get it.”

Relief bombards me, but guilt quickly follows when I spin to face Alla.

She looks as exhausted as I feel.

“Are you sure? I don’t mind helping.”

She rolls her eyes before shooing off my offer with a wave of her hand. “I’m not the one scheduled to return here in a little over”—she checks her watch, which is still hidden by elbow-high gloves—“eight hours.” When she returns her eyes to my face, she shoves her hands in her pockets and peers at me motheringly. Alla is only four years my senior, but since that places her in her thirties instead of her twenties, she acts like we have a two-decade age gap. “You can’t keep running on fumes, Nikita. If you only dip the rag on the odd occasion, it will eventually run dry.”

“I’m fine. I’ve only got…” My words trail off when I recall I only started the third year of my surgical residency three months ago. I’ve got a long way to go—especially if I want to specialize in pediatric neurosurgery.

When I finalize my reply with a groan, Alla twists me to face the exit. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She barges me out of the OR with so much gall I crash into the nurses’ station desk, bruising my hip. “And if you’re good, there could be a пончики or two waiting for you when you finish your shift tomorrow.”

Пончикис are Russia’s version of doughnuts.

Alla smiles when I ask, “Glaze or sugarcoated?”

“Why can’t we have both?”

I laugh. Her imitation of a famous commercial exposes that her English is as poor as my Russian was when I moved here nine years ago. I’m slowly learning the lingo, but I don’t see myself mastering in it anytime soon.

“I’ll bring кофе.”

She jerks up her chin in appreciation half a second before her nose screws up. “Just not that latest craze the hobnobs are raving about. I don’t care if it is the president’s rat. I will not drink its droppings.”

I’m still smiling about her disgust of the latest coffee craze in Russia while darting through the nurses’ station for the interns’ locker room at the back.

My pace slows for the second time when I spot the surgical schedule slated to start at 6 a.m.

My mother was Russian, so my given name is common around these parts, but my father is British, so my surname is rarely seen unless it is attached to a foreigner.

Hoffman shouldn’t be on a surgical schedule, much less in the box that announces the lead surgeon for a patient’s procedure.

“Ivanov,” I murmur while trying to recall where I’ve heard the name before.

When my brief sort through the tumbleweeds in my head that always form when I’m running on zero comes up empty, I seek the patient’s file from a stack on the nurses’ desk.

Mrs. Irina Ivanov’s ER paperwork exposes she was admitted five days ago. Her symptoms aren’t what I would classify as life-threatening, so it has me curious as to why she is in an induced coma and scheduled for surgery first thing this morning.

After ensuring I haven’t mistaken my name on both the surgical schedule and Mrs. Ivanov’s admission writeup, I search her medical record for the correct medical officer so I can adjust the error.

Thirty minutes of searching awards me nothing but more confusion.

Mrs. Ivanov’s patient record would have the most stringent medical insurance company convinced I am the surgeon increasing her premiums. It doesn’t even say surgical resident. It appears as if I am the lead surgeon.

Even if that were the case, I would never seek a medical diagnosis by conducting a dangerous exploratory procedure. That is precisely what Mrs. Ivanov’s surgery is.

A risky and most likely unnecessary medical procedure that could detrimentally impact her chances of recovery.

With my unease too high to ignore and my anger at a possibly erroneous practice just as overflowing, I stuff Mrs. Ivanov’s medical file under my arm before directing my steps to the surgical ward instead of the closest exit.

The usually bustling ward is as desolate of staff as the OR. A nurse is behind an unmanned nurses’ station, but with a bowl of vomit in one hand and a used Foley catheter in the other, she isn’t portraying a wish to be questioned.

Instead, I approach Mrs. Ivanov’s room, hopeful a member of her real medical team will arrive shortly to prepare her for surgery.

A peculiar sensation overwhelms me when I enter her room. I’m familiar with rooms as small as the curtained-off cubicles of the ER, but it isn’t solely the impressive floor space of Mrs. Ivanov’s private wing that has my heart breaking into a canter.

It is finding a patient starkly contrasting to the notes in her file.

She is gaunt, her skin is pale, and her nails are brittle, but when you look past those points, you see a woman who takes care of herself. Her hair is glossy and voluptuous.

Her muscle definition shows she works out, and not even being swamped by an oversized hospital bed and bulky medical equipment can hide the fighter inside her.

She reminds me of how my grandfather has defied the odds every single day for the past almost decade.

Confident that Mrs. Ivanov can do the same, I place down her file and commence a prolonged handwashing routine in the sink in her room.

“Mrs. Ivanov, my name is Dr. Hoffman. I’m a third-year surgical resident at Myasnikov.”

After ensuring my hands are more germ-free than the equipment I cleaned for the last several hours, I dry them with a paper towel before snapping on two powdered gloves from a box on the wall next to the sink.

While placing on the gloves, I say, “I know it’s early, but with your surgery only hours away, I was hoping you would allow me to conduct a final assessment.”

I look at the beautiful raven-haired lady who appears decades younger than the fifty-eight described on her medical record. She can’t answer me.

She was placed in a medically induced coma shortly after admittance, but after being the lead caregiver for my grandfather for the past four years, I soon learned that bedside manner is as important as the many other skills of a surgeon.

“It will only take a few minutes, and I promise it will not be invasive.”

After smiling like the respirator breathing on her behalf answered for her, I walk to her bedside. Her fighting spirit is even more noticeable from this vantage point.

“I’m going to flash a light into your eyes. It will test your pupillary reflexes with a quick succession of flicks.”

Again, I wait as if seeking permission before I raise her eyelids.

“That’s good, Mrs. Ivanov. You did great. Your eyes are responding how they should.”

After placing my penlight on the table at the side of her bed, I gently grasp her head.

“Now I need to pull down your eyelids to check their coloring.”

I breathe out some of the unease in my chest before doing as stated. The skin beneath her eyelids is extremely pale, which is expected since her primary diagnosis is extreme anemia.

However, I’m still not convinced going under the knife is the best option for her.

The severeness of anemia does not correspond with the severeness of her symptoms, so exploratory surgery could place Mrs. Ivanov’s life at unnecessary risk.

Surely the surgical consultant on her case knows this. Even a third-year intern can’t mishear the warning sirens wailing in the distance.

After testing the movement of Mrs. Ivanov’s joints and receiving the faintest groan of protest, I apologize for the discomfort before conducting my final test.

“The next test might cause a small bit of discomfort, but I assure you, I am only doing this because I have your best interests at heart.”

After another big exhale, I open Mrs. Ivanov’s mouth as gently as possible without compressing her breathing tube before assessing her tongue.

It is as smooth as anticipated.

“You did great, Mrs. Ivanov. Thank you so much for your assistance.”

As I head back to her medical file on the table at the foot of her bed, eager to add some notes to the scarce number in her record, Mrs. Ivanov’s room door shoots open, and Dr. Abdulov enters. He is the head of the surgical department at Myasnikov Private.

His squinted eyes dart from the medical file to Mrs. Ivanov before rocketing back to me.

“What are you doing?”

His tone should startle me, but I barely balk since it is thrown around at least ten times a day.

Dr. Abdulov can’t say the same when I reply, “Assessing my supposed patient before surgery.”

He pffts, scoffs, and sputters before he rips Mrs. Ivanov’s file out of my hand. Even with my pulse beating in my ears, ripping paper can’t be missed.

“You’re a third-year resident⁠—”

“Whose name is all over a patient’s record I’ve never heard of until today.” Since I still can’t recall where I’ve heard the Ivanov name before, my tone dips in the middle of my statement, but only I am aware of the possible deceit in my reply.

Dr. Abdulov appears seconds from kicking me out of my residency, not solely Mrs. Ivanov’s room, so I speak fast.

I don’t take our conversation in a direction you’d expect from a person on the verge of homelessness.

“I believe Mrs. Ivanov has been misdiagnosed, and her surgery is gratuitous.”

Sweat beads at my temples from his furious glare. “How dare you. I have years of experience.”

“I’m not saying you don’t. Your accomplishments are known across the globe, but a B12 deficiency is often overlooked. Even by the greats.”

He scoffs so hard that his spit lands on my face. “B12 deficiency? That’s your diagnosis?”

It is the fight of my life to nod with his mocking laugh booming around the room.

“She has muscle aches, pale eyelids, and a smooth tongue. All signs⁠—”

“Of an anemic diagnosis.”

“Severe anemia also demonstrates those signs, but her skin is scaly, and her nails are brittle. I also don’t believe the bad hospital lighting is giving her skin that yellow hue.”

I respond as if he physically slapped me instead of mentally slapping Mrs. Ivanov when he says with a laugh, “Perhaps she’s a recovering alcoholic.”

Any chance of keeping things professional is lost when he adds, “Or a barely functioning one. She has all the signs of an addict.”

“She has all the signs of a patient with an uncaring, arrogant, chauvinistic pig of a doctor misdiagnosing her. I get it. You have to straddle the line to please everyone, but a B12 deficiency is often overlooked because hospital administrators continually ride doctors’ asses for the most billable procedures.”

I talk louder when he grabs my arm to remove me from the room. “If my diagnosis is correct, you will save your patient from an unnecessary medical procedure. Surely that is worth a slight dip in profits.”

He appears seconds from saying no, but a deep, manly voice from the other side of the room forces any reply he’s planning to give to the back of his throat. “Do the test she is suggesting.”

My throat is on fire from ensuring I had my say before being tossed out of a patient’s room, but it turns into the Sahara when the stranger’s face is exposed.

Chiseled cheekbones, plump lips, soul-searing eyes, and a defined jaw hidden under dark stubble wraps up a package that showcases danger and sexiness at the same time.

As my unnamed savior steps out of the shadows the above-bed lighting casts over the corners of all the patients’ rooms, he folds his thick arms in front of his chest.

Since a black A-shirt is the only clothing covering his chest, the cut lines of his arms stand out as evidently as the tic in his jaw when he drinks in Dr. Abdulov’s clutch on my arm.

The stranger doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. Within a second of his narrowed gaze scorching the skin high on my arm, Dr. Abdulov frees me from his grasp and takes a giant step back.

Even though it is clear who is now running the show, Dr. Abdulov tries to keep the playing field even. “The test Dr. Hoffman is suggesting is unnecessary. You have my word⁠—”

“Your word means nothing to me.”

The stranger steps closer, and my heart goes wild. I’ve never witnessed such an accurate display of raw arrogance before, and anyone who gave it a shot didn’t have pulse-spiking good looks like this mysterious man.

“I said to do the test.” His authority can’t be denied. He is used to getting what he wants and doesn’t care who he needs to trample to get it. “And I will not repeat myself for anyone.”

Dr. Abdulov’s head bobs in sync with his Adam’s apple. “Very well. I will organize it now.”

When he gestures for me to exit before him, I lock eyes with the stranger. I’m not seeking his permission to leave—though I’m sure he is accustomed to everyone in his realm doing precisely that. I am thanking him for his support before I lose the opportunity.

If the vein in Dr. Abdulov’s neck is anything to go by, I won’t just be marched out of the hospital for being insubordinate. My entire medical career is about to be trampled on.

I doubt I’ll even be allowed to sterilize equipment after my performance.

Tell me one medical student who has called their supervisor a pig and continued to practice medicine. I can’t think of a single incident.

Dr. Abdulov’s brisk breaths fan my neck when the stranger stops him from shadowing my steps by asking to speak with him.

“In private,” he adds when Dr. Abdulov’s grip on my arm—which is nowhere near as grabby this time—hinders me from exiting.

“Of course.”

Dr. Abdulov strives to wipe the riled expression from his face before he spins to face the dark-haired gent. Although Mrs. Ivanov’s door closes quickly with me on the outside, nothing can override the putrid scent of fear leeching out of Dr. Abdulov.

It is as potent as the sterile smell I scrub from my body every evening but barely strong enough to supersede the lusty aroma that engulfs me when the stranger watches me over Dr. Abdulov’s shoulder for several heart-pumping seconds.

His watch is full of haughty arrogance, and it mists my skin with sweat.

I won’t mention what other parts of my body get damp.

I’m meant to be celebrating a medical triumph that rarely occurs between a third-year surgical intern and a lead surgeon, not my body’s insane reaction to a man whose looks alone would have him chewing through women as often as he does underwear.

Furthermore, I was on the verge of being homeless before I called my superior a pig.

Now “verge” looks set to be removed from the equation.