After the ceremony, as the music mellowed and guests began to mingle freely, Celeste's friends retreated to a quiet corner, their perfect smiles slipping into sneers.
"I can't believe the audacity," one of them hissed. "That country-side girl had the nerve to talk back like she belonged here."
"She embarrassed us," another added, arms crossed. "Let's see how long that confidence lasts."
They approached Jillian as she stood near one of the refreshment tables, seemingly alone. One leaned in, voice sugar-coated but sharp underneath.
"You know, you really surprised everyone tonight. Not every day we see someone turn a pity invitation into a moment."
Jillian looked at them, unfazed. Her calm voice cut through the falseness. "Well, I was invited. Just like you. Except I didn't come here to pretend."
The group blinked, caught off-guard.
Before they could respond, Jillian stepped away, gracefully slipping through the crowd with her head held high. They stood frozen, more embarrassed than angry now.
She hadn't raised her voice. She hadn't insulted them. But her presence—her quiet, unshakable strength—had left them speechless.
And she hadn't even tried.
Jillian slipped away from the banquet unnoticed, her heels clicking softly against the marble as she walked out into the quiet night. The warm hum of streetlamps replaced the chatter and clinking glasses of the ballroom. Her breath came easier once she was outside, the cool night air brushing against her skin.
She wandered without a destination until her steps brought her to a small, old bookstore tucked between taller, newer buildings. The sign was faded now, but she recognized it instantly—Old Pages. She had visited often as a child with her mother, always drawn to the dusty smell of forgotten stories.
The bell above the door jingled softly as she stepped inside. The place was nearly empty, just as she remembered. An elderly man behind the counter looked up, then offered a quiet nod, recognizing her face even if her name escaped him.
She moved slowly through the aisles, letting her fingers trail over spines, her heart finding peace in the stillness. It was here she remembered who she was—before the hospital, before the expectations, before Celeste's perfect world.
She picked up a worn copy of a poetry collection her mother used to read aloud and settled into a corner chair. For a little while, she wasn't Dr. Jillian, or the half-sister from the countryside. She was just Jillian. And that was enough.
She closed the book gently, placed it back on the shelf, and offered a small nod of thanks to the old shopkeeper. Stepping out into the night again, Jillian took one last look at the quiet street, a soft ache in her chest. It had been a brief moment of clarity—of remembering what mattered.
Back at the hotel, she packed in silence. There was no need for second thoughts. She texted the driver for an early pickup and booked the earliest flight back to Shanghai. Her fingers paused over the screen for a second—before she turned off her phone.
Tomorrow, she'd return to her work, her pace, her rhythm. This world—the one full of whispered judgments, shallow smiles, and forced ties—was not hers.
She drew the curtains shut, set her alarm, and slid beneath the sheets, whispering to herself, "I came. I saw. That's enough."
Early the next morning, Jillian checked out of the hotel before dawn. The city still slept as her car slipped through the quiet streets. She sat in the back seat, watching the streetlights blur past, her thoughts already miles ahead—back to her lab, her team, the patients waiting in Shanghai.
At the airport, she moved through the gates with practiced ease. No makeup, no statement coat—just herself, plain and honest.
As the plane lifted off, she gazed out the window, the skyline of Orwell shrinking below her. She felt no sadness, only a subtle sense of closure.
By the time she landed in Shanghai, her phone had already flooded with work messages. But amid them was a surprise—a message from Dante:
> "Safe travels. We miss you already. Let's catch up soon."
She smiled faintly, fingers brushing over the screen. It was good to be missed. But it was better to be free.
Back at the Hospital, the doors of the hospital slid open as Jillian walked in, the scent of antiseptic oddly comforting. She was greeted with a few nods, smiles, and murmured welcome-backs, but most were too busy to linger—just the way she liked it.
She changed into her coat and headed straight to the cardiology wing. A few charts waited on her desk, neatly stacked. Her name still on the door. Her coffee mug still on the shelf. Everything exactly where she left it—but Jillian felt different.
As she moved through patient rounds, her focus sharpened. No more banquets, no silk gowns or polished smiles. This was where she belonged.
Later, during a staff briefing, Dr. Lin leaned toward her with a half-smile.
"Heard Orwell was... eventful."
Jillian only nodded, tight-lipped.
"I'm glad you're back," he added, more gently this time.
"So am I," she replied, her voice soft but firm.
As the meeting ended, a nurse approached her with a new file—an emergency case just admitted. Jillian opened it. A young man, at a critical condition.
Jillian's eyes scanned the file quickly—male, early twenties, massive internal bleeding from an unknown source. His vitals were unstable, and there was a suspected ruptured organ. No known relatives listed.
The nurse's voice broke her focus. "They just wheeled him into trauma bay three. We're prepping for surgery, but... they need you now."
Without hesitation, Jillian moved swiftly through the corridor. The steady rhythm of her heels on the floor matched her quickening pulse. As she pushed through the double doors, the room was a flurry of motion—nurses at monitors, a resident adjusting IV lines, a tech setting up the surgical tray.
Her gaze landed on the young man. Pale. Unconscious. Fighting for life.
"Let's get him into the OR," she ordered. "I want full imaging during prep and suction ready. He doesn't have much time."
The team sprang into action as Jillian scrubbed in, the weight of another life resting in her hands again.
The cold steel of the scrub sink bit into her palms as Jillian scrubbed in with practiced precision. Her eyes remained focused, her mind already mapping out the possible scenarios. She didn't speak much—she didn't need to. Her team moved on instinct, trusting her lead.
Inside the operating room, the air was tense but controlled. Machines beeped steadily, sterile trays glinted under the bright overhead light. Jillian stepped in, her eyes locked on the patient. "Vitals?" she asked.
"BP dropping. 90 over 60. Heart rate spiking," the anesthesiologist replied.
Jillian nodded once. "We're going in. Start the laparotomy. Suction ready."
Scalpel in hand, she made the first incision. Time blurred, reduced to the rhythmic pulse of blood pressure monitors, the exchange of instruments, the quiet commands between surgeons. The bleeding was worse than expected—his liver was lacerated, and there was a small perforation in the intestine.
But Jillian didn't waver. "Clamp. Retract. There—right there."
The room held its breath as she worked, sealing the ruptures, controlling the hemorrhage. The chaos calmed, little by little. After what felt like hours, she finally stepped back.
"Close him up. He's stable."
A chorus of quiet relief passed through the room. Jillian peeled off her gloves, sweat on her brow, exhaustion tugging at her limbs.
But she'd done it.