Devon strode ahead with purposeful steps, his surgical gown now discarded, revealing a crisp white coat that hugged his broad shoulders. Helena trailed behind, her heart pounding in her chest, each footfall echoing her mounting dread. The joy of the patient's survival had evaporated like morning mist, replaced by the cold reality of her blunder, a misplaced clamp during the initial procedure that had triggered the aortic tear, nearly costing a life.
They approached Dr Elias Thorne's office first, a corner suite with frosted glass doors etched with his name in gold lettering. Devon knocked once, sharp and authoritative, before pushing the door open. Inside, Thorne's secretary, a woman with wire rimmed glasses and a no-nonsense bun, looked up from her computer screen, her fingers pausing mid keystroke.
"Dr Thorne isn't here," she said briskly, her voice clipped with the efficiency of someone who'd fielded too many interruptions that day. "He stepped out about ten minutes ago."
