The hum of fluorescent lights and the scent of antiseptics greeted her return like a second skin. Sophia slipped her tablet under her arm and moved briskly toward the ER bay, where the steady rhythm of machines underscored the urgency in the air.
"Doctor Harris," a nurse called out as soon as she stepped in. "We've got a new case—severe dehydration, possible heat exhaustion. Late teens, came in from sports practice."
Sophia's focus sharpened. "Vitals?"
"BP's low, pulse elevated. Nauseous, barely responsive."
"Let's move."
She pulled on gloves as they approached the curtained-off bed. A boy lay there, face pale and damp with sweat, his limbs curled loosely like a puppet that had gone slack. His coach stood nearby, looking frazzled and guilty.
"He skipped lunch today, I didn't notice," the coach said under his breath.
Sophia didn't respond. Her attention was on the patient now—eyes darting over the monitors, fingers checking the boy's pulse.
"Get fluids in him, wide bore IV," she said calmly. "And cooling pads—under his arms and neck."
As the nurse moved to obey, Sophia leaned closer to the boy, her voice soft but firm. "Hey, can you hear me? You're going to be fine. Just stay with me."
His lips moved, barely audible. "Thirsty…"
"I've got you," she said.
The nurse handed her the IV line and she inserted it swiftly, securing it before moving to adjust the cooling measures. The boy began to settle, color returning slowly to his cheeks.
Sophia exhaled—relief measured, professional—but her hand lingered on the boy's wrist just a second longer.
"You'll bounce back," she murmured. "You're young. Your body listens."
The coach stepped closer. "Is he going to need to stay overnight?"
Sophia glanced over her shoulder. "We'll monitor for a few hours. If vitals stabilize and he tolerates fluids orally, he can go home. But next time, pay attention. He could've collapsed on the field."
The man nodded, sheepish.
Sophia turned back to the boy, who was now dozing lightly, the worst behind him. She straightened and peeled off her gloves, dropping them into the bin as she moved toward the charting station.
Her shift had technically ended hours ago. Most of her colleagues had already clocked out. But Sophia remained—polished, steady, a quiet force moving through the chaos.
She had made a habit of staying behind. It was easier than going home to silence.
Her phone buzzed faintly in her pocket, but she didn't look at it.
Instead, she picked up her tablet again and turned toward the next bed.
After the boy had stabilized and was safely resting in the observation room, Sophia allowed herself a brief moment of respite. The rush of patients had slowed, but the weight of her responsibilities still pressed against her chest like a quiet storm.
She stepped into her office, a small sanctuary tucked away from the chaos of the ER. The door clicked shut behind her, and for a moment, she was alone. She inhaled deeply, trying to shake the tension from her shoulders as she sat at her desk. The soft light of the desk lamp illuminated the papers in front of her, but she didn't look at them yet. Instead, her eyes drifted to the small window, the city skyline just beginning to light up as dusk crept across the sky.
Her phone vibrated again, breaking her thoughts. Then, again. And again.
She picked it up with a sigh, her fingers swiping across the screen with practiced ease.
It was her stepmother. Again.
Sophia's brows furrowed as she read the message, her pulse quickening with a mix of frustration and weariness. Another "arranged" date. Another name she didn't recognize. Her stepmother's messages were always the same—pictures of some man she was supposed to meet, details about his career, his family, all carefully chosen to impress. As if marrying someone was the answer to everything.
Sophia exhaled sharply and tossed the phone back onto her desk. She knew what this was. Her stepmother wanted her married—wanted her settled down, out of the hospital, out of the company. She couldn't hide her disdain for the work Sophia did, or the way Sophia had built her life. It had always been about appearances for her stepmother, and Sophia was tired of being paraded like an object to be sold off.
But she wasn't the one to shy away from confrontations. The thought of leaving the hospital, of leaving everything she had worked for, felt suffocating. The dates, the pressure—it all made her feel trapped, suffocated.
Her fingers hovered over the phone again, her mind racing. Her stepmother was relentless, always setting up dates without consulting her first, trying to arrange the perfect match—though none of the men ever seemed to measure up. Not to her. Not to Sophia.
With a deep breath, she picked up the phone and quickly typed a response.
"Not interested. Please stop setting these up. I'm busy."
She sent the message, then leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling. She felt a pang of guilt—guilt that she couldn't simply do as her stepmother wished. But it was her life. Her choice. She would not let anyone dictate her future.
The buzzing phone lay silent on the desk for a while as Sophia closed her eyes, the tension in her body creeping back. She had put out a fire at work, but it seemed the emotional ones were still burning.
She shook her head. One problem at a time.
Sophia had just settled back into her chair, the brief calmness from her message wearing off, when her phone buzzed again. This time, it was a message from her stepmother—shorter, but just as insistent.
"This time, your father personally asked for you to meet him. You don't want to disappoint him, do you?"
Sophia's heart sank, her jaw tightening in disbelief. She knew exactly what this was—her stepmother's manipulative tactic. Now, it wasn't just about her. It was about her father, the man who had given her everything, but had never truly seen her for who she was. He had always trusted his wife's decisions, let her run the show while he focused on his work. And now, it seemed, her stepmother was using him as leverage.
Sophia closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose, trying to quell the rising frustration in her chest. Her father. Her father was the one who had always been too busy to notice her, too busy to recognize the sacrifices she had made to get where she was. And now, her stepmother was pretending to speak for him—coercing Sophia into this dating nonsense, turning her life into a series of obligations.
She took a deep breath and read the message again. The implication was clear: if she didn't go, if she didn't at least try, it would be seen as disrespectful to her father. It wasn't just about meeting some man—no, this was about fulfilling a role. It was about her place in the family, her place in the company. Always about appearances, always about control.
Sophia exhaled slowly, trying to calm the storm brewing inside of her.
She was trapped.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard again, but she didn't type a response. Instead, she stood up abruptly, the chair scraping loudly across the floor. Her office felt suddenly small, the walls closing in on her.
"Fine," she finally typed. "I'll go. But don't expect this to become a regular thing."
She pressed send before she could think any further about it. The weight of her decision settled on her shoulders, but she couldn't afford to dwell on it. Not now.
She grabbed her lab coat, slinging it over her shoulder, her thoughts drifting to her next rounds. The patients, the work—it was what kept her grounded. But, for now, it felt like she was merely going through the motions, doing what was expected, doing what she had to do.