Mark POV
The argument had already gone on too long. I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of my apartment, phone pressed to my ear, staring at a city glittering with wealth I had never cared for. My father's voice cut through the line, sharp and impatient, the same as always whenever I refused to follow his plans.
"How long do you plan to keep embarrassing this family?" he snapped. "You have a degree, Mark. A brilliant mind. Yet you waste it playing charity doctor in a public hospital."
"I'm not playing," I said evenly. "I'm a doctor. I like what I do."
"That hospital pays nothing compared to what you deserve. Come back. Join the company. Run departments. Expand. You're my only son."
"I don't want your company," I said. "Never did."
A pause. Then his voice, colder now: "Then what is your plan?"
"To keep saving lives," I replied.
He scoffed. "Saving lives won't secure your future. When all of this"—he gestured vaguely, the empire he built—"is gone, what will you have?"
"I'll be okay," I said calmly. "I've always been okay."
My mother's softer voice cut in. "Mark, your father is worried. You don't have to be so stubborn."
"Mom, please, tell him to stop calling. I won't change my mind."
"You're useless without ambition," he shot back cruelly.
The words should have hurt. Years ago, they would have. Now, there is no one I had to please.
"If being nothing means living on my own terms," I said, "then I'm fine with that."
I ended the call before he could respond. Silence filled the room.
I turned from the window, grabbed my car keys. I had a shift to get to—a place where my worth wasn't measured by money or legacy, but by whether someone walked out alive. That had always been enough.
Traffic was light as I drove. My mind drifted from my father's voice when something caught my eye on the sidewalk—a flower shop.
I almost passed it. Then I remembered my patient from the previous night, the new mother who had finally heard her baby cry. I hadn't congratulated her properly before being called away.
Without thinking, I pulled over.
The bell above the shop door chimed as I stepped inside. The scent of flowers immediately filled the air. I scanned the arrangements, deciding which would be appropriate, when movement near the rose stand caught my eye.
A woman stood there. Clothes simple. Posture tense. Shoulders hunched like she carried the weight of the world. But there was something in the way she stared at the roses—I couldn't look away.
Then I noticed the change in her breathing.
Her body stiffened. Her hand gripped the stand. Color drained from her face.
Instinct kicked in before thought. She collapsed.
"Hey!" I shouted, rushing forward.
Her chest rose unevenly, panic written across her face. One look told me everything.
"Allergic reaction," I muttered, heart racing.
I lifted her carefully, ignoring the stares of shop staff, and got her outside. Time blurred as I drove, hands steady on the wheel, heart pounding in my chest.
"Stay with me," I said firmly. "You're going to be fine."
Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
She survived. Relief washed over me—but when she finally woke, her eyes full of anger instead of gratitude, I knew this case was different.
"You shouldn't have saved me," she said hoarsely.
I froze. "That's not how you respond to your savior."
"I didn't want to live anymore," she continued. Fear, pain, something darker. I'd heard many things in hospital rooms—fear, gratitude, denial—but this was different.
"What's your name?" I asked quietly.
"Rita," she whispered.
Her story spilled out—her parents, the accident, the aunt who blamed her, the hunger, the betrayal that finally broke her. I listened without interruption.
By the time she finished, something had shifted inside me.
"You don't have to go back there," I said after a long pause.
She looked at me sharply. "That's the only place for me, even if it's not safe."
"I know it's not safe," I replied. "Not for you."
She laughed weakly. "You're a doctor. All this kindness ends when I leave the hospital."
"No," I said firmly. "This ends when you're actually okay."
She opened her mouth to argue, then stopped. Strength drained from her shoulders. Finally, she nodded.
I signed her discharge papers myself. The drive was quiet. Rita stared out the window, arms wrapped around herself as if the world might snatch her away. I didn't push her to talk. Some pain needs silence more than words.
When we arrived, confusion was clear in her eyes.
"This is…?"
"My apartment," I said. "You'll stay here for now."
"That's not appropriate," she said sharply.
"Neither is ending up on the street," I said calmly. "You'll have your own room. No one will bother you. I just need to know you're safe."
Her lips trembled. Pride battling desperation. Finally, she nodded once.
Inside, the apartment was quiet, clean, simple but comfortable. Nothing extravagant. Just a place to breathe.
"You can rest," I told her. "You don't owe me anything."
She hesitated, then asked softly, "Why are you doing this?"
I didn't answer immediately.
"Because someone once saved me," I said finally. "And I think it's right to do the same for someone else."
Her eyes flickered, uncertain. I knew the hurt in her ran deep.
And I also knew this was just the beginning.