✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
[ 𝐒𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐋 1 ]
Because this is where love fades and hate resides and intensifies, broken hearts produce the most tragic stories.
Their treachery is told through their bleeding hearts: their unrequited love was never reciprocated. The...
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The world was a place of controlled and predictable outcomes. Or at least, that's what Ada believed it to be. She had spent a decade molding herself into a person of absolute discipline, a woman whose life was a series of meticulously planned events. Her schedule was a finely tuned instrument, her hands a miracle of steadiness, and her mind a fortress of logic. But on this particular Tuesday morning, the world, in all its chaotic glory, was pushing back.
The first to go rogue was the rain. It wasn't the steady, cleansing deluge of her childhood memories, but a spiteful, icy drizzle that clung to the air and turned the world into a dismal, gray blur. The second was her cab. Punctuality was her religion, and at 7:15 AM, her phone screen was a glaring testament to its imminent blasphemy. The ride-share app showed her driver, a digital pin of indifference, still a solid fifteen minutes away. The hospital, her sanctuary, her purpose, was expecting her for a pre-op consult in thirty minutes.
Ada stood under the ornate portico of her father's mansion, a towering figure of professional poise in her tailored wool coat and designer boots. She clutched a leather tote bag that contained the notes for her consult, but her knuckles were white, a stark contrast to the elegant black leather. Her mind, usually so calm and methodical, was a beehive of agitated thoughts. She checked the app again, as if the digital driver would magically teleport closer. Nothing. The frustration began as a low thrum in her chest, a familiar, unwelcome visitor she had spent a lifetime trying to evict.
Her breath hitched, and she felt the slow, insidious creep of rage. It was a dark, ugly thing, the one part of her that she hadn't been able to cut away, to suture shut, to excise from her being. It was her father's legacy, a bitter inheritance of uncontrollable anger, and it terrified her more than any surgical complication. She had to be calm. She had to be in control. She was a doctor, a neurosurgeon. She saved lives. She didn't lose her temper over trivial things like a late cab. The inner monologue was a frantic, desperate attempt to rein in the beast, but it was already too late. The polite facade she wore for the world was cracking.
"Where is he?" she muttered to herself, her voice a low growl that was utterly unlike her. She was a woman of quiet commands and precise words. This raw, unfiltered emotion felt like a foreign language on her tongue. Her watch, a minimalist piece of surgical-grade steel, showed her the merciless passage of time. 7:17 AM. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm.
