At the pinnacle of her career, orthopedic surgeon Ava King conquers the lucrative medical field of London.
A wild and intimate night with competitive Formula One driver James Ellis ends with Ava being stood up. The rejection leads her straight into...
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My weekend is a flurry of nauseated trips to the bathroom, pizza and grilled cheese sandwiches to refuel, and a massive Star Wars marathon with Adam.
I was meant to be on call, but called in sick. I can't get my hands to settle and there's no way I'm in the right headspace to operate on humans. Fuck it, I struggled to operate the coffee machine.
My body aches, like actual muscle pain and cramps. I shudder to think about the bruises that must be scattered around it thanks to Gabriel's make up sex. So, I avoid mirrors all weekend. I don't want to look. I refuse to look.
I forego Iris's advice, and ignore Gabriel; opting for complete cold turkey.
Calls, messages, voice notes— ignored. Delivery of dozens of long stemmed red roses— refused.
If this really was a once off thing then he'll need to grovel for like... forever.
And if it's not, if he really is an abusive misogynist, then this should trigger him and I'm not waiting, walking on egg shells to test the waters and see if it'll happen again.
I want to see his true colours.
He made a turn at my place and I left the sorry sod outside in the cold; he waited for almost an hour but I'm sorry for you buddy, Luke Skywalker was just about to play the most famous variation of "whose your daddy?" and I wasn't about to miss out on Adam's reaction (which by the way saw him nearly drop the f-bomb, but he recovered smoothly with a "what the actual f... father?!")
The weekend's events, despite loaded with calories between the nausea bouts, makes me feel like the Walking Dead on Monday morning. I look and feel like shit, and not even a Hugo Boss power suit can save the day.
Sebastian's eyebrows raise at me when I merely grunt in place of a 'good morning' and head to my office, plonking myself, face-first, onto the cognac couch.
He tip-toes in with a mug of tea, taking a seat behind my desk as we get ready for our usual Monday morning rundown of the week.
"Are you sick or hungover?" He clasps his hands in a very businesslike way, peering down at me with pity, tut tut'ing away. He's a cocky bastard, but I love him.
"I don't drink, remember?"
"Ok, sick. Must I reschedule your apps for today?" He's in crisis mode instantly, clicking through the desktop to look at my appointments.
"No, I'm going to Nice soon. I can't afford to miss another day." I sigh in defeat. "Please call Mac and ask him to prescribe an anti-emetic for me, and a mild antispasmodic. I think I picked up a stomach bug somewhere." That, and severe anxiety.
"Can't you ask your boyfriend?" Sebastian waves a nonchalant hand, and I snort.
"That's unethical." He raises a quizzical eyebrow. "And on that note, cancel all Gabriel's appointments for this week and fill them with patients who've been on the waiting list."
