She opened her laptop. Amidst the junk mail, one email stood out. The sender was Arthur Kensington, patriarch of one of Boston’s oldest families and the anonymous benefactor who had funded her scholarship through medical school.
The email was a formal invitation. A fully-funded fellowship in advanced cardiothoracic surgery. At Massachusetts General Hospital. Here, in Boston.
A ghost of her old dream sparked within her. To be a surgeon. To be the best. Before Damian, before this sham, that was all she had ever wanted.
Her fingers flew across the keyboard. She typed a single word: Accepted.
A decision made. A path chosen.
A wave of dizziness washed over her. Her skin was hot to the touch. The drenching, the emotional devastation-it had left her with a fever. But she couldn’t be sick. Not today.
