ALEXANDER
The conference room on the eighth floor was quiet except for the low, clinical voices of the three cardiothoracic surgeons seated around the table.
"We're looking at a complex pulmonary atresia with VSD," Dr. Patel was saying, pointing at the scans projected on the screen. "The right ventricle is severely hypoplastic. We're considering a Glenn procedure followed by a Fontan completion, but the pulmonary arteries are…."
I leaned back in my chair, arms crossed, listening with detached focus. My mind was already three steps ahead, calculating risks, possible complications, and the most efficient surgical route.
"... which is why we wanted your input on the timing," Dr. Patel finished, looking at me expectantly.
I opened my mouth to respond when the door suddenly burst open without a knock.
My secretary, Mara, stood in the doorway, visibly flustered, something that almost never happened.
"Dr. Astor," she said urgently, "there's a major commotion in the Pediatric Neurology ward. Dr. Harper-Astor was hit."
The words landed like a switch flipping.
I stood up immediately, pushing my chair back with a sharp scrape, and strode out of the conference room without a word to the other doctors. My long legs ate up the distance as I headed straight for the elevator.
Pediatric Neurology was on the fifth floor, east wing. I took the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, descending two steps at a time, my white coat snapping behind me.
When I reached the corridor outside the Pediatric Neurology ward, chaos greeted me, raise voices, crying, security giving orders.
Staff members saw me coming and instinctively parted like the Red Sea. Conversations died mid-sentence. The noise level dropped noticeably as I approached the nurses' station area.
A small crowd had gathered. Security was physically restraining a large, red-faced man, Mateo Rivera's stepfather, I recognized immediately. The man was still shouting threats while his wife cried hysterically nearby.
In the middle of it all stood Dashiell.
He was pressed against the wall, one hand cradling the side of his face. Blood trickled from the corner of his split lip. His eyes looked dazed, overwhelmed. Several nurses, including Sari, hovered nearby, trying to help but clearly unsure what to do.
The moment the staff noticed me approaching, they moved aside quickly, creating a clear path.
I walked straight up to Dashiell.
His smaller frame was trembling slightly from the sensory overload and the shock of being punched.
I stopped in front of him, towering over his body, my voice icy and calm.
"What happened?"
Sari, who had been closest, answered first, voice stuttering with nerves.
"Th-the patient's stepfather… he got angry about the CPS report. Dr. Harper told him he was the one who made the report and… the man punched him. Security is trying to remove him now."
I didn't look at her. My eyes stayed locked on Dashiell's face specifically on the blood at the corner of his mouth and the rapidly swelling bruise forming on his cheekbone.
My expression remained completely blank.
But something dark and dangerous coiled tightly in my chest.
I reached out, gripping Dashiell's chin with firm but careful fingers, tilting his face up so I could examine the damage more closely. He winced at the touch.
"Does it hurt?"
Dash swallowed, voice small and hoarse. "A… a little."
Dashiell's eyes were glassy, overwhelmed by the noise, the shouting, the bright lights, and the sudden violence. His hands were shaking.
The stepfather's voice rose again behind me. "That little fucker tried to take my kid away! He deserves more than one punch!"
I didn't even turn around.
I released his chin and turned my head slowly toward the stepfather, my expression completely blank.
"Get that man out of my hospital. Now. If he resists, have him arrested for assault. I want him off the premises within two minutes."
Security immediately began dragging the shouting man away more forcefully.
I kept my grip on Dashiell's chin, forcing him to keep looking at me.
"Breathe," I ordered quietly, but there was no softness in it. "You're safe now. No one else is going to touch you."
Dashiell's lips trembled. A single drop of blood slid down his chin.
I stared at it for a moment, then looked back into his wide, overwhelmed eyes.
And for the briefest second, so quick no one else would notice, something truly unhinged flickered behind my own gaze.
Someone had dared to put their hands on what was mine.
I was going to make sure they regretted it.
*****
I walked Dashiell straight to his office in silence, my hand resting possessively on the back of his neck the entire way. The moment the door closed behind us, I locked it.
"Sit," I said.
He obeyed, lowering himself carefully onto the edge of his desk chair, still trembling.
I moved to the small sink in the corner, wet a clean cloth with cool water, and returned to stand in front of him. Without a word, I tilted his chin up and began silently cleaning the blood from his split lip and the swelling starting on his cheekbone.
Dashiell winced slightly but didn't pull away.
After a long moment of silence, he whispered shakily, "I… I do not want Mr. Rivera arrested."
I paused, the cloth still pressed to his lip, and looked down at him.
"You don't want him arrested?" I repeated, voice flat and calm.
Dashiell nodded quickly, wringing his hands. "He's… he's Mateo's stepfather. If he gets arrested, it might make things worse for the boy. The family is already falling apart. I just wanted them to investigate. I didn't want… this."
I studied his face for a few seconds, the wide, anxious eyes, the tremble in his voice, the way he was trying so hard to be kind even after someone had punched him.
Then I continued cleaning the blood away, voice calm and detached.
"Fine," I said simply. "I'll tell security not to press charges."
Relief flickered across Dashiell's face.
But inside my head, the decision was already made.
Mr. Rivera had laid hands on what belonged to me. He had made my husband bleed. He had caused a scene that overwhelmed Dashiell and left him shaking.
I didn't care about forgiveness.
I cared about consequences.
In my mind, I was already calculating, names, connections, quiet ways to make sure Mr. Rivera understood exactly what happened when someone touched Alexander Astor's property.
I didn't say any of that out loud.
Instead, I finished wiping the last trace of blood from his lip and tossed the cloth into the trash.
"Stay here until your next case," I told him. "I'll have someone bring ice for that cheek."
I turned toward the door, pausing only to glance back at his wrecked, overwhelmed form one last time.
Dashiell looked up at me, still breathing too fast, eyes glassy with everything he was trying to process.
I didn't offer comfort.
I simply said, "No one touches you again."
Then I stepped out and closed the door behind me with a soft click.
In the hallway, I pulled out my phone and sent a single text to a contact very few people knew I had.
I slipped the phone back into my pocket and continued walking, expression perfectly blank.
My little anomaly could be kind if he wanted.
But I had never been kind.
And some lessons needed to be taught the hard way.