Chapter 8

After pressing [Decline], Florence smoothly locked her phone screen and slipped it back into her trench coat pocket.

Without another glance at Percival's grim face or Yvaine's shocked expression, she walked straight past them, her heels clicking toward the elevator. Her retreating figure was cold and resolute, without a hint of hesitation.

Percival stood frozen, staring at the message on his screen: [The user declined your friend request.] His face turned ashen.

It would never cross his mind that the "Dr. Healer" he regarded as a lifeline—lofty and unreachable—was the very wife he'd just sternly warned and contemptuously dismissed.

Outside the lab building, a light drizzle had begun falling at some point.

The early autumn rain carried a faint chill, wetting the smooth marble steps.

Florence walked quickly, too preoccupied to dwell on what had just happened. That phone call couldn't hurt her anymore.

Just as she stepped down the last stair, her heel slipped suddenly.

Florence didn't even have time to steady herself before she fell heavily onto the wet pavement.

Her knee slammed hard against the unforgiving stone. A piercing pain shot through her nerves instantly.

She gasped sharply, looking down. The hem of her khaki trench coat was soaked with muddy water. Her knee was badly scraped—a large patch of skin torn away, bright red blood seeping out continuously, mixing with the rain. The sight was alarming.

Florence didn't cry out. She simply gritted her teeth, braced herself against the ground, and slowly stood up.

A self-mocking smile tugged at her lips. Dragging her injured leg, she limped back toward the outpatient building, heading for the surgical department.

Surgical Department.

Finnian Mitchell, on duty, had just finished with a patient. Looking up, he saw Florence standing in the doorway in her disheveled state.

"Good God, Florence? What happened to you?"

Finnian was Florence's senior from medical school and Silverline Hospital's renowned surgical ace.

He knew Florence's talent well—and how precious those hands of hers, capable of wielding a scalpel with genius precision, truly were.

He hurried over, helping Florence into a chair before turning to grab the medical kit.

"It's raining outside. The steps were slippery. I wasn't careful and fell." Florence's tone was calm, as if the injury weren't her own.

Finnian returned with iodine and cotton swabs, crouching down to clean her wound. As he applied the disinfectant, he couldn't help teasing. "The great Dr. Healer, tripping on flat ground? If Professor Coleman saw this, he'd be beside himself. Hold still—this'll sting a bit."

The iodine-soaked swab brushed over the raw skin. Florence flinched slightly but didn't make a sound.

After bandaging the wound, Finnian stood and, as if suddenly remembering something, walked to his desk and picked up a thick medical file, handing it to her.

"Since you're here, take a look at this." Finnian's expression turned serious. "Professor Coleman just transferred it to me. Yvaine's case. It's tricky—complications are already affecting organ function. Besides your targeted therapy approach, no one in the country dares take on this surgery."

He frowned, puzzled. "But here's the weird part—Professor Coleman said he already shared your work Facebook with the patient's family. So why haven't they contacted you yet? This is a life-or-death situation. Aren't they worried?"

Florence stared at the name "Yvaine" on the file cover. Her heart felt like it had been squeezed by an invisible hand—sour and aching.

How could he not have contacted her?

Just ten minutes ago, Percival had scanned that QR code right in front of her, humbly sending a friend request.

Florence recalled the respectful, pleading demeanor Percival had shown before Professor Coleman.

That decisive, commanding Churchill Group CEO—always so lofty in the business world—had been willing to set aside every ounce of pride for Yvaine's sake.

Even his Facebook message note had been a humble "seeking medical consultation."

In three years of marriage, Percival had never shown her a shred of patience. When she was sick with a fever, all she'd gotten was a cold "Take medicine. Don't bother me."

But for Yvaine, he'd spare no expense, no effort.

Such devotion was nauseating.

"I already declined it." Florence withdrew her gaze, her tone utterly flat, and pushed the file back toward Finnian.

"Declined?" Finnian froze, then understanding dawned. He sighed. "I suppose, given your relationship with Percival, taking this surgery would be awkward."

"It's not awkward." Florence stood, smoothing the wrinkled hem of her trench coat. Her eyes were cool. "I'm simply not taking this surgery."

Without further explanation, she turned and walked out of the office.

Though her wound was bandaged, walking still hurt faintly.

Florence moved slowly, crossing the long corridor of the outpatient building toward the underground parking garage.

As she passed a corner near the organ donation center, she suddenly heard familiar voices.

Florence paused instinctively, stepping aside into the shadows.

At the end of the corridor, two familiar figures sat on a bench.

Percival and Yvaine.

They'd just come out of the organ donation center's office.

Yvaine's face was deathly pale, her eyes red-rimmed. She leaned weakly against Percival's shoulder, as if a breeze could scatter her.

"Percival..." Yvaine's voice was thick with tears, so frail it tugged at the heartstrings. "The doctor said my condition is getting worse. If we can't find a suitable organ donor soon, I might... might not have much time left with you. I'm so scared..."

Percival's brow furrowed deeply, his dark eyes filled with worry. He raised his large hand, gently patting Yvaine's back. His voice carried a tenderness and patience Florence had never heard from him. "Don't talk like that. I've already had people check compatibility at major hospitals nationwide. No matter the cost, I will save you."

"But what if we never find one?" Yvaine sniffled, looking up at him.

She bit her pale lower lip, her eyes flickering with pitiful hesitation. Her voice was soft, yet eerily clear in the empty corridor. "Percival... if—I'm just saying if—Florence's compatibility matched mine, would you... would you have her save me?"

The air seemed to freeze in that instant.

Florence stood in the shadows. Her breathing stopped.

Her hand unconsciously clenched the fabric of her coat, nails digging into her palm. She stared fixedly at Percival's profile, waiting for his answer.

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.

The corridor was terrifyingly quiet, only the scent of disinfectant lingering in the air.

Percival said nothing.