You Wanted Space! We’re Done, Dr. Whitmore Chapter 01

You Wanted Space! We’re Done, Dr. Whitmore Chapter 01

“You’re really doing the procedure tomorrow?”

The attending physician handed my chart back, brow furrowed.

“I thought Dr. Whitmore’s medical conference trip was almost over. You could’ve held out till he got back.”

I stopped him cold.

“No. I’ve got it covered.”

The doctor blinked, caught off guard.

Because everyone at Riverdale Medical Center knew what I used to be like.

A headache. A fever. A paper cut. I’d find a way to drag Adrian into any of it.

I stepped out of the consultation room—

And walked straight into him.

Adrian had a suitcase in one hand, looking like he’d just gotten off a plane and come straight to Riverdale Medical Center.

Evelyn Carter trailed behind him like she always did.

She wore her white coat, a black cashmere coat draped over her shoulders.

That coat.

I’d given it to Adrian for our third anniversary.

Adrian’s face hardened when he saw me.

“What are you doing here?”

He paused.

“Sick again?”

Again.

Just like before.

His tone carried that familiar edge of irritation. Like my existence had just added another item to his to-do list.

He snatched my chart out of my hand, scanned it in two seconds flat. “Reschedule the procedure for next week. I’ll come with you.”

The words left my mouth before I could stop them:

“No need. I’ve got it. Thanks.”

The distance in my voice hit him like a slap.

Adrian went still.

The old me?

Would’ve whined about a paper cut. Blown up his phone over which dress to wear.

From what I ate for breakfast to the biggest decisions in my life. I always ran them by Adrian first.

Now?

I scheduled my own surgery. Calm. Efficient.

And he wouldn’t have even known if we hadn’t collided in that hallway.

I reached for my chart. My hand caught the pill box.

It hit the floor.

The label screamed up at me. Crystal clear.

Birth control pills.

“Don’t read into it.”

Adrian bent down and snatched it up, his voice snapping back into that cold, clinical tone he used with patients.

“Evelyn’s having bad cramps. This is for the pain.”

Evelyn pulled the black cashmere coat tighter and mumbled, her voice small and apologetic.

“I’m so sorry, Claire.”

“Dr. Whitmore was about to go home. It’s my fault—I could barely stand from the pain. I asked him to bring me here.”

She paused, then shot me a look that was almost admiring.

“I wish I could be as independent as you, Claire.”

“Then Dr. Whitmore wouldn’t have to keep chasing after me.”

Independent.

The word landed like a slap.

A flashback hit me.

When my abdomen was in excruciating pain and I didn’t know which department to go to. I asked Adrian.

He was the youngest deputy director of neurology at this top-tier teaching hospital. And his answer to me was a flat, “I don’t know.”

I complained about how dismissive that was.

Adrian pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing his tired eyes, his gaze pinning me like I was some giant infant who couldn’t function without constant supervision.

“You couldn’t have Googled this yourself?”

“You’re an adult. Can you be a little more independent? Stop relying on me for everything.”

“I’m not your parent. Not responsible for teaching you basic life skills.”

How rich.

He had no patience for his own girlfriend. Yet he could personally escort his junior colleague to a consultation and pick up her medication.

A stranger walking in right now would’ve sworn Evelyn was his girlfriend.

The old me would’ve lost it.

Demanded answers. Cried. Made a scene.

But I just said,

“Mm.”

Then,

“Pills might not be enough, though.”

“You could also rub her stomach. Hold her while she sleeps. Whisper sweet nothings in her ear.”

Evelyn’s face flushed crimson.

“Claire, I didn’t mean—”

Adrian’s expression turned to stone.

“You’re still hung up on this?”

“Because I didn’t tell you before the medical conference trip?”

Two weeks ago.

It was Adrian’s birthday.

I’d worked overtime for weeks to trade shifts, just so I could take time off.

I’d made dinner from scratch.

I’d picked up his custom gift.

I waited for him to come home.

He never showed.

Later that night, I saw Evelyn’s Instagram story—

Adrian was overseas. International medical conference. She was there too.

His explanation, when he finally got back to me, was clipped. Casual.

“It was a medical conference trip. Nothing more. No need to run it past you.”

“Birthdays happen every year. Project opportunities don’t. I thought you knew how to prioritize.”

“Don’t you have your own things to do? Why are you always tracking my calendar?”

That was the moment I finally asked him:

“Adrian. Am I ever a priority to you? Even for a second?”

Compared to my emotional unraveling—

His response? Ice-cold.

Then he hung up.

“You’re not thinking straight.”

“We’ll talk when I get back.”

I put my name on the transfer agreement before I could second-guess myself.