When My Fiancé and Doctor Conspired to End My Life

The sterile scent of Seattle Grace was supposed to be the smell of a new beginning. Instead, it smelled like cold iron and rain. I sat on the edge of the gurney, the paper gown crinkling under my shifting weight, clutching Milo’s hand like it was the only anchor in a storm.

"You're shaking, El," Milo whispered, his thumb brushing the white knuckles of my left hand. His smile was a practiced curve, warm enough to melt the frost settling in my gut. "It’s going to be fine. In six hours, you’ll be whole. We’ll be whole."

"I just want it over with," I murmured, my voice small. The fifty thousand dollars I’d scraped together over five years—skipped lunches, overtime shifts, the denial of every small luxury—sat in the hospital’s billing queue. It was the price of my womanhood. The price of fixing the body my father had let me believe was broken beyond repair.

"Phone," Milo said, extending his free hand. "And the banking access. Just in case there are overages. I don’t want you worrying about declined cards while you’re recovering."

It was a logical request. He was my fiancé, my proxy. Yet, a tiny, irrational wire tightened in my chest. I pushed it down. "The code is your birthday," I said, placing the device in his palm. "Don't spend it all on the vending machines."

"Only the good snacks." He winked, pocketing my entire life savings with a casual grace.

The door swept open. Dr. Felicity Gardner didn't walk; she glided. Her white coat was tailored, her blonde hair pulled back in a severe, impeccable knot. She looked less like an anesthesiologist and more like a shark in human skin. Behind her trailed a young intern, Dr. Madilyn Brown, whose eyes darted nervously between the monitors and my face.

"Ms. Mitchell," Felicity said, her voice cool and devoid of comfort. "Time to go. Dr. Brown, prep the IV."

Madilyn’s hands trembled slightly as she swabbed my arm. "I’ll be right here the whole time, Eliza," she promised, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I’ve reviewed your chart three times. We’re going to take good care of you."

"Enough chatter," Felicity snapped, injecting a clear fluid into the line. "Count backward from ten, Eliza."

The mask descended. The rubber smelled of chemicals.

*Ten. Nine. Eight.*

Milo squeezed my hand one last time, then let go.

Darkness didn’t come. Paralysis did.

It hit me like a concrete slab. My eyelids froze heavily over my eyes, sealing me in darkness, but my mind remained screamingly awake. I tried to twitch a finger, to gasp, to signal that I was still here, but the neuromuscular blocker had turned my body into a stone coffin. I was a statue with a heartbeat.

Then came the fire.

I felt the cold bite of iodine on my abdomen. Then, the searing, tearing agony of the scalpel. It wasn't a dull pressure; it was a white-hot line of torture slicing through skin and muscle. I screamed in the silence of my own skull, a soundless shriek that reverberated against the walls of my mind.

"She's under?" Milo’s voice. Casual. Bored.

"Out cold. Paralytic is holding," Felicity replied. The clink of metal instruments sounded like thunder. "God, look at this mess inside her. It’s a biological dead end."

"Does it matter?" Milo asked. I heard the rustle of plastic—gloves? Or him checking his phone? "Just make it look convincing. Complications, right?"

"Bleeding out is messy, Milo. I prefer 'respiratory failure.' Cleaner paperwork." Felicity’s voice was closer now, right by my ear. "Did the transfer go through?"

"Fifty grand, clear and clean. We can book the flight to Cabo tonight."

The pain of the knife was nothing compared to the ice spreading through my veins. They weren't fixing me. They were harvesting me.

"Leave the artery nicked," Felicity instructed, her tone professional, deadly. "Sew her up loosely. She’ll bleed internally in recovery. By the time they code her, we’ll be gone."

Every stitch was a fresh violation. I lay there, trapped in the dark, feeling my life leak out while the man I loved discussed vacation plans with the woman murdering me.

Time dissolved into a blur of agony and fading consciousness. The next thing I registered was motion. The rattle of wheels. The air was colder now—hallway air.

"Wait! You can't take her!" Dr. Brown’s voice was shrill, panicked. "Her BP is dropping! She needs the ICU immediately!"

"I am her medical proxy," Milo’s voice boomed, stripped of all its former warmth. "I’m discharging her. We’re going to a private specialist. Get out of my way."

"That’s an AMA discharge! It’s suicide!" Madilyn screamed. I felt the gurney jerk to a halt. "Dr. Gardner, tell him! She’s unstable!"

"The proxy has the final say, Dr. Brown," Felicity said smoothly. "Step aside before I report you for harassment. You’re already on thin ice."

"But—"

"Move."

The gurney surged forward again, leaving the frantic intern behind. We moved fast, the ceiling lights flickering through my closed eyelids like strobe lights. Then, the sounds of the busy ward faded. The air grew stale, smelling of dust and old mop water.

The wheels stopped.

"Maintenance corridor B," Felicity whispered. "No cameras here."

"Heavy," Milo grunted. The gurney tilted. Gravity took me. I slid, a dead weight, crashing onto the cold linoleum floor. The impact jarred my fresh incisions, sending a fresh wave of nausea through my paralyzed frame.

"Let's go," Milo said. No kiss goodbye. No hesitation.

Footsteps retreated, clicking rhythmically against the tile, fading into silence. I lay alone in the dark, unable to shiver, unable to cry, listening to the slow, ragged rhythm of my own dying heart.