Chapter 02
The most boring part of a presentation isn’t speaking in front of dozens or even hundreds of people. It’s not even the barrage of endless questions that often lasts longer than the actual talk.
No, the worst part is the applause.
The first minute is gratifying. The second, maybe, too.
But by the third, it gets boring. By the fourth, it becomes torture.
And by the fifth, it feels like dying.
Teddy is right there, trapped between the fourth and fifth minute, and honestly, she’d rather die than stay there, smiling and thanking people like some kind of automaton.
She’s not used to this. Standing still. Receiving applause. Being the center of attention without being able to move.
Anyone who’s served in the military knows standing still is dangerous. Standing still means becoming a target. And for Teddy, right now, every person applauding is the enemy.
She’s used to performing, moving, running, taking risks. Not taking credit.
And especially not taking credit for something she didn’t do.
She studied every detail of the presentation. She prepared a speech.
But the real heavy lifting? That was all Cass.
Revealing that was the most fun part of the entire presentation.
The looks from the competition, the scandalized reactions, the murmurs.
The Grey Sloan betrayal, some called it. Whispered, so the chief wouldn’t hear.
But the chief heard anyway.
All nonsense, really.
Teddy doesn’t hate Seattle Presbyterian on principle like so many others. She doesn’t care about hospital rivalries, or battles over who’s best.
She hates Seattle Presbyterian for one reason only: because she wants Cass in her hospital.
That’s all.
So saying out loud that if the presentation was a success, it was thanks to Cassandra Beckman — that was liberating. Even more so when she saw their stunned faces.
Cass is the reason that, in that first minute, Teddy applauded with genuine gratitude.
A gesture to thank her, even though Cass wasn’t there: she deserved the credit.
Despite what happened between them.
Even though they fought.
Even though it ended.
The truth is, Teddy’s been trying not to think about it since yesterday, with miserable results.
She’s trying not to think about it even now, during this endless applause.
What minute is it?
She forces herself to check the time.
Fifth minute of applause.
Will they ever stop?
Teddy fakes another smile, whispers another thank you, nods at another person.
Her gaze scans the crowd, silently distributing her gratitude while stifling a groan of frustration.
Then something to her right catches her attention.
A door opening. A flash of red hair disappearing beyond the auditorium exit.
For a moment, Teddy envies that person. Desperately.
She’d pay — hell, maybe even kill — to sneak out too.
But then realization hits her like a punch to the gut.
That person is Cass.
She only saw her for a second, only from behind, but she knows.
It’s Cass.
Her heart skips a beat. Then another. A small smile brushes her lips, the first genuine one since yesterday.
Cass came to the presentation.
Cass came.
There’s no time to think. She has to go. She has to catch her.
Clearing her throat, she grips the microphone firmly.
“Thank you all sincerely for your attention. And for the applause. But I’ve got patients to check on, a hospital to run... you know, chief things.”
The audience laughs.
Perfect.
She uses that moment to move, keeping a steady but controlled pace.
She doesn’t want to draw too much attention.
She doesn’t want to look like a woman chasing someone.
But that’s exactly what she’s doing.
Teddy pushes the door forcefully, shutting it behind her in a flash.
The chatter of the hallway vanishes instantly, swallowed by the surreal silence of the hospital. By the beat of her heart.
Her heels echo against the polished floor as she walks, scanning her surroundings.
Right. Left. Right again, then left. Nothing.
The atrium suddenly feels enormous, a labyrinth of white coats and visitors. But Cass... Cass isn’t there.
Then she sees it. A flash of red heading for the exit.
“Cass!” she calls, her voice bouncing off the walls.
She quickens her pace. Her movements are less graceful than she’d like: the tight dress clings to her hips and the thin heels threaten to trip her with every step.
God, running was so much easier in military boots, in a rough, dusty uniform, in the middle of nowhere, in the desert.
“Cass, wait!” she calls again, as her heels strike faster.
But she doesn’t see her anymore.
Damn it.
She doesn’t stop.
She pushes through the hospital doors without a second thought, without slowing down.
The cold hits her full in the face: sharp, damp, thick with the metallic scent of rain.
The first drops begin to fall, sliding through her hair, slowly soaking her dress.
But she hardly notices. In fact, she likes it. The cold. The water on her skin.
It reminds her that she’s not there anymore. That she’s not at war. That she’s here. That she’s safe.
Once more, she looks around. Her breath is uneven, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
She hopes to see her. To see her appear, to find her just a few steps away.
But the street is empty.
Cass is gone.