CHAPTER 6

Clarence’s POV.

I didn’t realize how tense I was until the other doctor tapped lightly on the table, pulling me back to the present.

For a second, I thought I was imagining things. Maybe my mind was playing tricks on me. But when he stepped further into the room, his gaze settling on me, I knew it was real.

I stared at him, too stunned to speak.

He looked the same, yet different—just older and sharper now. The boy I once knew had been replaced by a man whose presence effortlessly filled the room. His features were calm and completely unreadable—but there was something in his eyes, something I couldn’t quite place.

“Are you okay, Ms. Clarence?” the younger doctor asked.

I nodded rapidly, forcing myself to pull it together.

“This is Dr. Julian Blackwood. He’ll be in charge of your surgery,” he introduced.

“I’ll leave you both to talk.”

He turned to go. I wanted to reach out, to stop him, to ask him not to leave me alone in this room. But whatever this was, I had to face it.

Julian finally spoke, his voice coming out cooler than I had expected but yet maintained a professional tone.

“Hello, Mrs. Ferdinand. I’ll be your doctor. I don’t think an introduction is necessary. In the absence of that, let’s proceed.”

Then, without another word, he walked to his desk and took a seat, leaving no room for familiarity.

I blinked rapidly. For a moment, I wondered if he was talking to someone else. His tone, the way he made sure to be straightforward—it was almost as if we had never known each other.

I glanced over my shoulder, half-expecting to find another Clarence in the room. But of course, there was only me.

My fingers curled against the fabric of my dress. A strange mix of embarrassment and guilt tightened in my chest. Facing him again like this, after everything, felt… unsettling.

“Are you… sure you have the right patient?” I spoke up, my voice quieter than I intended.

His expression didn’t change. He glanced at me briefly before replying.

“No. I’m your doctor. And I chose to handle your surgery willingly.”

The words sank in, twisting something deep in my stomach.

I wanted to ask why. I wanted to demand why he, of all people, would be interested in anything concerning me after what had happened in the past. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I swallowed my questions, my anxiety pressing down on me.

“Of all the hospitals in the city, of all the doctors in the world—it had to be him.

He had to be the one to see me like this—in a wheelchair, helpless and miserable.

Would it amuse him? Would he silently rejoice, thinking I had finally gotten the karma I deserved?

Before I could get lost in my thoughts, he stepped closer. Then, without a word, he bent down and reached for my legs.

I froze.

Every muscle in my body went rigid. I instinctively tried to pull back, but his hands firmly held me in place carefully.

The moment his fingers brushed against my skin, a shudder ran through me.

I wanted to pull away again, but I forced myself to stay still. This was just his job—nothing more. I had no reason to feel the way I did, yet I couldn't shake the unease settling inside me.

He inspected my legs, his expression completely blank.

Then, suddenly, he spoke. “When was the accident? How long has it been since you can no longer make use of your legs?”

The question made my throat tighten.

It felt too personal—more like something he wanted to know for himself rather than a professional inquiry about my condition.

I swallowed hard, an uncomfortable weight settling in my chest as the memory resurfaced.

The rain. The speeding truck. The way my heart had pounded as I rushed to find him that day—to tell him the truth. But I never made it.

I shoved the thoughts away, burying them deep where they belonged.

“Four years ago,” I answered evenly.

His gaze flickered up to mine briefly. Before I could decipher the emotion in his eyes, he looked away, his jaw tightening.

Straightening, he finally pulled back. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

Reaching for his clipboard, he started writing something down while I sat in silence, my heart pounding.

Then he spoke again.

“We ran some tests,” he said, his tone still professional. But there was something heavier in it now. “Most of the nerves around your legs are in bad shape, Mrs. Ferdinand, which makes recovery much more difficult.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

He hesitated, then sighed. “Have you had issues with your legs after the accident? Persistent pain? Have you been taking any medication?”

I nodded. “Yes. My legs hurt most of the time, so I take medication.” I swallowed. “My husband buys them for me.”

At that, his eyes lifted to mine again—only for a second—before he looked away.

He exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“Mrs Ferdinand.”

His voice was quieter now. Something about it made me completely uneasy.

“There’s something seriously wrong with your condition, your surgery is supposed to be an easy one since there wasn't much damage in your bones.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, my fingers curling into my palm.

He looked at me then. And for the first time since he walked in, I saw it—emotion flickering in his eyes.

Frustration, anger, or something close to regret.

“The medication you’ve been taking all these years…” He paused, then continued, his voice steady but firm.

“It’s the cause of most of the nerve damage in your legs.”

My heart nearly stopped.

Julian exhaled. “Your surgery…” He paused again. "It’s unlikely to succeed.”

Immediately his words sank into my skull, and everything inside me went still.

The air in the room felt suffocating. I stared at him, waiting for him to take it back.

He didn’t.

My stomach dropped, a hollow feeling spreading through me. “No. It can't be.”

I had clung to this surgery as my last hope.

The one thing that could help me stand on my own again.

And now, he was telling me it was impossible?