Marry My Rival's Uncle for Revenge

A mess in the OR.

Christine’s POV

The OR is tense even before the first incision. The room smells of antiseptic, the hum of machines steady, rhythmic, almost comforting, though my pulse refuses to calm. I’ve scrubbed in, gown tied, gloves snapping into place, and yet, even here, in my domain, the tension is palpable. Mike is at the table, knife in hand, but something is off. His movements are too fast, too careless, almost as if he’s performing to impress, not to operate. Emma stands just outside the OR window, watching, biting her lip, probably hoping for a disaster to validate her husband’s choice, or maybe to test me. I don’t care. My focus is on the patient. The patient, a high-profile client, lies under anaesthesia, trusting this surgical team with their face, their life, their very identity. This is a delicate procedure, facial reconstruction after an accident, and precision is everything. A single misstep can cause permanent damage.

“Mike, slow down. Measure twice before you cut,” I hear myself say, calm but firm, my eyes scanning the table. He frowns at me, irritation flickering in his sharp gaze.

“I’ve done this hundreds of times,” he snaps, but the quiver in his hand betrays him.

I feel my stomach tighten. Hundreds of times or not, he’s rushing, ignoring the subtleties of the tissue, the delicate balance of muscle and skin. One wrong move, and it’s irreversible. Then it happens. A slip, a tremor, and the scalpel veers too far, slicing near the orbital bone. A gasp escapes one of the nurses. My hands fly into action.

“Stop! Now!” I command, stepping to the table with a precision honed over years of high-stakes surgeries. My fingers work faster than thought, steadying, correcting, guiding. Mike freezes, eyes wide, as I take control, my voice unshakable.

“Retract here, stabilise the flap, hold pressure, carefully, slowly,” I instruct, directing the team. The room moves as one, under my lead, and I can feel the tension slowly melting from the team’s shoulders, though Mike’s jaw tightens with resentment.

“You …” he starts, but I don’t answer. There is no time for petty arguments. Lives, careers, and reputations hang on these next few minutes. The delicate tissue responds to my touch, the sutures placed with precise spacing, tension measured, curves aligned to perfection. The patient’s face begins to regain symmetry, the contours smooth, the damage expertly repaired. I can hear my own heartbeat, loud in my ears, but I don’t falter. I cannot falter.

“Scalpel! Now, follow my lead. Every movement counts. Focus. Breathe,” I say, and a nurse hands it over without hesitation. I sound like Jonathan when he first took me into his Operation Room.

Mike hesitates, his pride wounded, but finally obeys, mimicking my techniques as I guide his hands. Slowly, the procedure steadies, rhythm restored. I glance at him, eyes meeting his briefly, and the anger in his expression is palpable, but I don’t care. Authority in the OR isn’t given, it’s taken, and in this moment, it is mine. The final sutures are placed. I lean back slightly, evaluating the reconstruction under the bright surgical lights. Everything aligns. Perfect. The patient will heal well. The room exhales collectively, relief flooding the air like a sudden gust of wind. Mike drops the scalpel, his face pale, eyes avoiding mine.

“You… you saved it,” Mike mutters, barely audible.

“Yes. I did,” I reply, calm, professional, but there is a sharp edge beneath my words.

“If you want to survive in this department, remember: shortcuts cost more than pride. They cost lives. Go to my office, Dr Waltz! Now!” I demand. Emma’s mouth opens, as if to protest, but I catch her eye. I can see the fear there, that recognition that competence cannot be faked.

I scrub my hands with meticulous care, ignoring the prickling awareness of every eye on me. Every team member is watching, weighing, measuring. They are all in awe, although some look full of resentment, but all respect has been earned, reaffirmed in these tense minutes.

“Doctor Braxton,” Jonathan’s voice comes from the doorway. Calm. Controlled. Unflinching. Even now, his presence steadies me. He doesn’t need to intervene. His mere presence makes the hierarchy clear. Mike looks anywhere but at him.

“Well handled,” Jonathan says simply, his gaze locking on mine for a heartbeat longer than necessary. There’s no praise, not really, only acknowledgement. But it is enough. Enough to fuel the confidence I need to continue, to remind me why I belong here, why I fought to be here. I finish the clean-up, check the patient’s vitals, and give the final instructions for post-op care. The team disperses, murmuring among themselves, and I step out of the OR, removing my gloves and mask. The weight of the room lifts, replaced by the adrenaline still coursing through my veins.

Mike stands near the exit, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. His jaw is tight, his pride bruised, but his eyes betray a grudging respect. I meet his gaze for a brief moment. He follows me to his office. I close the door before Emma can follow us inside.

“What happened in there, Doctor Waltz? It could have ended badly! You'd better leave your personal life behind the hospital doors. I will not allow an incompetent doctor in my OR,” I say.

“I was in a hurry. It will not happen again, Dr Braxton! Isn’t it what you wanted? To show everyone you are better than me?” He asks.

“I do not care about that! Get out of my office, before I fire you,” I say. I am furious. What have I ever seen in this loser? I am so glad we are almost divorced! I wait until Mike disappears. I know he needs to go and fix his ego. I walk out of my office. I take a deep breath, feeling Jonathan’s presence before I even see him. His eyes are sharp, assessing, and there is the faintest trace of a smirk playing across his lips.

“Not bad for your second day,” Jonathan says, voice low, a hint of amusement underlining the approval. I allow myself a small, controlled smile.

“Not bad? That was salvaging a disaster,” I reply.

“You did it without losing your composure. I respect you as a Doctor, Christine,” Jonathan says. I notice eyes never leaving mine.

“Respect is earned,” I respond, lifting my chin, letting the strength in my voice carry the weight of years spent proving myself. He steps closer, just enough that the space between us flares with an energy neither of us acknowledges aloud.

“Yes, it is,” Jonathan says, and the words linger, not a compliment, not exactly, but a recognition of skill.

I glance back toward the OR where Mike and Emma linger, speaking in low tones, their expressions a mixture of frustration and fear. I feel a flicker of satisfaction, but I do not allow it to show. Professionalism comes first. Yet beneath the surface, a private satisfaction warms me, the quiet knowledge that my authority is no longer in question. No one can deny that I know my job. Jonathan follows me as I walk down the hall, the click of my heels steady, unyielding.

“You’ll need to keep an eye on Mike Waltz. He’s stubborn, dangerous in a way that can’t be ignored,” Jonathan says, tone matter-of-fact, not accusatory.

“I know, but I do not want him to go to another hospital. What if it happened where no one could help him?” I ask.

“Watch him, and don’t let your guard down. You are right, we cannot set him loose out there. Keep an eye on him,” Jonathan says.

“I will,” I assure him, my voice quiet but firm, a promise to myself as much as to him.

We step into the sunlight outside the hospital, the day moving forward, relentless and demanding. Behind us, the OR door remains closed, its quiet tension echoing in my mind. Ahead, the hospital stretches endlessly, full of patients who rely on me, staff who must respect me, and a history I am determined to shape, not just as Dr. Braxton, daughter of Dr. Baxter, but as Christine Waltz Baxter, the woman who commands the room, the scalpel, and her own destiny. Jonathan falls into step beside me, silent, a protective shadow, and I feel the faintest thrill of awareness that while the battle is far from over, I am no longer alone. And for the first time in a long time, I am not afraid.

“Christine!” I hear Maureen’s voice. I look around, and there they stand, the two doctors I have not seen since I started here. Dr Maureen and Dr John Waltz. My soon-to-be-ex-in-laws! I know Maureen is going to try to protect her son, Mike.