Marry My Rival's Uncle for Revenge

I need to be stronger.

Christine’s POV

The second morning of work at West View begins not with triumph, not with the thrill of stepping into the role my father once envisioned for me, but with the weight of a thousand eyes watching, measuring, and waiting for me to stumble. The hospital lobby is already buzzing when I walk in, heels echoing against the polished floors, my bag slung over one shoulder, and a determination tightening my spine. I remind myself that I belong here, that my skills, my years of work, and the trust Professor Stevens placed in me have earned me this position, but there is no mistaking the subtle chill that follows me through the hallways, the whispered conversations that cut off when I approach, the faint smirks curling on lips too polite to speak their doubts aloud.

It does not take long to see where the storm brews most violently. Mike and Emma are standing near the nurses’ station, their heads bent together in conspiratorial closeness, and when their eyes lift and find me, the expression they share is almost gleeful in its disdain. Emma’s smile is sweet enough to fool anyone who doesn’t know her, but I recognise the sharpness beneath it, the way her voice carries just loud enough when she leans toward a junior doctor.

“Some people think they can leapfrog to the top without paying their dues,” Emma says.

Mike doesn’t even bother with subtlety; his glare is blunt, his posture confrontational.

“Nepotism has always been the disease of this place,” Mike says.

I feel the familiar sting, but I refuse to let it show. My face remains calm, professional, every line of my body projecting authority as I walk past them, though I catch the triumphant flicker in their eyes as though they believe they have already won, as though their words could define me. Inside, however, I feel the crack of old wounds opening, the years of struggle, the sacrifices made, the endless hours poured into surgeries no one else dared attempt, yet still I am reduced in their eyes to nothing more than a daughter elevated by her father’s influence.

At the department briefing, the tension grows thicker. I stand at the head of the table, folders neatly arranged, a detailed plan for the month’s rotations and surgical schedules ready to present, but the air is charged with resistance. Mike interrupts with questions that are less about clarification and more about undermining, his phrasing calculated to highlight his seniority.

“Perhaps the new head isn’t familiar with how we’ve successfully managed these cases before. Maybe it would be easier if you shadowed some of us for a while, until you’re more comfortable with the pace here,” She suggests.

“If I remember right, you are not that long here, Doctor Stevens. You only returned recently,” I say. My jaw tightens, but my voice is steady as I continue, outlining my plans with clarity and authority, meeting their interruptions not with anger but with a precision that leaves no room for doubt. I feel the eyes of the others on me, and I know this moment is a test, one I cannot afford to fail. It is then, just as the pressure builds to the point where my composure threatens to fracture, that the door opens and Jonathan steps inside. His presence is like a shift in the atmosphere, invisible yet undeniable, a ripple that draws every gaze in the room. He says nothing at first, simply walks to the side of the table with that quiet authority that demands attention, his eyes unreadable, his expression as controlled as ever, but the weight of him steadies me in a way I cannot explain. For a fleeting second, our eyes meet, and in that silent exchange, I feel my spine straighten, my resolve harden. When Mike tries once more to cut across my presentation, Jonathan’s voice finally enters the fray, low, calm, yet laced with an edge that silences the room.

“Perhaps you should let her finish. Doctor Braxton learned from me. She was my best student and I trust her over you any time,” Jonathan says, not looking at Mike but at me, as though the only person in the room who matters is the woman standing at the head of the table. The shift is immediate, undeniable; even those who doubted before now pause, uncertain, recalibrating their allegiances in the wake of Jonathan’s intervention.

I finish my briefing without another interruption, and though the tension does not vanish, it bends beneath the weight of authority that now seems shared, unspoken but palpable. When the meeting disperses, Emma brushes past me with a muttered, “This isn’t over,” and Mike lingers long enough to shoot me a look that promises war, but their steps are sharper now, their confidence slightly shaken. I gather my papers slowly, refusing to let them see how tightly my hands are gripping the folders, how much effort it takes to keep my breath even. Jonathan remains in the room, leaning casually against the table, his gaze fixed on me with that same unreadable intensity. The silence stretches until I finally meet it, lifting my chin though my heart thunders.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

“Didn’t I? They underestimate you. I don’t,” His reply is simple.

The words strike deeper than I expect, not because they are flattering, but because they feel like the first time someone has said them and meant them without condition. My throat tightens, and I turn away before he can read too much in my expression, before I give away just how much I needed to hear them. I need to be stronger and stand up for myself. I can not allow Mike and Emma to bully me anymore. Jonathan, on the other hand, is another story. I will not mind him bullying me in bed! I blush as I turn around and see Jonathan still staring at me. I am so glad he cannot read my mind.