Page 16 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

I turn my head to stare out the window, suddenly not wanting to meet his eyes while I admit this. “I saw a raccoon. I tried to take the metal stairs too quickly and fell.”

I turn back to see his reaction. He doesn’t laugh or even crack a smile. Just nods like this is a perfectly reasonable explanation. “Doctor Thorne noted in his report that you walked on this for several hours afterwards.” It’s not a question; it’s a statement with a layer of judgement underneath it.

I shrug, pretending it was nothing, even though my heart is racing. Something about him makes me want to show him that I’m tough, not some fragile celebrity who falls apart over a little injury. “Yeah, it was fine. I had to work.”

He shakes his head, and I hear him mutter under his breath, “One of those.”

My spine stiffens. “A hardworking patient?” I say, unable to keep the smirk off my face.

His eyes meet mine, and I realize I’ve called him out. But instead of looking embarrassed or flustered, he just stares me down with cold blue eyes, his expression unchanging. The intensity of his gaze makes my stomach shrivel into a tight knot.

I look away first. Point to him.

“What happened to your toe?” he asks.

My surprise must show on my face because it’s not something I’ve mentioned to anyone. The luggage incident was a stupid mistake. I’ve been fine, or so I thought, until I see the bruise under the nail.

“Just an argument with my luggage.”

His eyebrows pinch in confusion, nostrils flaring slightly, like he’s trying to work out whether I’m joking or being serious. I expect him to demand more details, to interrogate me about exactly how I managed to injure myself twice in one week.

Instead, he straightens up, grabs the clipboard, putting distance between us again. “It’s not broken, based on what I saw on the X-ray. But it’s badly bruised. You’re lucky you didn’t fracture that too, considering you’ve been walking on it.”

“So, what’s the plan?” I ask, trying to sound businesslike. “A boot? Crutches? I can work with that.”

But I’m imagining Dain’s face when I show up on set in a boot. Or worse, hobbling around on crutches. He was already looking for reasons to doubt me after I stumbled over those lines. Now I’m showing up injured, potentially slowing down production...

There’s always someone waiting to fill your spot.

He stares at me for a long moment, and I can’t read his expression. It’s somewhere between disbelief and resignation, like he’s seen this movie before and knows exactly how it ends.

“Miss Morgan,” he says slowly. “You have a fractured fibula. That means non-weight bearing for at least six weeks, possibly longer, depending on how well it heals. You’ll need surgery, a cast, crutches, and follow-up appointments.”

The words hit me. Surgery, six weeks, non-weight bearing.

Suddenly, the room feels too small.

“Surgery? Six weeks?” I repeat. “I can’t… I have a job. I signed a contract. I’m supposed to host this show for the next eight weeks.”

“Then you’ll need to discuss accommodations with your employer.” His tone is matter-of-fact, like this is simple, like he hasn’t just blown up my entire life. “Because, medically speaking, you cannot continue working in your current capacity.”

“You don’t understand—”

“I understand perfectly,” he interrupts. “I understand that you ignored severe pain for hours and continued to walk on a broken bone, likely making the injury worse. I understand that you’re more concerned about a television show than your long-term health. And I understand that if you continue down this path, you risk complications that could affect your mobility permanently.”

I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because he’s right. But that doesn’t change the fact that if I don’t show up tomorrow, I’m done. Dain will replace me. The network will say I’m unreliable, and I’ll lose my contract. And not only that, but networks and directors talk, so I’ll lose future opportunities.

“How long do I need to stay here?”

“We’ll prep you for surgery and then keep you overnight. Discharge you in the morning with crutches and pain medication. You’ll need a follow-up appointment in a week.”

Surgery. Overnight. I’ll call my manager and figure out a way to make this work. Delay filming until the afternoon. If I leave hospital in the morning, I have a chance. That makes it easier to accept what he’s saying.

“Okay.”

“I’ll have the nurse get you ready for surgery.”

He turns to leave, and I realize I don’t even know his name. “What’s your name?”