Page 110 of The Love Operation

I watch his fingers thread through mine, like some part of him still wants to hold on, even as he’s about to let go.

He swallows hard, then he says it. “I can’t do this anymore, Cordelia.”

It takes me a second to process what he means. I ease my hand out of his.

My body tenses as dread creeps in. “What do you mean?”

My ears fill with the rush of blood. I feel dizzy. Off-balance. I’m falling through a trapdoor I didn’t know was there, and there’s no bottom.

“I can’t pretend anymore,” he says. “That you and I have something, that I care about you like you care about me. I don’t feel the same. And it kills me to tell you this because I do care about you. Too much.”

But not enough. The words scroll across my mind like a banner headline.

I can’t breathe.

His voice grows muffled, like I’m underwater, like the air has thickened.

Why can’t I hear him?

And then, finally, his words land, sharp and clear, like a bell ringing inside my head: “I don’t want to be with you.”

“Cordelia!”

Pressure at my shoulders. A voice cuts through the memory like a blade, pulling me back into my bedroom.

It takes several seconds to reassemble myself.

I blink. Benedict. Not the hollow-eyed version from the memory—the one in front of me now, full of breath and color and concern.

But the contrast is so sharp, I feel like I’m still back there. Still shattered.

“You okay? You with me?” He’s panicked.

I touch my face. My fingertips come away wet. His face is a study in concern, but I can’t seem to respond in the way he needs me to.

Several seconds pass before my voice returns. It’s hoarse, the emotions of that day clinging to the present like gauze stuck to a dried wound. “No.”

“I’m calling an ambulance.”

This brings me back—fully and harshly. “No! Don’t call an ambulance. I’m fine.”

“You are not fine. You were catatonic, Cord. Just sitting there. Staring at nothing.”

“I’m fine, Benedict.” My voice sharpens. Anger leaks in. Not just at him—but at the memory. At myself for going there. “Why are you in my room?”

He doesn’t back down. “I didn’t want to leave without telling you, and you weren’t answering. I started to get worried. And I was right to.”

“You were not right. You can go.”

“You’re mad at me? And I certainly will not go when I don’t even know if you’re okay.”

I rise to my feet, shoulders squared. “I told you—I’m fine. I’ve got the medical degree, remember? Not you. You can go.”

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on,” he snaps. “But I cannot and will not leave you when you were just unresponsive. Why are you not more concerned? As you said, you’re a doctor.”

I growl. “I know what’s going on. It’s not a medical emergency.”

He pauses, studying me with one eyebrow raised, gauging whether I’m lying. “How long will it take you to get ready for work?” he asks.