Page 65 of The Love Operation

I already know the answer. I’ve been tracking the patterns for months. I’ve outlined this issue in my formal presentation, but that’s still a few months away, and I won’t miss this opportunity to exhibit my expertise.

“It’s primarily an allocation issue,” I say, keeping my voice even. “High-demand specialties are competing for peak-hour OR slots, and we’re underutilizing off-peak hours. We need to reassess our block scheduling model. If we adjust assignments based on current case duration rather than historic trends, we can cut turnover times and increase volume without burning out the system.”

A few people nod.

I let the moment settle, then add, “We also need to distribute cases more equitably.”

I don’t let my eyes linger on Isaac. I don’t avoid him entirely either. This is a delicate dance, one we’ve been dancing beautifully for the past few weeks.

“The same surgeons are getting priority scheduling,” I continue. “And there’s growing resentment among providers who feel like they’re reduced to taking the leftovers. If we’re not careful, we’re going to start losing quality surgeons—they’ll take jobs at smaller hospitals where they can build a caseload without being stuck in a secondary rotation.”

I feel Isaac’s gaze on me, but I keep my focus hopping from one person to the next. As far as everyone is concerned, I am an equal opportunist in the OR as well as in this room.

Then, of course, Dr. Shephard has to speak up. “Dr. Wren, aren’t you one of the surgeons who benefits most from these ‘priority slots’?” His tone is smooth but loaded. A carefully sharpened weapon, wrapped in false innocence.

I turn to the room, not him. I won’t let him bait me. “As a surgeon, my priority is always my patients first and the hospital second,” I say. “But as chief, my responsibility would shift—to ensure all patients receive the highest quality of care, which means optimizing how we allocate resources.” I pause just long enough for the words to settle, then add, “I have no problem sharing the OR time I receive if that’s what’s needed to create a stronger, more efficient system. The goal is better outcomes, not personal benefit.”

A murmur of approval ripples through the room. If they’re keeping score, I just earned some points.

Shephard doesn’t say anything else, and I smile inwardly.

He won’t push. He’s status quo, resistant to change, threatened by progress . . . and his female colleagues. He wouldn’t say it outright. Hell, he’d probably deny it if asked. But I’ve seen it in his actions. When he speaks, he always addresses the men, as if the women don’t matter, and I don’t think he’d ever call one of his male colleagues sweetie.

“Dr. Wren makes an excellent point,” Dr. Tenpenny says, and I remind myself that I have friends in here. “Surgical efficiency isn’t just about available rooms—it’s about how we’re using them. Robotics and case duration data should absolutely be part of the discussion.”

“Good thing we have a strong pool of candidates for chief who are up to the task,” Linda Raines, head of physician affairs, says, looking at me pointedly.

I like that look. It’s the look of favor.

I keep my reaction measured, even as my name settles into the space.

A few seats down, Shephard shifts in his seat, nearly scowling. Diagonally across the table, Cho, who doesn’t have Shephard’s ego, nods, a small smile on his face. He appreciates good ideas no matter where they come from.

If it isn’t me, please, God, let it be him: Dr. Minho Cho (fifties), general surgeon, the third chief candidate.

Chief identifying characteristics: Steady (the staff call him “the Human Metronome”). Smart. Utterly unflappable. The kind of person whose blood pressure doesn’t change even when the hospital’s on fire. Universally respected, especially in high-acuity settings. Never one to brag, but somehow always in the running. His OR playlist is all string quartets, and it tracks.

Physical exam: Slender, sharp-featured Korean male. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Crisp scrubs with zero wrinkles. Glasses. Usually seen reviewing labs with a black pen in hand.

Impression: Calm and competent to the core. He’d never stab you in the back—but he might outmaneuver you with principled grace. Though he does frequently mutter in Korean, which—let’s be honest—probably translates to buffoons, all of you.

“I agree,” Dr. Cho says. And that’s all he needs to say.

Then voices in the room shift. The conversation moves forward. Finally, the sound of chairs scraping against the floor signals the end of the meeting. It’s been a good one, despite the personal and professional tension.

I gather my notes, standing just as a voice calls out—

“Dr. Wren.”

I school my face into something neutral before turning. “Yes?”

Isaac holds my gaze, all professional. But I feel it like a live wire. Him so bold, everyone else so unknowing. It’s heightened the appeal. I thought our secret relationship would be fraught with stress and undesirable tension, but it’s electric. I can’t say I hate it.

“When you get a chance, would you mind dropping by my office? I’d like to meet with you, Shephard, and Cho separately about the town hall.”

His delivery is impeccable. I almost believe we weren’t in bed together this morning.

If anyone’s paying close attention, they might wonder why he’s asking now, when Shephard and Cho have already left the conference room. But I remind myself—they have no reason to wonder. This is a normal request. And no one can hear or feel the ungodly things this exchange does to my body.