Chapter Thirty-Four: Permission Slip
The rain had stopped, leaving the city gleaming under a bruised, evening sky. Amaya's apartment felt like a cage. The encounter in the hallway played on a loop behind her eyes—the solid impact, the heat of his hand, the fleeting vulnerability in his gaze before it iced over at the sight of the child's file. The child's file. His child's file.
Her phone rang, slicing through the heavy silence. The screen displayed a name that felt like a relic from another timeline: Richard. He called every Wednesday at 7:00 PM, like a calendar reminder for a standing appointment. She stared at it, the diamond on her left hand catching the light, a cold, hard star.
She answered. "Richard."
"Amaya. You sound tense." His voice was smooth, a well-modulated baritone designed for conference calls. "I'm in the city. Unexpected merger talks wrapped early. I'm at the Warwick. I'd like to have dinner. Le Bernardin, 8:30."
It wasn't a question. It was a scheduling update. A line item added to her day.
"Tonight?" she echoed, her mind still in the hospital hallway, on her knees.
"Is there a problem?" A hint of impatience, carefully masked. "I've cleared my evening."
Cleared his evening. As if her time were a subsidiary he was acquiring. The thought was uncharitable, but it felt true. "No," she said, the word automatic. "No problem. It's just… I'm scheduled at the hospital until seven. I'd need to leave a bit early to make it on time."
"Then leave early. Surely your supervisor understands personal commitments." He said it as if it were the simplest thing in the world, a minor logistical adjustment in the quarterly report of their relationship.
A cold, sick feeling curdled in her stomach. Surely your supervisor understands. Her supervisor, who thought her differentials lacked depth. Her supervisor, who had just watched her scatter files like a clumsy intern. Her supervisor, who was Aris Rowon.
"I… I'll have to ask," she said, hating the slight tremor in her voice.
"Ask?" Richard's tone sharpened a fraction. "Amaya, you're a doctor, not a schoolgirl. You don't ask for a hall pass."
The phrase was a dart, hitting its mark with cruel accuracy. That's exactly what it was. A hall pass. Permission from the stern, disapproving principal. The humiliation of it burned, hot and bright.
"Hospital protocol," she said, her voice going flat, defensive. "For interns. I'll handle it. I'll see you at 8:30."
She hung up before he could say anything else, the phone slipping from her sweaty palm onto the sofa. She pressed the heels of her hands against her closed eyes. God. She had to ask him for permission. To go to dinner with her own fiancé. The cosmic irony was a blunt instrument. The boy she had run from a wedding for was now the gatekeeper to her engagement dinner.
She hated it. Hated the powerless, adolescent feeling it evoked. Hated the idea of standing before his desk, of seeing the inevitable flicker of assessment—or worse, indifference—in his eyes as she made a personal request. He would see it as unprofessional. A disruption. Proof she wasn't fully committed to the work.
But she had to go. Richard was here. Richard was her reality. Her penance. Her future.
The next day at the hospital was an exercise in contained dread. She performed her duties, but her focus was split, her gaze constantly drawn to the clock. 4:00 PM. She would have to ask soon to have time to change.
At 4:15, her courage a thin, fraying thread, she walked to his office. Her knock was firm, betraying none of the turmoil within.
"Enter."
He was at his desk, writing in a chart. He didn't look up. "Dr. Snow. The revised Davis plan is on my desk. I will review it tomorrow."
"Dr. Rowon," she began, her voice thankfully steady. "I need to request permission to leave at 6:00 PM today instead of 7:00. I have a… a prior personal commitment this evening."
His pen stilled. Slowly, he looked up. His expression was neutral, but his eyes were sharp, probing. "A personal commitment."
"Yes." She didn't elaborate. She wouldn't give him the details. It was none of his business.
"This is a supervised clinical rotation, Dr. Snow. Not a flexible work-study program. Your hours are designated for a reason." His tone was cool, factual. "What is the nature of the commitment?"
The question was an invasion. A power play. She felt her cheeks heat. "It's a family engagement." The lie tasted like ash. Richard wasn't family. Not yet.
His gaze held hers for a beat too long. He saw the lie. She knew he did. He was a human lie detector, trained to spot evasions and cognitive distortions. A faint, almost imperceptible line appeared between his brows.
"Your case load today is light," he stated, as if consulting an internal ledger. "The Miller follow-up notes are completed?"
"Yes. Submitted this morning."
"And you've prepared for tomorrow's intake assessment?"
"The literature review and preliminary framework are drafted."
He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. The silence stretched, filled with the hum of his computer and the distant echo of a hospital page. She stood there, feeling exactly like a schoolgirl in the principal's office, her future hinging on his whim.
Finally, he gave a single, curt nod. "Very well. You may leave at 6:00. Ensure your pager is forwarded to the on-call intern. I expect the draft for the intake assessment on my desk by 9:00 AM tomorrow, without compromise to its quality due to your… early departure."
Permission. Granted. With conditions. With a reminder of her place.
"Thank you, Dr. Rowon," she said, the words tight in her throat. She turned to leave, the victory feeling like a defeat.
"Dr. Snow."
She paused, hand on the doorknob, not turning around.
"A word of professional advice," his voice came, low and clear. "In this field, personal commitments have a habit of becoming clinical complications. Ensure yours do not become a liability to your patients, or to your training."
The warning was unmistakable. He knew. Or he suspected. He was telling her to keep her personal life—her life with Richard—separate. Contained. He was drawing a line in the sand of her professionalism, and he was placing himself firmly on the other side of it.
She didn't reply. She simply opened the door and walked out, closing it softly behind her. She leaned against the wall in the empty corridor, her breath coming fast and shallow. She looked at her watch. She had permission. She could go to dinner.
But all she felt was a profound, hollow shame. She had needed his sign-off to live her life. And he had given it, with a look of such clinical disdain that she felt microscopically small.
She pushed off the wall and walked toward the locker room to change. The diamond on her finger felt heavier than ever.