Trapped by the Cold Doctor

Damien Cole POV.

The sharp scent of antiseptic clung to the air, laced with the faint metallic tang of blood. The operating room was cold and sterile, like everything else in my life lately.

I stepped away from the surgical table, my limbs dragging with exhaustion. The heart transplant had been a success, but it had drained every last drop of energy from me. Six straight hours, every second spent dancing on the edge between life and death. That's what I do to pull people back from the edge. Even when I'm the one hanging off it.

My hands were shaking as I peeled off my gloves. The adrenaline was still buzzing in my veins, refusing to let me rest. I wanted to feel triumphant. Relief. But lately, the victories have felt hollow.

I tossed the gloves and scrubs into the bin and splashed cold water onto my face. The shock of it stung, but it was the only thing that felt real. Gripping the sides of the sink, I leaned in and stared at my reflection.

The man in the mirror barely looked like me anymore.

Sunken eyes, dull and empty. A few days' worth of stubble clinging to a jaw I used to keep meticulously clean-shaven. Shadows etched themselves into my skin like bruises, not just from fatigue but from everything else. Grief and Guilt. The kind of sorrow that doesn't bleed out when you cut yourself open. The kind that sits in your chest like a ticking bomb, and no stethoscope could ever detect.

I looked at myself and wondered how long it had been since I'd really felt anything that wasn't clinical or numbing. Since I'd smiled for a reason other than protocol.

With a sigh, I reached for a paper towel and wiped my face dry, the scent of antiseptic still clinging to my skin like a second layer. My body ached as I walked slowly to my office, each step dragging with the weight of hours spent in the OR. The moment I stepped in, I collapsed into my leather chair not like a man who had worked all day, but like someone carrying

years of exhaustion on his back.

I reached for my phone.

I had silenced it before the surgery, not wanting any distractions especially if the call came from the one person who could unravel me with a single word.

"Emily."

My daughter. My reason for breathing. My only light in a life that had grown unbearably dark.

Two missed calls.

My heart lurched.

Not Emily but her school.

Shit.

I sat upright and immediately redialed, my fingers trembling slightly. The ringing felt like thunder in my ears, each tone stretching the tightness in my chest.

"Hello, Mr. Damien Cole," a warm, polite voice answered on the third ring. "This is Miss Daniya speaking from Emily's school."

I froze.

My grip on the phone tightened, the air suddenly heavier in my lungs.

"Is everything okay?" I asked the question roughly and