The surgeon glanced at the unconscious patient and suddenly recoiled. “Call the policenow!”
London, shrouded in thick fog, breathed in the silent, heavy air, broken only by the distant wail of ambulance sirens. Within the walls of the city hospital, where every corridor echoed with unseen suffering, a storm raged, rivalling the downpour outside. The night wasnt just tenseit teetered on the edge of explosion, as though fate itself had decided to test those who stood guard over life.
In the operating theatre, bathed in the cold, unforgiving light of surgical lamps, Dr. Edward Whitmorea surgeon with twenty years of experience, a man whose hands had saved hundreds, if not thousandscontinued his battle. Three hours in, he stood unwavering at the operating table, his movements precise as clockwork, his focus unbreakable. Fatigue weighed on him like a leaden cloak, but he knew weakness was a luxury he couldnt afford. Every decision, every motion, held the weight of gold. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist, never breaking rhythm. Beside him, Nurse Emilyyoung, composed, eyes alight with quiet determinationhanded him instruments as though passing not steel, but hope itself.
“Sutures,” Whitmore murmured, his voice low but firm, a command not just to his team but to fate itself: *Dont give in.*
The operation neared its end. A few more moments, and the patient would be safe. But thenas if reality itself had decided to interferethe doors burst open. The head nurse stood there, face twisted with panic, breath ragged.
“Dr. Whitmore! Emergency! Unconscious woman, multiple contusions, suspected internal bleeding!”
He didnt hesitate. “Finish here,” he ordered his assistant, stripping off his gloves. “Emily, with me!”
Chaos ruled the emergency wardshouts, footsteps, the clatter of metal, the sharp scent of antiseptic. On a gurney lay a woman in her thirties, pale as death, her skin mottled with bruises as though someone had painted her body in pain. Whitmore approached like a soldier stepping onto a battlefield. His trained eyes scanned her, issuing orders with icy precision.
“Prep for laparotomy! Blood type, IV, get anaesthesianow!”
“Who brought her in?” he asked the duty nurse, never looking away from the patient.
“Her husband,” she replied. “Said she fell down the stairs.”
Whitmore scoffed silently. Stairs didnt leave marks like these. His gaze traced her body like a scannerold bruises, barely healed fractures, the telltale breaks of ribs. And then he saw them: symmetrical burns on her wrists. Deliberate. Methodical. Then, faint scars on her abdomennot accidental cuts. *Torture marks.*
Thirty minutes later, she was on the table. Whitmore worked like a machine, yet with a healers soul. And thenhis hand stilled. More scars. Not just wounds. *Words.* Carved or burned into her skin. As if someone had tried to erase her identity.
“Emily,” he said quietly, “once were done, find the husband. Keep him in reception. And call the police. Quietly.”
“You think?”
“Thinkings for detectives,” he cut in. “But these injuries arent from a fall. Theyre not even recent. This is violence. Systematic. Calculated.”
An hour later, the womans heart steadied. Her life was saved. But her soul? That would take longer.
Exhaustion hit Whitmore like a truck as he stepped out, only to be met by a young police sergeant, notebook in hand.
“DI Collins is en route,” the sergeant said. “What can you tell me?”
Whitmore listed it all: internal bleeding, ruptured spleen, burns, cuts, old fractures. “This wasnt a fall. This was torment. Someones been destroying her for years. And Id bet my licence its the man whos supposed to protect her.”
Minutes later, DI Collins arrivedsharp-eyed, as though he could spot a lie before it was spoken. “Do you know the victim?”
“First time seeing her,” Whitmore said. “But if we hadnt acted, she wouldnt have seen morning. Her bodys a map of suffering. Every scara testament to cruelty.”
Collins nodded and headed to reception, Whitmore followingnot out of curiosity, but because he was part of this now.
There, a well-dressed man pacedblond, polished, grey jumper. His face wore concern, but his eyes were cold.
“Hows my wife? Is Lucy alright?”
“Lucy Eleanor Harwood?” Collins clarified. “Youre her husband, James?”
“Yes! Tell me whats happening!”
“Shes in critical condition,” Whitmore said flatly. “How exactly did she fall?”
“Tripped on the stairs,” James said, too quickly. “I was in the kitchen, heard a crashfound her unconscious.”
“Brought her straight here?”
“Of course! You think Id leave her?”
Whitmore watched him. The perfect husbandexcept for the control in his gaze. The *ownership.*
“Mr. Harwood,” Collins said firmly, “your wife has old injuries. Burns, cuts, fractures. Care to explain?”
James froze. Then snapped: “Lucys clumsy! Always burning herself cooking!”
“Cooking burns *both wrists* identically?” Whitmore countered. “And the scars on her stomachkitchen mishaps too?”
James paled. “Are you *accusing* me? My wifes in hospital, and youre harassing me!”
“No ones accusing,” Collins said calmly. “But we will investigate.”
Then Emily appeared. “Doctorshes awake. Asking for her husband.”
James lunged forward. “I need to see her!”
“Not possible,” Whitmore said firmly. “Family only. And DI Collinsyoull want to speak with her. The truths in her words.”
In ICU, Lucy lay fragile, tubes weaving around her. She whispered, “Is James here?”
“Hes outside,” Whitmore said. “How are you feeling?”
“Hurts Did I fall?”
Collins introduced himself. “Lucy, do you remember how you were injured?”
She hesitated. “I slipped on the stairs. James always says I should be more careful”
“The burns on your wriststhose from cooking?”
Fear flashed in her eyes. “IIm careless. I burn myself.”
“Lucy,” Whitmore said gently, “weve seen your injuries. These werent accidents. Someone hurt you. We can help. But you must tell the truth.”
She looked away. Tears fell. “If I do itll be worse.”
“Has he threatened you?” Collins asked softly.
Silence. More tears.
“We can protect you,” Collins said. “But we need your statement. Or when you leave itll happen again.”
“Hes not always like this” she whispered. “Sometimes hes kind. Then something *snaps.*”
“How long?”
“A year Since I lost my job. He said now I belonged to him. Had to be perfect.”
The door flew open. James stormed in. “Lucy! Ive been worried sick!”
Collins blocked him. “Out. Now.”
“By what right? Im her husband!”
“By law,” Collins said coldly. “And Ive reason to believe her injuries are criminal.”
James paled. Then snarled: “What lies have you told? Youll regret this!”
Lucy met his gazenot with love. *Terror.* “I cant anymore, James Im *scared* of you. Every nightwill it be my husband or a monster? You said no one would believe me that I was nothing without you”
James lunged. Collins twisted his arm, cuffing him. “Youre under arrest for grievous bodily harm. You have the right to remain silent.”
As he was dragged away, Lucy sobbednot in pain, but *relief.* “Thank you” she whispered. “Id forgotten what safety felt like.”
Whitmore touched her shoulder. “You did the brave thing. Now rest.”
“But what after? Ive nowhere”
“There are shelters. Counsellors, lawyers, safe houses. Youre not alone.”
“What if he comes back?”
“With your statement and our evidence? Hell be gone a long time. And a restraining order will keep him away.”
A week later, Whitmore found an older woman at Lucys bedsideher mother. They held hands. And for the first time in years, Lucy smiled.
“Doctor, this is Mum. Shes taking me home.”
“Im glad,” Whitmore said. “Youve woken from a nightmare.”
“You saved my daughter twice,” her mother said. “From death, and from hell.”
“I just looked deeper,” he replied. “Sometimes thats all it takesto see what others ignore.”
That night, under a starlit sky, Whitmore wondered: *How
