Private Patient - 2 | Jack Abbot
Summary : You spoil Jack's world. He refuses to let you fall apart.
Character: Jack Abbot x rich wife!reader
Words Count: 9,802
Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , -
More Jack Abbot stories : 2nd Masterlist
A/N: I’m shocked!!! I didn’t expect you all to love Private Patient this much. As a token of my gratitude, here’s Chapter 2. I hope you enjoy it.
Ooh and this story is in the same timeline with Robby’s story You’ve Found Me Anyway
The morning your bed wasn’t cold
The morning was different. For the first time in years, the crushing weight in your chest had vanished, replaced by a stillness you hadn’t known was possible. There was no racing pulse, no mental checklist of the day’s liabilities. Just quiet.
It took a moment to realize the source of the heat was Jack.
His arm was draped loosely across your waist, a steady, grounding weight that felt like it had been there for a lifetime. He was breathing slow and deep, completely at ease in a way that made your own defenses crumble. You stayed still, watching the way the dawn light caught the rough stubble on his jaw. You didn't want to move; you didn't want this to be a one-time residency.
He shifted, his dark eyes opening halfway before settling on you with a quiet intensity. “You’re awake.”
“You snore,” you murmured, your voice still thick with sleep.
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“Barely,” he countered, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.
The air between you felt thick, charged with a gravity that went beyond the physical. You turned onto your side, propping your head up on one hand. “I slept well. I usually don't.”
“I can tell,” Jack said, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes again.
The atmosphere shifted, turning a little more serious. “It would be annoying,” you said softly, “if this only happened once.”
Jack looked at you properly then, fully awake, his focus narrowing. “It doesn’t have to,” he said. He let the words hang there, heavy with implication. “Depends on how much effort you’re willing to put in.”
You narrowed your eyes, though there was no real bite in the look. “That sounds expensive. I’ve already donated enough to your hospital.”
“To the hospital,” he corrected, his voice dropping an octave. “Not to me.”
You let out a short, breathless laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”
“That’s what I’ve been told.” He sat up, the sheets pooling at his waist as he glanced at the clock. “I’m off today.”
“Lucky me.” You reached for your phone immediately, the "CEO" stirring back to life.
Jack watched your fingers fly across the screen. “What are you doing?”
“Telling Greg to book a restaurant.”
He blinked, then glanced at the time again. “It’s nine in the morning.”
“By the time we get there, it’ll be lunch.” You didn’t even look up.
There was a long, expectant silence. Jack leaned back against the headboard, watching the clinical efficiency with which you handled your life. “Where are we going?”
“New York.”
He stared at you, searching your face to see if this was some high-level tease. You were already typing the flight coordinates.
“…You’re serious,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.
You glanced at him over the edge of the phone, a small, knowing smile tugging at your mouth. “Very.”
******
A few hours later, Jack was sitting in a quiet, high-end restaurant in New York, still trying to process how quickly the day had shifted. One moment he was in bed, half asleep. The next, he was here, a plate set in front of him by a chef he vaguely recognized from somewhere.
He looked at you across the table. You seemed completely at ease, like this was just another normal decision.
His phone buzzed.
Shen: ‘didn’t you complain about gas prices yesterday? why are you in new york at some fancy restaurant? what did you even do?’
Jack glanced at the message, then typed back, ‘I just warmed up my patient’s bed.’
The reply came almost instantly.
Shen: ‘yeah right. billionaire bed.’
Jack looked at the screen for a second, then locked his phone.
“Yup,” he said under his breath. He didn’t bother denying it. Some things weren’t worth arguing.
And honestly, he wasn’t about to say no to the privilege.
**********
The time you walked into Jack’s world again
By the time Jack got back on shift, the teasing had already started.
Dana didn’t even look up from her chart. “So. New York.”
Robby leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Fancy restaurant. Celebrity chef. That you?”
Jack put his stethoscope around his neck, “I ate.”
“That’s all you’re going with?” Dana asked.
“That’s all that matters.”
Robby let out a low laugh. “Didn’t even deny it.”
Jack didn’t. There wasn’t a point. He had enjoyed it. All of it.
“I heard she’s here,” Robby added, glancing toward the entrance. “That’s why I’m still around.”
“Yeah,” Dana said. “She wants to check the renovation.”
Robby nodded toward the front. “The director practically ran downstairs when security spotted her car. Hard to miss a black Rolls-Royce parked outside.”
*****
You hadn’t planned to stay long.
Just a quick visit. Check the progress, say hi, then back to the company.
But the moment you stepped inside, the hospital director was already there, greeting you like he had been waiting.
“Thank you for your donation,” he said, almost breathless. “It’s made a huge difference. The new air conditioning, the upgraded system… we couldn’t have done it without you.”
You gave a small, polite nod. “You helped me when I needed it. I’m just returning the favor.”
He hesitated. “That kind of support… it’s worth millions.”
You didn’t react. “It’s nothing.”
The director blinked, clearly not expecting that answer. Millions, and you called it nothing.
You shifted slightly, already moving on. “Excuse me. I’d like to see the E.R before I head back to the office.”
“Yes. Of course,” he said quickly, stepping aside.
You stepped further into the Pitt, slowing down just enough to take everything in. Nurses moved quickly between beds, voices overlapping, monitors beeping in uneven rhythm. It wasn’t controlled the way your world was. It was louder. Messier. But it worked.
Your gaze shifted across the room until it landed on Jack.
He was at the table, focused on a chart. One hand braced against the surface, posture relaxed but steady. He looked up like he felt you there.
You walked toward him.
“I thought I was an annoying patient,” you said as you stopped beside him. “Turns out there are much worse.”
Jack glanced past you briefly, then back. “Welcome to the Pitt. Especially night shift. It gets wilder.”
You let out a quiet breath. “Every day I deal with childish business partners. I almost lost my patience. How do you handle this?”
“Therapy,” he said. “And I like the adrenaline. I spend some of my time with a SWAT team.”
You blinked. “What?”
Dana, passing by, didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah. He spends his day off getting shot at.”
You hummed, like it was just another detail. “So… you’re good with guns? That’s great. I got an invitation from the King of the U.K. for a hunting week.”
Dana froze for a second. Jack looked at you, brows lifting slightly. Did you just mention the king like he was an old acquaintance?
“No,” he said. “That’s not the same thing.”
Before he could say more, Robby stepped in, clearly having waited for the moment. “Since you’re here,” he said, half-grinning, “do you want to give us orders? You did fund half of this place.”
You tilted your head slightly, almost tempted. Then you shook it. “I could. But I won’t. I’d ruin the system you’ve built. And I don’t feel like making more work for my doctor.”
Jack gave a small nod. “That's an improvement.”
Robby chuckled under his breath.
You stepped a little closer, eyes dropping briefly to his name tag. “Dr. Robby…”
“Yeah?” he said.
A small pause, then your expression shifted with recognition. “That’s why your name sounds familiar. You’re the reason my father’s cardiologist borrowed our private jet.”
Robby blinked. “What?”
“My company sponsored her seminar,” you continued. “She left right after her talk. Skipped the Q and A.”
Robby ran a hand over the back of his neck. “She mentioned something about that. Did it… mess things up?”
You shook your head lightly. “No. Everything was handled. She said someone close to her needed help.”
Robby’s expression softened. “Yeah. That sounds like her.”
“Well,” you said simply, “it worked out. For both sides.”
“Thank you,” he said, a little more sincerely now, before stepping away.
You glanced back at Jack. “Small world.”
“Thanks to your jet, he’s doing better,” Jack said. “He’s not alone anymore.”
You looked at him for a second. “That sounds poetic.”
“I heard it somewhere.”
You studied him, then said, “You should come to my office sometime. Different kind of chaos. You might understand why I’m stressed.”
Jack met your gaze, calm as ever. “I don’t need to see it to know you don’t slow down.”
A small pause.
“But I’ll come anyway.”
That landed.
You gave a faint smile, stepping back. “Good.”
Jack added, almost casually, “Robby’s been the main topic for a while. Someone flying across the world like that.”
You shrugged. “From what I hear, he needed it.”
Then your eyes flicked back to Jack. “You have access too, you know.” You leaned in, pressing a brief kiss to his cheek, before turning and walking away.
Dana stared after you for a second, then slowly turned to Jack. “Did you hear that, Jack?”
Jack didn’t move right away. His hand rested on the table, eyes still on the direction you’d walked out.
“Yeah,” he said.
Dana crossed her arms. “And?”
Jack finally looked back at her, calm as ever. “I’m not using a jet for groceries.”
*******
The time you spoiled The Pitt (again)
The food arrived without warning. There was no formal announcement, no corporate explanation—just a mountain of boxes. Real ones. They were still radiating heat, the scent of charcoal and rosemary cutting through the sterile, metallic air of the hospital.
Mateo opened the first container and froze, the steam hitting his face. He let out a long, shaky breath. “God bless that woman,” he muttered, reaching for a portion of prime rib with the reverence of a man discovering gold. “I haven’t eaten a meal like this on a Tuesday in years.”
The ER staff didn't hesitate. They descended like a tactical unit, grabbing high-protein fuel between the chaos of incoming patients. Across the hall, a nurse from Radiology slowed down, her eyes widening at the spread.
“Is that… actual steak?” she whispered.
Mateo didn’t even look up from his container. “No. It’s oxygen. Keep walking.”
It didn’t stop with the food. A week later, the ER looked different. A new rest suite had been installed—not a lumpy chair in a dark corner with a moth-eaten blanket, but a sanctuary. It was soundproofed, temperature-controlled, and filled with clean beds and soft, recessed lighting. It was a space designed for doctors and nurses to actually recover.
There was no name attached to the donation. No brass plaque. But in the Pitt, everyone knew whose signature was on the check.
Then came the cafeteria. The mystery "vendor" had upgraded everything. The coffee no longer tasted like burnt rubber, and fresh pastries appeared every morning. Santos stood at the counter one afternoon, holding a ceramic cup and staring at it as if it might vanish.
“This is dangerous,” she said, inhaling the rich aroma. “I might never leave this department.”
Jack noticed. He noticed every single detail. But he didn't say anything, not even when the silence in the ER became a little more comfortable. Not until he walked into his own office one night and stopped dead.
The chair was new—ergonomic, high-tech, and perfectly fitted. The desk adjusted with a silent, expensive hum, and the lighting had been repositioned exactly where it needed to be to reduce eye strain. He stood there for a long minute, taking in the quiet luxury of it.
Dana leaned against the doorframe, watching him. “You mentioned your back once,” she noted.
Jack didn’t look at her. “I didn’t ask for this.”
She said with a soft smile. “You don’t have to.”
The rest of the hospital caught on quickly. The tension grew between floors. Surgery started complaining to the Chief; Radiology began asking pointed questions about budget allocations. Admin stopped pretending they were in the dark.
“Why does the ER get everything?” someone muttered loudly in the hallway as a new shipment of high-grade scrubs arrived.
“Because we survive the worst,” Mateo shot back, passing by with a grin. “And we have better friends than you.”
Later that night, the department was uncharacteristically still. Ellis leaned against the nurse’s station, watching Jack’s back.
“I pray that Dr. Abbott marries her,” she said under her breath, her voice full of sincere hope.
Shen didn't even look up from his charts, but he immediately held out a fist. “Amen to that.”
They bumped fists in a silent pact. Jack, halfway to his door, stopped just long enough for the words to register. He didn't turn around to acknowledge them, but the corner of his mouth quivered in the shadows.
“I’m still trying to get her to eat a vegetable that isn't a garnish,” he muttered to the empty hallway.
Mateo snorted from across the room, and Shen just shook his head.
“Man’s fighting the real battle,” Shen whispered. “Godspeed, Abbott.”
******
The time you handled the Hacker
You didn’t expect to feel the tension the moment you stepped into the Pitt, but the air was thick with it. Phones were ringing incessantly, and the usual hum of the department had sharpened into a controlled panic. People were moving fast, their faces tight with a stress that had nothing to do with medicine.
“What’s going on?” you asked, already scanning the room with a practiced, analytical eye.
“Cyberattack,” Robby said, his fingers flying across a station that refused to respond. He didn't even look up.
Jack was a few feet away, pacing with a phone pressed to his ear. He glanced at you as you approached, his expression grim. “System’s locked. We’re switching to manual charting, but it’s a mess. They’re asking for a ransom.”
You blinked, your voice dropping into a low, dangerous calm. “A hospital? They’re hitting a hospital?”
“Patient records, emails, surgical histories,” Jack said, his jaw tight. “They’re threatening to sell the entire database if we don't pay by the hour.”
You exhaled slowly, the gears already turning. You didn't ask for permission. You just pulled out your phone and dialed. “Greg. Get our IT security team on this. Now.”
Jack lowered his phone, his brow furrowing as he studied you. “Why are we calling your office, exactly?”
You didn't look at him, your focus already on the next move. “Because we’ve dealt with this before. And since I’ve invested heavily in this facility, that makes this my problem, too.”
Jack studied you for a long beat, the weight of the situation shifting. He saw the shift in your posture—the way you stepped into a crisis not as a visitor, but as a commander. “…Thank you,” he said, his voice quieter, more private.
You glanced at him, the hardness in your expression softening just enough to press a quick, reassuring kiss to his cheek. “You’re welcome.”
It didn’t take long. Ten minutes later, your phone vibrated.
“Yeah?” you answered. You listened for a moment, your expression never wavering. “Oh. You found them already?” Another pause. “Drone is ready? Good.”
Robby slowly turned his head toward you, his eyes wide. You lowered the phone slightly, looking between him and Jack as if you were asking about the weather.
“Do you want them neutralized?”
The silence that followed was absolute.
“…Who?” Robby asked, his voice cracking slightly.
“The hackers,” you said, sounding almost confused by the question. “We have their physical location. It’s an apartment complex three towns over.”
Jack stared at you, his medical mind trying to reconcile the woman he knew with the cold efficiency of the question. “What exactly do you mean by ‘neutralized’?”
On the other end of the line, Greg’s voice was audible in the quiet room—calm, precise, and chillingly ready. “Target confirmed. Awaiting instruction.”
You tilted your head, your voice dropping to a lethal chill. “They’re using patient data. They’re holding sick and vulnerable people hostage for a paycheck.” You gave a small, elegant shrug. “I don’t like that. I don't like it at all.”
Robby looked at Jack, his face pale. “I don’t think we need to go that far—”
“Wait—hold on!” Dana’s voice cut in from across the room. She was holding a headset to her ear, a look of shock on her face. “IT says the encryption is breaking. The system’s coming back up. They’re regaining control.”
A beat of heavy silence followed. Jack didn’t take his eyes off you, his gaze searching yours. “No casualties,” he said firmly.
You held his stare for a second, measuring the line he wouldn't cross. Then, you nodded.
“Alright,” you said into the phone. “Stand down. Secure the data, then send the GPS coordinates and the identity logs to the police instead.” You paused. “And make sure the police have enough to make it a very loud arrest.”
“Tsked.” Greg clicked his tongue. “Understood. Aborting the strike.”
You hung up and slipped the phone into your bag as if you’d just finished a routine business call. Around you, the monitors flickered back to life. The rhythmic beeping of stabilized heart monitors returned, and the noise of the Pitt smoothed out into its normal, frantic rhythm.
You glanced at the nearest screen, then at the hospital director who had just rushed in. “Seems like it’s handled.”
The director nodded, breathless and clearly struggling to keep up with the pace of the last five minutes. “Yes… yes, it appears so.”
“You should seriously upgrade your IT security,” you added, your tone perfectly professional. “My team left a list of the vulnerabilities they found while they were in your system.”
“…We will. Immediately.”
For a moment, no one said anything. It wasn't because they didn't have questions—it was because they didn't even know where to start. Jack exhaled quietly, running a hand over his face. In his world, problems meant triage, protocols, and slow, steady procedures. In yours, problems simply disappeared before they could escalate.
He looked at you again, seeing something he hadn't fully grasped before. You weren't just powerful; you were dangerous. You were a woman who moved pieces on a board most people didn't even know existed.
Santos didn’t even look up from the chart she was typing, her fingers moving with renewed speed. “Badass,” she muttered under her breath, accepting the new reality as an established fact.
Robby leaned in closer to Jack, his voice dropping to a frantic whisper. “Man, whatever you do… don’t ever get on her bad side.”
Jack shifted, folding his arms across his chest. He watched you navigate the room, his gaze fixed on you with a mixture of pride and a deep, settled understanding.
“Don't worry, Robby,” Jack said, his voice steady and warm. “I’m always on her good side.
*******
The time the ER came first
The charity event was everything it was supposed to be: polished, controlled, and obscenely expensive. Jack stood beside you, one hand resting loosely at the small of your back, listening more than speaking. He didn’t belong in a room full of venture capitalists and socialites, and somehow, that only made him stand out more.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it once, his eyes narrowing into that sharp, clinical focus you knew so well.
"ER," he said.
You didn’t hesitate. "Go."
He looked at you, searching your face to be sure. You tilted your head slightly, a small, knowing smirk playing on your lips. "They need you, Jack. And I don’t date a doctor who ignores his patients."
That was all the permission he needed. He leaned in just enough to press a brief, lingering kiss to your temple before turning and disappearing into the crowd without another word.
The Pitt was a symphony of chaos until the sliding glass doors hissed open.
For a second, the room went quiet. It wasn't a total silence, just a collective pause as the staff realized who had just walked onto the floor. Jack stepped through the doors still in his midnight-blue suit, the tailored lines of the fabric looking impossibly sharp against the sterile, white-tiled background.
"What’s the status?" he asked, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade.
Shen blinked, momentarily stunned as he looked Jack up and down. "Where the hell did you come from? A Bond movie?"
"Charity gala," Jack muttered, already moving toward the trauma bay.
Ellis answered immediately, her professional rhythm kicking in. "Male, mid-thirties. Penetrating trauma, left abdomen. Hypotensive. FAST exam is positive."
Jack was at the bedside in seconds, his hands moving with practiced ease even as he stood there in silk and wool. "Vitals?"
"BP eighty over fifty. Heart rate one-thirty," she said.
He nodded once, his gaze fixed on the monitor. "He’s bleeding internally. We don’t have time to wait for a CT."
He began peeling off his suit jacket, tossing it toward an empty chair with a flick of his wrist. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled the sleeves up past his elbows, revealing the toned, scarred forearms of a man who spent his life in the trenches. A nurse stepped in, whisking the jacket away, while another tied a surgical mask into place over his face.
"Let’s move," Jack commanded. "Prep for an exploratory lap. Type and cross, start the blood."
Mateo, prepping the tray, muttered under his breath, "I bet that shirt costs more than my annual salary."
Jack didn’t even look at him as he snapped on his gloves. "Then let’s not ruin it, Mateo. Scalpel."
They moved fast. There was no hesitation, no wasted motion. Jack guided the team through the hemorrhage control, his voice staying level and rhythmic as he clamped and repaired. It was a high-stakes dance, and Jack was the lead.
"Pressure’s stabilizing," Garcia announced, her voice filled with relief.
"Good. Keep it there."
Minutes stretched, then finally settled into a steady hum. The bleeding stopped. The patient held.
"He’s stable," Garcia confirmed.
Jack stepped back from the table, pulling off his gloves with a sharp snap. "Nice work, everyone. Get him up to the ICU."
By the time he walked out of the scrub room, his sleeves were rolled down and his suit jacket was back in place. He looked like he’d just stepped off a yacht, not out of a bloody abdomen.
"I have to go," he said, heading toward the exit. "Can’t disappoint my date."
Shen huffed, shaking his head as he watched him go. "Yeah, go. Before she decides to upgrade another department out of boredom."
Outside, the night air was cool and quiet. And there it was, the black Rolls-Royce, idling at the curb like it had been part of the pavement the whole time. Jack walked up, opened the heavy door, and paused.
You were sitting in the back, the soft glow of the interior lights catching the diamonds at your throat. He raised a brow slightly. "You left the party?"
"The gala already got my money," you murmured, leaning back against the leather seat and watching him with a predatory sort of admiration. "And my date needed a ride home. I figured I should come pick him up."
Jack slid into the seat beside you, the scent of the hospital fading as the door shut out the world. He looked at you, truly looked at you, and the adrenaline of the ER was replaced by a different kind of heat. He hadn't expected you to wait, let alone come to his doorstep.
You let your fingers trace the sharp line of his jaw, your voice dropping to a flirty hum. "And I have much better plans for that suit than a hospital trauma bay."
Jack caught your hand, his thumb grazing your palm as he pulled you closer, his eyes dark. "Is that so?"
"Consider it a reward for your service," you whispered.
*******
The time Jack’s day didn’t get interrupted
“Cherry blossoms should be in full bloom next week,” you said, your thumb gliding over the vibrant displays on your phone. “Japan. I think we need a change of scenery.”
Jack didn’t even look up from the chart in his hands, his pen moving in a steady, rhythmic scratch. “I can’t go with you.”
You glanced at him, the luxury of the suggestion hanging in the air. “Why?”
“I have a deposition.”
You paused, your fingers going still. The word carried a weight that didn't belong in a casual conversation. “…You got sued?”
“A patient case,” he said, finally closing the chart with a heavy thud. “She wanted a free birth at home. Complications arose. She had a stroke, and we had to rush her into surgery to deliver the baby.”
You frowned, your mind already dissecting the liability. “Did she survive?”
“Yeah.”
“The baby?”
“Also fine.”
That made you blink, the logic of the situation failing to meet your standards of reality. “…Then why are you being sued?”
Jack exhaled, a sound of weary resignation. “Battery. Lack of consent for the intervention. It happens more than you’d think.”
“And you have to be there personally?”
“I have to be questioned.”
You tilted your head, your eyes narrowing as you processed the inefficiency of it all. To you, a problem like this wasn't a hurdle; it was a nuisance to be cleared. “You need a better lawyer.”
“I have the hospital’s legal department,” Jack began.
“No,” you cut in, already reaching for your phone with practiced precision. “You need a better one. Someone who doesn't just defend—someone who ends it.”
Jack watched you, a mixture of amusement and concern crossing his face. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Too late.” You pressed the phone to your ear, your voice dropping into that low, authoritative register. “Greg. I need the best litigation team available. The ones who make people reconsider their entire life path.” A pause. “Yes. For him. I want it handled by noon.”
You hung up and looked back at Jack, the matter settled in your mind. “Done.”
A week later, the sterile white of the hospital was thousands of miles away. Jack was standing under a canopy of pale pink, the air cool and smelling of spring.
Petals drifted slowly through the air like organic confetti, catching in your hair and brushing against his sleeve. The Kyoto park was quiet, an almost surreal contrast to the frantic, metallic noise of the Pitt. You walked beside him as if this was perfectly normal—as if whisking a trauma surgeon across the ocean in the middle of a legal battle was just another item on the week's agenda.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out to see a string of messages from Robby.
Robby: Abbott, what the hell?! The plaintiff’s firm just called and apologized. APOLOGIZED. How did you get that lawyer? That guy is a shark in a three-piece suit.
Jack glanced at you. You were watching a group of children near a koi pond, looking entirely peaceful. He looked back at his phone and typed a single line, “Perks of the job.”
A second later, the reply came back.
Robby: Fuck you. Bring me back some sake.
Jack’s mouth curved into a slow, genuine smirk as he slipped the phone back into his pocket. You turned to him, noting the shift in his expression. “What?”
“Nothing.”
He reached out, his hand steady and warm as he brushed a stray petal from your shoulder. His fingers lingered for a second, a silent acknowledgement of the world you had cleared for him.
“Just… good timing,” he said.
And for once, his day didn't get interrupted. No pagers, no depositions, and no one to answer to but the woman who made the impossible look effortless.
*********
The time Jack walked into your world
Greg saw Jack first and straightened his posture instinctively. “Hello, doctor.”
Jack nodded once, his focus already drifting past the assistant toward the glass wall. “How is she doing?”
“Like usual,” Greg replied, checking his watch with a frown. “She missed lunch again. Oh, and she still won’t eat vegetables.”
“That can’t be good.”
Jack’s gaze shifted. Inside the meeting room, you were sitting at the head of the table, spine perfectly straight, expression a mask of controlled frost. Across from you, a young man in a tailored suit was talking fast, his hands moving in a desperate attempt to sell confidence.
Greg leaned a little closer to Jack. “She’s stuck in there. Son of one of the executive board members.” He glanced at the time again. “Give it a minute. She’s about to snap.”
Inside the room, you tapped your pen once against the mahogany table. It was a rhythmic, deadly sound.
“Turning trash into electricity,” you said, your voice deceptively calm. “That’s your pitch?”
“It’s a strong project,” he replied quickly.
“It is,” you agreed. “So I keep asking for one thing. Where has this worked?”
A pause. “We’re still collecting the waste. It’s in progress.”
“So there’s no real example yet.”
“It’s… developing.”
You tapped the pen again, slower this time. “You’re asking for investment without a working model. No proven results. No success rate.”
He straightened, trying to reclaim the room. “We have projections—”
“And you’re asking for how much?” you cut him off.
“Eight million.”
You nodded once, then folded your hands neatly. A small, polite smile touched your lips—the kind that never reached your eyes. “Sure. I’ll give you the money.”
His face lit up. “Thank you—”
“But,” you added. The single syllable acted like a physical barrier. “I want a guarantee. If you fail to deliver within one year, I want to double the investment back.”
His smile vanished. “What?”
“You came here expecting easy money,” you said, your tone leveling out into something cold. “I’ll give it to you. But easy money comes with a price. We have the capital. The question is, can you execute?”
Silence filled the room.
“If you can’t,” you added, leaning in just an inch, “we will chase you for it.”
The confidence drained out of him, his face pale. “We’ll… come back with stronger data.”
“Good.”
When the door opened, he walked out with his shoulders noticeably lower.
Inside, you finally leaned back and exhaled, the mask slipping. Your hand moved to your stomach, pressing lightly against the sharp discomfort of an empty, stressed-out system.
“Was that a bit too straightforward?”
You looked up, startled. Jack was standing there; you hadn’t even heard the door click.
“They offered me nothing,” you replied, brushing off the encounter as you tried to regain your composure. “Beggars shouldn’t ask for more.”
Jack stepped closer, stopping just beside your chair. He leaned down slightly, lowering his voice until it was a private rumble. “You don’t smile at anyone here.”
A beat passed.
“…But you do with me.”
You met his eyes, the hardness in yours melting. “Of course.”
His gaze dropped briefly to the untouched, pristine space on your desk. “You haven’t eaten.”
“No,” you said softly. “That’s why my stomach hurts again.”
Jack reached down and set a lunch box in front of you. You blinked, looking at the simple container. “Is it…?”
“Your lunch.”
You opened it, the steam hitting your face, and then you looked at him. “Did you make this?”
Jack looked suddenly, uncharacteristically uncomfortable. He cleared his throat. “If there’s no flavor, ask Greg for salt. And eat the veggies.”
You laughed—a soft, real sound that echoed in the empty room—and took a bite. It was simple, warm, and better than any five-star meal you'd had in New York. You didn’t realize how long it had been since someone had looked after you this way.
“…Thank you,” you said, your voice quiet.
The door opened again. Greg stepped in, tablet in hand and ready for the next round. “Boss, your schedule—”
“She’s done for today,” Jack said flatly.
You looked up at him, stunned. “…I am?”
“You are.”
There was a pause. You looked at the lunch Jack had made, then at the mountain of work Greg held, and finally back to Jack’s steady, stubborn gaze.
“Alright,” you said, leaning back. “Clear my schedule today, Greg.”
Greg blinked. “Really?”
“Call the vice director,” you said, waving a hand dismissively. “We pay him enough. Give him more work. And you… you can go home.”
Greg broke into a wide grin, giving two thumbs up. “Yes. Absolutely.” He glanced at Jack, a look of pure gratitude on his face. “You’re welcome here anytime, Doc.”
Then he vanished before you could change your mind. In the sudden quiet of the office, you looked at Jack.
"So," you murmured. "Where are you taking me?"
********
Jack didn’t like golf.
He didn’t say it out loud, but it showed in the way he held the club—a little too stiff, like the polished graphite didn't belong in his hands. Still, he followed you across the rolling green without complaint. He was quiet and steady, his focus less on the game and more on the way you moved.
You, on the other hand, moved like you owned the place. Which, in a way, you did.
And as he thought. This golf course is also one of your businesses.
A man in a sharp black suit approached from the perimeter, stopping just short of stepping onto the manicured grass. He didn’t look at Jack; his eyes were fixed solely on you.
“Miss,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a practiced neutrality. “Your father is here.”
You didn’t react immediately. You adjusted your glove, your eyes still fixed on the horizon of the course. The air seemed to chill by a few degrees.
“Of course he is,” you said.
The atmosphere in the private lounge was heavy, the kind of silence that only exists in rooms where every piece of furniture costs more than a year of a surgeon’s salary. The moment the door closed, the pretense evaporated.
Your father didn’t bother easing into the conversation. He sat behind a desk of dark, polished wood, leaning back with a look of bored disapproval.
“A doctor?” he scoffed. “Out of everyone, you pick a doctor? At least choose someone with status. A hospital director. Someone who understands the weight of our name.”
You didn’t even blink. The clinical coldness you usually reserved for boardroom predators settled over your features. “No.”
He frowned, the skin around his eyes tightening. “No?”
“What about you?” you shot back, your voice smooth and dangerous. “Your mistress isn’t exactly qualified for our 'status' either.”
That made him pause, his posture stiffening. “She’s not part of this discussion.”
“Oh, she is,” you said calmly, taking a seat across from him without being asked. “You’re comparing standards, aren't you? Let’s be thorough.”
His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He looked toward the door, where Jack was waiting somewhere out of sight. “He’s not rich. He has nothing to offer this family.”
You almost smiled at that, but it wasn't a kind expression.
“My partner saves lives,” you said, your voice dropping to a low, lethal register. “Yours spends money. If you’re looking for a return on investment, I’d say I’ve made the better choice.”
Your father’s gaze shifted toward the window, looking for any lingering argument. “He only has one leg,” he said, his voice dropping into a tone of dull observation, as if he were pointing out a scratch on a vintage car.
You didn’t even hesitate. The defense was instantaneous, sharp and cold as a blade. “That’s not a flaw,” you countered. “That’s a scar of honor. He served his country while you were sitting in boardrooms.”
A small, heavy pause settled between you. You tilted your head slightly, watching him struggle to find a rebuttal. Your eyes remained locked on his, steady and unforgiving.
“I thought you were patriotic,” you added, the irony dripping from every word. “Didn’t you donate millions for new weapons last year? It’s funny how you love the machinery of war, but can’t stand the sight of the men who actually used it.”
That shut him up.
“I’m not asking for your permission,” you said. “You asked. I answered.”
Silence.
Then, quieter but sharper, “Besides, what do you actually care?”
He sighed because he hated where this conversation was going.
“You turned my life into a competition,” you continued. “You set me against your mistress. You turned half the board to her side. You pushed me to work day and night until I ended up in the hospital.”
“It was just a minor surgery,” he dismissed. “Gastric. You’re fine.”
Something in you snapped.
“For you, it’s entertainment,” you said, your voice tightening for the first time. “Watching me struggle.”
A breath, uneven.
“For me… it wasn’t.”
You held his gaze now. No distance. No control to hide behind.
“He was the one who made me stop,” you said. “He was the one who made me get treated. He looked at me like I was a person who needed help… even when I refused it.”
Your voice dropped.
“Even when I thought I didn’t deserve it.”
That hit harder than anything else.
Your composure slipped just enough to show it. The crack you never let anyone see.
The room went quiet.
You didn’t wait for his response. He doesn't have the right to see your tears.
You turned and walked out before he could say anything that would make it worse.
*****
When you stepped out into the hallway, the heavy silence of the lounge followed you like a ghost. Jack was already there.
He was leaning against the wood-paneled wall, hands buried deep in his pockets, looking like a man who had nowhere else in the world to be. The moment he saw you, he straightened, his focus narrowing.
Jack didn’t just look at you; he saw through you. He caught the slight tension in your jaw, the way your eyes were just a fraction too bright. To anyone else, you were the picture of composure. To him, you were a woman who had just survived a war.
You didn’t say a word. You simply walked toward him, the distance between you vanishing until you stopped, just inches away. You stood there, suspended in the space between you, your breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches.
Jack didn’t wait for an invitation.
His hands came up, certain and slow, pulling you into his space. He gathered you in carefully, as if he already knew exactly where the bruising was. One arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him, while his other hand settled at the back of your head, tucking your face into the crook of his neck.
You let out a long, shuddering breath against his chest—a sound quieter than you expected, but heavy with the weight of everything you’d been carrying.
“You’re alright,” he said softly, his voice a low vibration against your temple.
A pause settled over you both, the luxury of the club fading into the background.
“Your father’s an idiot,” he murmured, his breath warm against your hair.
You let out a small, broken scoff against the fabric of his shirt. “The worst in the world.”
“Yeah,” he whispered, his hand moving in a slow, grounding pass along your back. “I figured.”
For the first time all day, the performance stopped. There was no need for control, no need to be the woman who ran empires. You stayed there, resting your forehead against his shoulder, letting his strength hold you up while you finally let yourself go quiet.
The crash came fast.
The moment the car door clicked shut, the adrenaline that had been keeping you upright evaporated. You didn’t argue about the next meeting or complain about the headache pulsing behind your eyes; you simply leaned your head against the cool leather of the seat and let the world go dark.
Jack, sitting beside you, felt the change instantly. As your head slumped toward his shoulder, the heat radiating from your skin was impossible to ignore. He reached out, his calloused palm grazing your forehead.
He didn’t even need a thermometer. “You have a fever,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, professional steadiness.
Greg, watching through the rearview mirror, gripped the steering wheel tighter. “It happens when the stress piles up. Her body just… shuts down.”
Jack’s jaw tightened, his hand lingering near your temple. “This isn’t just stress.”
Greg hesitated, then sighed, a dry, weary sound. “She’s been like this for years. Always pushing, always trying to prove something to that man. Always trying to make him… proud.”
The words landed heavily in the quiet of the car. Jack looked down at you—pale, fragile, and far away—then shifted his gaze back to Greg.
Greg let out a hollow breath. “Because this whole thing? The company, the pressure, the constant fights? It’s a test. The succession. He wants to see how far she can go before she breaks.”
Jack didn’t like the answer. He didn't like the cold, calculated cost of your inheritance. He looked back at your face, seeing the toll of a lifetime spent trying to win a game that had no finish line.
“That’s not how you measure someone,” he muttered, his voice thick with a sudden, protective heat.
He didn't care about the succession or the empire. He just shifted closer, pulling you more firmly against his side, offering the only thing your father never could: a place where you didn't have to prove a thing.
Jack didn’t explain much. He didn't have to.
"I’m going to meet him," he said.
Greg didn't need a map or a reason. He simply checked his watch and nodded. "He smokes cigars at five. Terrace level. You’ll find him there."
The terrace was a sanctuary of calculated isolation. It was quiet, expensive, and designed to make the rest of the world feel small. Your father sat in a low, leather chair, one leg crossed over the other with a cigar resting between his fingers. The smoke curled lazily into the afternoon air, controlled and deliberate. Everything about the man broadcasted power.
Jack stepped into that space as if the prestige didn't exist.
Your father barely spared him a glance, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "You’re the doctor."
"Yeah."
Jack didn't sit. He stood with his weight balanced, a soldier in a garden.
"As her doctor," Jack began, his voice dropping into a low, steady resonance, "I don’t ignore the source of the problem."
That pulled your father’s attention. He turned his head slowly to look at him properly.
"And you’re the reason she’s sick," Jack added.
A small, dismissive scoff escaped the older man. "She’s under pressure. In our world, that’s normal."
"No," Jack countered. "That’s damage."
Your father waved a hand, the cigar glowing bright for a second as he dismissed the air between them. "If this is a lecture—"
"It’s not," Jack cut in, his tone sharp and clinical. "I’m here to make sure what’s hurting her doesn’t keep happening. I’m a trauma surgeon; I don't just patch the wound. I stop the bleeding."
Silence settled between them, heavy and suffocating.
Your father shifted slightly in his seat. It was a subtle movement, but Jack’s eyes were trained for it. He caught the way the man's shoulders adjusted, the way his breath came just a fraction heavier than before. His fingers tightened briefly around the cigar, revealing a faint, rhythmic tremor.
Jack’s gaze sharpened. "You should get yourself checked."
The reaction was immediate. Your father’s brow furrowed. "...What?"
"Your blood pressure," Jack continued, his voice devoid of emotion. "You’re flushed. Your breathing isn't even. There's a slight tremor in your hand. You’re compensating, but your body is redlining."
Your father frowned, his posture stiffening. "I’m fine."
Jack didn’t argue. He just looked at him with the cold, honest stare of a man who had seen a thousand hearts stop beating.
"You’re not," he said simply.
A long pause followed. Your father shifted again, this time more deliberately, straightening his spine as if posture alone could override biology. But his breath still caught slightly on the exhale.
Jack saw the vulnerability through the expensive suit. Then, quieter, he spoke again. "You won’t last a year like this."
The air on the terrace changed. Your father stared at him now, his irritation edged with a flickering shadow of something else. "Is that supposed to scare me?"
Jack shook his head once. "No."
A beat.
"It’s supposed to give you time."
The silence returned. Jack stepped back, the conversation already over in his mind.
"Fix things with her," he said. "While you still can."
"Are you threatening me?" your father asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low register. "I could have you removed from here. From everything."
Jack didn’t react. Not even a flicker of doubt crossed his face. He simply stood his ground, immovable.
"Try it."
Your father went quiet. The threat hung in the air, empty and useless.
Jack held his gaze, a dark, knowing glint in his eyes. "I have her. And last I checked, you’ve already stepped down. She’s the one running everything now."
A brief pause.
"And she has lawyers who don’t lose."
Something in your father’s expression tightened. It was the look of a man realizing the board had been flipped while he wasn't looking.
Jack gave the smallest hint of a smirk—a cold, jagged thing—then turned and walked out, leaving the room as if it had never belonged to anyone else.
******
You woke up slowly, the dull ache of a fever still lingering under your skin. For a second, you didn't move. You knew this feeling well—the aftermath. It was the familiar tax your body collected after you pushed yourself too far, after another round of psychological warfare with your father.
You hated the weakness of it.
Your eyes shifted, and that’s when you realized you weren’t alone. Jack was beside you, half-leaning against the headboard, his presence a grounded, immovable weight in the quiet room. One arm rested loosely near your side, his posture suggesting he had been there for a long time.
He noticed the moment you stirred. “You’re up.”
Your voice came out softer, thinner than usual. “Did I just shut down again?”
“Yeah,” he said, his gaze steady on yours. “You didn’t even realize I carried you.”
You blinked, turning your head slightly to look at him. “Really?” A small pause followed as you processed the image of him effortlessly taking the weight you couldn't carry. “…I missed that.”
The corner of his mouth lifted just a fraction. “You were out cold. Didn’t miss much.”
You exhaled, letting your head sink deeper into the pillow. The room was calm—too calm compared to the storm of the afternoon. Then, the sharp buzz of your phone broke the silence. You frowned, reaching for it with a heavy hand. Your eyes scanned the notification on the screen and froze.
“What?”
Jack’s attention shifted immediately. “What is it?”
You turned the phone toward him, your thumb trembling slightly. “My dad.” A beat passed as you stared at the words. “He wants to have dinner.”
The silence that followed was heavier than before. Jack looked at the screen, then back at you, reading your reaction more than the message itself.
“He’s never asked first,” you said quietly, the disbelief clear in your tone. “Not once. It’s always a summons, never an invitation.” You glanced back at Jack, suspicion creeping in. “Did you do something?”
Jack held your gaze for a second, his expression unreadable.
“I made it clear that I don’t let my patient get put back in that condition,” he said, his voice as calm as a deep tide. He didn't blink. “And I don’t repeat myself.”
The weight of it settled in your chest. You looked at him a second longer than necessary, something shifting behind your eyes. Not a shock. Not confusion. Realization.
“…You went to see him,” you said. A beat. “And came back alive.”
Jack frowned slightly at that. “I told him you’re the CEO now.” His tone stayed even. “That was enough to shut him down.”
You let out a quiet chuckle, shaking your head against the pillow. “Yeah… you didn’t just shut him down. You pressed right where it hurts.” Your eyes flicked back to him. “He hates that I won.”
“He should start getting used to it,” Jack said.
*******
The Time He Realized He Meant Everything to You
Jack never got sick. He was the one who stitched the world back together, a man built on adrenaline and steady hands. But even the best armor has a chink, and during a high-stakes SWAT call-out, a stray round found the space the Kevlar didn't cover.
This time, the bullet hadn't just grazed him. It had torn through his upper quadrant, shattering a rib and nicking the hepatic artery.
This time, Jack was the patient.
The Pitt was a blur of controlled violence. Robby, Garcia, and Al-Hashimi moved with a frantic precision they usually reserved for strangers, their faces slick with sweat under the harsh fluorescent lights.
"He’s losing too much blood!" Garcia shouted. Her hands were buried deep in gauze, pressing down on the entry wound in his upper quadrant with every ounce of her weight. "Pressure! I need more pressure! The packing is soaking through!"
"We can’t move him to the OR like this," Robby grunted. His face was a ghostly shade of pale as he used both hands to squeeze a bag of O-negative, trying to force life back into Jack’s collapsing veins. "His systolic is dropping through the floor. Stay with me, Jack. Stay with me, buddy."
Inside the fog of shock, Jack was fighting a silent, losing war. Every time his heart thumped, he felt a sickening, hollow slide deep in his chest—the sensation of his own life spilling out onto the trauma table. The voices around him were beginning to warble, stretching out into a low, distorted hum that sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a deep well.
Don't close your eyes, he told himself. The command was a flicker of a thought, weak and flickering like a dying candle. If you close them, you don't wake up.
He tried to draw a breath, but his shattered rib grated against the pleura, a jagged spark of agony that nearly pushed him over the edge into the black. His vision was tunneling, the edges of the room turning into a frayed, gray vignette. He could feel the cold now—a deep, marrow-chilling frost that started at his fingertips and was rapidly claiming his heart.
"He’s in V-fib!" Al-Hashimi yelled, the sharp, rhythmic alarm of the heart monitor suddenly flatlining into a terrifying, continuous shriek. "Get the paddles! Charge to two hundred!"
The team scrambled. Garcia never let go of the wound, even as the air in the room seemed to vibrate with the sheer desperation of their effort.
"Clear!"
Jack’s body arched off the table, a violent, mechanical jolt that felt like a lightning strike to his soul. For a second, there was only the smell of ozone and the heavy metallic scent of blood.
Fight, he thought, his mind clutching at a single image—you, sitting across from him at lunch, laughing at a joke he hadn't finished. Not yet.
Suddenly, a heavy, rhythmic thrumming vibrated through the trauma bay walls. It started as a low growl in the floorboards and escalated into a deafening roar. Outside the glass, the unmistakable downdraft of a heavy helicopter flared, kicking up debris and rattling the medical instruments on their trays.
Robby glanced toward the window, then leaned down, his mouth inches from Jack's ear. "Look. Your girl is here." He gripped Jack’s shoulder, his voice thick with a raw, desperate hope. "She just landed a private bird on our roof, Jack. You can’t disappoint her, right? You know she’ll sue this entire city into the ground if you quit on her. You stay. You stay for her."
The flatline on the monitor stuttered. A single, weak blip appeared. Then another.
Jack’s fingers twitched against the cold metal of the rail. The darkness was still pulling at him, but the roar of that engine felt like a tether. You were here.
You’re here? Jack thought through the fog. You were supposed to be in Japan. The Prime Minister... the meeting...
You had moved heaven and earth to reach him, and he realized with a sudden, sharp clarity that he couldn't leave you alone in a world that didn't deserve you.
"I've got a rhythm," Al-Hashimi breathed, his voice cracking. "It’s faint, but it’s there."
Robby let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for a lifetime. “Thank you, Jack.”
“I’ll take it from here,” Garcia said, her voice firming up. “Let's get him upstairs. Now!”
As the gurney disappeared into the elevator, Robby stepped out into the hallway. He found you standing there, still in your professional suit, your hair windblown from the heli-pad. You looked smaller than he’d ever seen you.
“How is he?” you asked, your voice trembling, a stark contrast to your usual command.
“We stabilized him,” Robby said quickly. “He’s going into surgery now.”
“But?”
“There’s no but,” Robby insisted, placing a steadying hand on your shoulder. “We have the best surgeons in the state in that room. I promise you, Jack is going to make it.”
The dam finally broke. You let out a jagged, broken sob, and Dana was there in a second, pulling you into a hug.
“I can’t lose him,” you whispered into her shoulder, the "CEO" completely gone. “I can’t lose him.”
*****
Four hours later, the world had gone quiet.
The chaotic violence of the trauma bay was a ghost of a memory, replaced by the steady, sterile rhythm of recovery. The soft hiss of the ventilator and the slow, reassuring beep of the heart monitor were the only sounds in the private room.
Jack opened his eyes.
For a second, everything felt distant, as if he were submerged in heavy water. Then, the reality of his own pulse hit him, sharp and grounding. He was alive. He had been on the absolute edge—he knew the physics of the wound too well to think otherwise—and yet, he was still breathing.
The next thing he saw was you.
You were sitting far too close to the bed, your posture uncharacteristically slumped. Your hand was wrapped tightly around his, your knuckles pale from the grip, as if letting go would mean letting him drift back into the dark.
Something in his chest eased, a sensation far deeper than any physical relief.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in Japan?” he croaked, his voice a dry, jagged rasp.
You looked up immediately. Your eyes were red-rimmed and unmistakably shaken, stripped of the polished mask you wore for the world. “Is that the first thing you ask after four hours of surgery?”
“I thought it would be an icebreaker,” Jack murmured, a faint smirk pulling at his lips. “I swear I heard you crying in my dreams. It was loud.”
“Of course I cried, you idiot,” you said, your voice breaking despite your attempt to sound sharp. You shook your head slightly, a jagged breath escaping you. “Unbelievable. You wake up and that’s what you say.”
Jack let out a weak breath, something close to a quiet laugh. Even through the haze of the painkillers, he noticed the way you were trying to hold yourself together.
How come this man still tries to make a joke? you thought, staring at him. Even now.
He lifted his hand slowly. It felt heavier than lead, but you were already leaning in before he even finished the movement. His fingers brushed your cheek, rough and careful at the same time, wiping away a tear you hadn’t realized was falling.
He looked at you, really looked, past the exhaustion and the lingering panic. He looked right into the vulnerability you spent your life protecting.
“The meeting could be rearranged,” you said, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Being here with you is more important than any contract. Any of it.”
Jack’s chest tightened, a pull that had nothing to do with the surgical site. He understood the gravity of those words. You hadn’t just moved things around; you had walked away from the empire you spent every waking hour building. You had walked away for him.
“I made you afraid,” he said quietly, his gaze softening with a heavy, honest guilt.
You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you rested your forehead against his arm, your grip on his hand tightening as if to anchor him there.
“Don’t leave me alone in this world,” you whispered against the sheets. “I need my night-crawl doctor. Who else is going to tell me I’m being ridiculous?”
Jack exhaled slowly, his thumb brushing lightly across the back of your hand. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. His voice was weak, but it carried a certainty that filled the room. “You’re stuck with me.”
He paused, a flicker of the old Abbott returning to his eyes. “And someone has to make sure you actually take care of yourself.”
You let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, the tension finally beginning to drain from your shoulders. Your eyes drifted to the bandages wrapped around his torso, your fingers carefully tracing the edge of the gauze as if making sure he was solid, real, and still yours.
“It’s a battle scar,” you said softly. “A badge of honor.”
Jack closed his eyes for a second, leaning into your touch. “I’d prefer a quieter hobby. Golf doesn’t sound bad now. Maybe I’ll try tennis.”
You shook your head lightly, but your hand didn’t leave his. For the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you had to be in control of everything. You didn't have to be the boss; you just had to be the woman who loved him.
And for the first time in his life, Jack didn’t feel like he was walking into the fire alone. He tightened his hold on your hand just slightly, the rhythmic beep of the monitor sounding more like a victory than a warning.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register. “I’ve still got to get you to eat those vegetables.”
You huffed quietly, resting your head against him again. “We’ll negotiate that.”
Jack’s lips curved faintly. That was fine. He had time now. And more importantly, he had you.
