Dorothy Scott

Mom’s condition took a sharp turn for the worse. She started coughing up blood, and the doctor said the surgery had to happen immediately. I called my boyfriend, Tobias, who was in another state. He was a renowned neurosurgeon—the only person I could think of who could save her. Tobias answered, promising he was on his way to the airport. But before he could even get there, he sent another message. An emergency had come up. He couldn’t come back. I slid to the floor in the hospital corridor and called him again and again. All I could do was watch the numbers on the monitor drop. On the ninety-ninth call, he finally picked up. “Tobias,” I choked out, “my mom is dying. You’re the best chance she has. I’m begging you. Please, come back.” Silence stretched on the other end of the line. I waited, my breath held, until the line went dead. He had simply hung up. A moment later, I saw the Instagram post Celine had just uploaded. In the photo, the same hands that held a scalpel with surgical precision were now carefully frying her a sunny-side-up egg. The caption felt like a slap in the face. [Minor crisis in the OR today, almost messed everything up. So lucky my mentor didn’t even get mad. He just made me breakfast instead. #BestMentorEver] So that was his emergency. He had gone to clean up a mess Celine had made. When I needed him most, he was with another woman. ... When Mom’s ECG flatlined, my entire body went rigid. The doctor pulled off his mask, his forehead slick with sweat. “I’m sorry, Blythe. We did everything we could.” The people around me offered looks of sympathy, but there was something else in their eyes, too—pity. Most of the staff knew that Tobias Blake, the one surgeon who could have almost guaranteed a successful outcome, was in Boston, comforting his frightened intern. Mom lay on the bed, her eyes closed, her face drained of all color. I couldn’t bear to look at her for long. I wiped aw......

Mom’s condition took a sharp turn for the worse. She started coughing up blood, and the doctor said the surgery had to happen immediately. I called my boyfriend, Tobias, who was in another state. He was a renowned neurosurgeon—the only person I could think of who could save her. Tobias answered, promising he was on his way to the airport. But before he could even get there, he sent another message. An emergency had come up. He couldn’t come back. I slid to the floor in the hospital corridor and called him again and again. All I could do was watch the numbers on the monitor drop. On the ninety-ninth call, he finally picked up. “Tobias,” I choked out, “my mom is dying. You’re the best chance she has. I’m begging you. Please, come back.” Silence stretched on the other end of the line. I waited, my breath held, until the line went dead. He had simply hung up. A moment later, I saw the Instagram post Celine had just uploaded. In the photo, the same hands that held a scalpel with surgical precision were now carefully frying her a sunny-side-up egg. The caption felt like a slap in the face. [Minor crisis in the OR today, almost messed everything up. So lucky my mentor didn’t even get mad. He just made me breakfast instead. #BestMentorEver] So that was his emergency. He had gone to clean up a mess Celine had made. When I needed him most, he was with another woman. ... When Mom’s ECG flatlined, my entire body went rigid. The doctor pulled off his mask, his forehead slick with sweat. “I’m sorry, Blythe. We did everything we could.” The people around me offered looks of sympathy, but there was something else in their eyes, too—pity. Most of the staff knew that Tobias Blake, the one surgeon who could have almost guaranteed a successful outcome, was in Boston, comforting his frightened intern. Mom lay on the bed, her eyes closed, her face drained of all color. I couldn’t bear to look at her for long. I wiped aw......

Mom’s condition took a sharp turn for the worse. She started coughing up blood, and the doctor said the surgery had to happen immediately. I called my boyfriend, Tobias, who was in another state. He was a renowned neurosurgeon—the only person I could think of who could save her. Tobias answered, promising he was on his way to the airport. But before he could even get there, he sent another message. An emergency had come up. He couldn’t come back. I slid to the floor in the hospital corridor and called him again and again. All I could do was watch the numbers on the monitor drop. On the ninety-ninth call, he finally picked up. “Tobias,” I choked out, “my mom is dying. You’re the best chance she has. I’m begging you. Please, come back.” Silence stretched on the other end of the line. I waited, my breath held, until the line went dead. He had simply hung up. A moment later, I saw the Instagram post Celine had just uploaded. In the photo, the same hands that held a scalpel with surgical precision were now carefully frying her a sunny-side-up egg. The caption felt like a slap in the face. [Minor crisis in the OR today, almost messed everything up. So lucky my mentor didn’t even get mad. He just made me breakfast instead. #BestMentorEver] So that was his emergency. He had gone to clean up a mess Celine had made. When I needed him most, he was with another woman. ... When Mom’s ECG flatlined, my entire body went rigid. The doctor pulled off his mask, his forehead slick with sweat. “I’m sorry, Blythe. We did everything we could.” The people around me offered looks of sympathy, but there was something else in their eyes, too—pity. Most of the staff knew that Tobias Blake, the one surgeon who could have almost guaranteed a successful outcome, was in Boston, comforting his frightened intern. Mom lay on the bed, her eyes closed, her face drained of all color. I couldn’t bear to look at her for long. I wiped aw......

Mom’s condition took a sharp turn for the worse. She started coughing up blood, and the doctor said the surgery had to happen immediately. I called my boyfriend, Tobias, who was in another state. He was a renowned neurosurgeon—the only person I could think of who could save her. Tobias answered, promising he was on his way to the airport. But before he could even get there, he sent another message. An emergency had come up. He couldn’t come back. I slid to the floor in the hospital corridor and called him again and again. All I could do was watch the numbers on the monitor drop. On the ninety-ninth call, he finally picked up. “Tobias,” I choked out, “my mom is dying. You’re the best chance she has. I’m begging you. Please, come back.” Silence stretched on the other end of the line. I waited, my breath held, until the line went dead. He had simply hung up. A moment later, I saw the Instagram post Celine had just uploaded. In the photo, the same hands that held a scalpel with surgical precision were now carefully frying her a sunny-side-up egg. The caption felt like a slap in the face. [Minor crisis in the OR today, almost messed everything up. So lucky my mentor didn’t even get mad. He just made me breakfast instead. #BestMentorEver] So that was his emergency. He had gone to clean up a mess Celine had made. When I needed him most, he was with another woman. ... When Mom’s ECG flatlined, my entire body went rigid. The doctor pulled off his mask, his forehead slick with sweat. “I’m sorry, Blythe. We did everything we could.” The people around me offered looks of sympathy, but there was something else in their eyes, too—pity. Most of the staff knew that Tobias Blake, the one surgeon who could have almost guaranteed a successful outcome, was in Boston, comforting his frightened intern. Mom lay on the bed, her eyes closed, her face drained of all color. I couldn’t bear to look at her for long. I wiped aw......

Mom’s condition took a sharp turn for the worse. She started coughing up blood, and the doctor said the surgery had to happen immediately. I called my boyfriend, Tobias, who was in another state. He was a renowned neurosurgeon—the only person I could think of who could save her. Tobias answered, promising he was on his way to the airport. But before he could even get there, he sent another message. An emergency had come up. He couldn’t come back. I slid to the floor in the hospital corridor and called him again and again. All I could do was watch the numbers on the monitor drop. On the ninety-ninth call, he finally picked up. “Tobias,” I choked out, “my mom is dying. You’re the best chance she has. I’m begging you. Please, come back.” Silence stretched on the other end of the line. I waited, my breath held, until the line went dead. He had simply hung up. A moment later, I saw the Instagram post Celine had just uploaded. In the photo, the same hands that held a scalpel with surgical precision were now carefully frying her a sunny-side-up egg. The caption felt like a slap in the face. [Minor crisis in the OR today, almost messed everything up. So lucky my mentor didn’t even get mad. He just made me breakfast instead. #BestMentorEver] So that was his emergency. He had gone to clean up a mess Celine had made. When I needed him most, he was with another woman. ... When Mom’s ECG flatlined, my entire body went rigid. The doctor pulled off his mask, his forehead slick with sweat. “I’m sorry, Blythe. We did everything we could.” The people around me offered looks of sympathy, but there was something else in their eyes, too—pity. Most of the staff knew that Tobias Blake, the one surgeon who could have almost guaranteed a successful outcome, was in Boston, comforting his frightened intern. Mom lay on the bed, her eyes closed, her face drained of all color. I couldn’t bear to look at her for long. I wiped aw......

Mom’s condition took a sharp turn for the worse. She started coughing up blood, and the doctor said the surgery had to happen immediately. I called my boyfriend, Tobias, who was in another state. He was a renowned neurosurgeon—the only person I could think of who could save her. Tobias answered, promising he was on his way to the airport. But before he could even get there, he sent another message. An emergency had come up. He couldn’t come back. I slid to the floor in the hospital corridor and called him again and again. All I could do was watch the numbers on the monitor drop. On the ninety-ninth call, he finally picked up. “Tobias,” I choked out, “my mom is dying. You’re the best chance she has. I’m begging you. Please, come back.” Silence stretched on the other end of the line. I waited, my breath held, until the line went dead. He had simply hung up. A moment later, I saw the Instagram post Celine had just uploaded. In the photo, the same hands that held a scalpel with surgical precision were now carefully frying her a sunny-side-up egg. The caption felt like a slap in the face. [Minor crisis in the OR today, almost messed everything up. So lucky my mentor didn’t even get mad. He just made me breakfast instead. #BestMentorEver] So that was his emergency. He had gone to clean up a mess Celine had made. When I needed him most, he was with another woman. ... When Mom’s ECG flatlined, my entire body went rigid. The doctor pulled off his mask, his forehead slick with sweat. “I’m sorry, Blythe. We did everything we could.” The people around me offered looks of sympathy, but there was something else in their eyes, too—pity. Most of the staff knew that Tobias Blake, the one surgeon who could have almost guaranteed a successful outcome, was in Boston, comforting his frightened intern. Mom lay on the bed, her eyes closed, her face drained of all color. I couldn’t bear to look at her for long. I wiped aw......

Mom’s condition took a sharp turn for the worse. She started coughing up blood, and the doctor said the surgery had to happen immediately. I called my boyfriend, Tobias, who was in another state. He was a renowned neurosurgeon—the only person I could think of who could save her. Tobias answered, promising he was on his way to the airport. But before he could even get there, he sent another message. An emergency had come up. He couldn’t come back. I slid to the floor in the hospital corridor and called him again and again. All I could do was watch the numbers on the monitor drop. On the ninety-ninth call, he finally picked up. “Tobias,” I choked out, “my mom is dying. You’re the best chance she has. I’m begging you. Please, come back.” Silence stretched on the other end of the line. I waited, my breath held, until the line went dead. He had simply hung up. A moment later, I saw the Instagram post Celine had just uploaded. In the photo, the same hands that held a scalpel with surgical precision were now carefully frying her a sunny-side-up egg. The caption felt like a slap in the face. [Minor crisis in the OR today, almost messed everything up. So lucky my mentor didn’t even get mad. He just made me breakfast instead. #BestMentorEver] So that was his emergency. He had gone to clean up a mess Celine had made. When I needed him most, he was with another woman. ... When Mom’s ECG flatlined, my entire body went rigid. The doctor pulled off his mask, his forehead slick with sweat. “I’m sorry, Blythe. We did everything we could.” The people around me offered looks of sympathy, but there was something else in their eyes, too—pity. Most of the staff knew that Tobias Blake, the one surgeon who could have almost guaranteed a successful outcome, was in Boston, comforting his frightened intern. Mom lay on the bed, her eyes closed, her face drained of all color. I couldn’t bear to look at her for long. I wiped aw......

I decided to die. Tonight. At my husband's campaign launch reception for his Senate run. As his “tainted” wife, it was the best gift I could give him. At the reception, he called me out to the terrace and gave me my orders as if I were a subordinate. “Ella, keep your mouth shut. Don’t cause any trouble.” That one sentence defined seven years of marriage. I was trouble. A stain. A liability in his political career that had to be strictly controlled. I once believed that if I was obedient enough, perfect enough, I could thaw his cold heart. I was wrong. Seven years was long enough for the most passionate love to cool into a handful of ash that could never be swept away. When my family went bankrupt, he watched from the sidelines. When his family humiliated me, he looked the other way. Now, for his path to the Senate, he needed me to be silent. Utterly and completely. I looked into his eyes, glittering with ambition, and nodded. “All right, Julian.” He didn’t know this was the last time I would ever answer him. He didn’t know that in my clutch, I carried enough pills to set me free. And he would never know that my death wouldn’t clear his path. It would nail him to a pillar of shame from which he could never recover. Julian, you want a perfect opening. Then I’ll give you an ending you’ll never forget. ... Late that night, after the last guest had departed, Devereaux Manor was deathly still. I didn’t return to the master bedroom we shared in name only. Instead, I went straight to the side suite, the room that was mine alone—my ornate cage. I had just changed out of the gown that had squeezed the breath from my lungs when the bedroom door was pushed open. Julian walked in with a document in his hand, as if entering an employee’s office. He didn’t knock. He handed me the pages. It was the schedule for tomorrow night’s charity dinner, as densely packed as a legal brief. “Tomorrow night i......