His Mistake, My Revenge: A Second Chance

Scarlett

The operating room lights blazed overhead like miniature suns, their harsh glare making everything look washed out and surreal. I lay on the cold metal table, IV lines snaking from my arms like transparent vines, while nurses bustled around me with practiced efficiency.

"Count backward from ten," the anesthesiologist instructed, his voice muffled behind his surgical mask.

"Ten... nine... eight..." My voice felt thick, distant, as the medication began to pull me under.

The last thing I saw before darkness claimed me was Killian's face through the observation window, his green eyes fixed on something—or someone—I couldn't see.

Time became fluid in the space between consciousness and void. I drifted in and out of awareness, catching fragments of urgent voices, the rapid beeping of machines, the sharp scent of antiseptic mixing with something metallic that tasted like fear.

"We're losing her!" A voice cut through the haze, sharp with panic.

"Blood pressure dropping rapidly!"

"Get the crash cart!"

The chaos swirled around me like a storm, but I felt strangely detached from it all, as if I were floating above my own body watching the medical team fight to keep me alive.

Then, through the fog of medication and pain, I heard footsteps running down the hallway. Heavy, urgent footsteps that I recognized even in my semiconscious state.

"Doctor Morrison!" Killian's voice carried clearly through the operating room doors, rough with desperation. "What's happening? How are they doing?"

A pause. The steady rhythm of machines. The shuffle of surgical instruments.

"Alpha Gates," Dr. Morrison's voice was grave, professional, but I could hear the strain underneath. "We have a situation. Both patients are experiencing severe complications. Miss Rosalie's body is rejecting the transfusion, and Miss Tessa is going into shock from the blood loss. I need you to make a decision."

"What kind of decision?" Killian's voice cracked slightly on the words.

"We can only focus our full resources on one patient at a time. The next few minutes are critical for both of them. Who do you want us to prioritize?"

The silence that followed felt like an eternity. Through my drug-induced haze, I waited for his answer, though somewhere deep in my soul, I already knew what it would be.

"Save Rosalie." His voice was steady, certain, without even a moment's hesitation. "Focus everything on Rosalie."

The words hit me like a physical blow, even through the anesthesia. My wolf let out a keening wail inside my chest, a sound of pure anguish that seemed to echo through my very bones. But even as the pain threatened to tear me apart, a cold, bitter part of me whispered: *You already knew this. You've always known this.*

The medical team shifted their focus immediately. I could feel the change in energy, the way the urgent attention moved away from me like a tide retreating from shore. The machines around me continued their steady rhythm, but the frantic energy that had surrounded my table just moments before was gone.

*This is what you expected,* I told myself, clinging to consciousness through sheer force of will. *This is exactly what you planned for.*

But knowing something intellectually and experiencing it were two entirely different things. As the darkness pulled me under completely, I felt something inside me break—not my heart this time, but something deeper. Something that had been holding me to this place, to these people, to this life.

When I finally surfaced from the depths of unconsciousness, the first thing I noticed was the steady beeping of a heart monitor. The second was the familiar weight of someone sitting beside my bed.

I opened my eyes slowly, my vision blurry and unfocused. The private room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of medical equipment and the pale light filtering through partially closed blinds. It took several moments for my eyes to adjust enough to make out the figure slumped in the chair next to my bed.

Killian sat with his head in his hands, his dark hair disheveled and his clothes wrinkled as if he'd been there for hours. When he heard me stir, his head snapped up, and I saw exhaustion etched deep into every line of his face.

"Tessa." His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Thank God you're awake."

I tried to speak, but my throat felt like sandpaper. He reached for a cup of water on the bedside table, holding the straw to my lips with a gentleness I hadn't experienced from him in years.

"How do you feel?" he asked, his green eyes searching my face with an intensity that made me uncomfortable.

"Like I got hit by a truck," I managed, my voice barely audible.

Something that might have been relief flickered across his features. He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair in a gesture I recognized from our childhood.

"The surgery was... complicated," he said carefully. "Both you and Rosalie experienced severe complications. The doctors had to make some difficult decisions about resource allocation."

I stared at him, waiting for him to continue, but he seemed to be struggling with his words.

"I want you to understand," he said finally, his voice taking on that tone he used when he was trying to convince himself as much as me. "When Dr. Morrison asked me to choose who to prioritize, I chose Rosalie because she's more fragile. Her body couldn't handle the complications the way yours could. You're stronger, Tessa. You always have been."

The explanation hung in the air between us, and I could see him waiting for my reaction. Waiting for me to scream, to cry, to demand explanations or apologies.

Instead, I simply nodded. "I understand."

The relief that washed over his face was almost comical. His shoulders sagged as if a great weight had been lifted from them.

"I knew you would," he said, and for a moment, his voice carried an echo of the warmth it had held when we were younger. "You've always been reasonable about these things."

*Reasonable.* The word tasted bitter in my mouth, but I kept my expression neutral.

Killian shifted in his chair, leaning forward slightly. "The doctors say you'll need to donate again in a few days. Rosalie's body is still adjusting to the new blood, and she needs another transfusion to fully stabilize. I need you to take care of yourself until then. Eat well, rest, don't do anything strenuous."

And there it was. The real reason he'd stayed by my bedside, the real reason for his gentle tone and careful explanations. He needed to ensure his blood bank remained functional.

A bitter smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. "Of course. Wouldn't want to compromise the supply."

If he caught the sarcasm in my voice, he didn't show it. Instead, he stood up, straightening his wrinkled shirt.

"I should go check on Rosalie," he said. "She's been asking for me. But Tessa... thank you. For everything you've done. I know this isn't easy for you."

He paused at the door, his hand on the handle. "Get some rest. I'll have someone bring you dinner later."

And then he was gone, leaving me alone with the steady beeping of machines and the hollow ache in my chest.

I closed my eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. Instead, I lay there thinking about choices and priorities, about the difference between being valued and being useful. Outside my window, I could hear the distant hum of the city, the sound of a world continuing to turn while mine had shifted on its axis once again.

Killian didn't return that night. Or the next day. Or the day after that.

When I was finally strong enough to discharge myself, I walked through the paperwork process alone, signed the forms alone, gathered my few belongings alone. The nurses who'd been so attentive during my stay barely looked up as I made my way toward the exit.

I was almost to the main entrance when I heard the commotion behind me. The sharp wail of sirens, the rapid footsteps of medical personnel, the urgent voices calling for a trauma team.

I turned, my heart already sinking, and saw a familiar scene unfolding in the emergency bay. A stretcher was being rushed through the automatic doors, surrounded by paramedics and nurses. And running alongside it, his face a mask of panic and desperation, was Killian.

On the stretcher, pale and still beneath an oxygen mask, was Rosalie.

"What happened?" Killian demanded, his voice cracking with fear. "She was fine this morning. She was laughing, she was—"

"Severe allergic reaction," one of the paramedics reported as they rushed past. "Possible organ rejection. We need to get her to surgery immediately."

I stood frozen in the entrance hall, watching the scene unfold like a movie I'd seen before. The desperate Alpha, the fragile mate, the medical emergency that would consume everyone's attention and energy.

A sharp pain lanced through my skull, so sudden and intense that I had to grip the doorframe to keep from falling. Images flashed behind my eyes—memories that felt both foreign and familiar, scenes of hospitals and heartbreak that I couldn't quite place.

But even as the pain threatened to overwhelm me, I forced myself to turn away. My flight was scheduled to depart in three hours. Dr. Cole would be waiting for me at the airport with my new passport and medical credentials.

I walked out of the hospital without looking back, each step taking me further from the life I'd known and closer to the future I was choosing for myself.

Behind me, I could still hear Killian's voice, raw with desperation, calling out Rosalie's name. But his voice grew fainter with each step I took, until finally, it was swallowed entirely by the sounds of the city and the promise of something new.