Have a Look
Gisela's POV
"Oh my gosh, I hope Santiago picks me," Josephine squeaked, swinging her leg from her perch on the desk.
Her perfectly manicured nails clicked against her thigh.
Around the central workstation, the usual afternoon lull had died. Nurses from two shifts had clustered together, trading hushed, fast-paced gossip. Patient charts and cold coffee cups were entirely forgotten.
I kept my eyes on my screen, typing out a post-op discharge summary and pushing my glasses up my nose. I twisted a stray curl around my finger, trying to tune them out.
"Santiago isn't making the call," Lois said, not looking up from her phone. "Salvador's assistant said the request came right from the family's lawyer. But the guy himself gets the final veto."
"Well, they'd be crazy not to choose someone who actually knows how to handle high-profile clients," Josephine said, tossing her blonde hair.
She shot a pointed look around the circle. "Some people just have the look for estate placement. It requires a certain... pedigree."
"Oh, absolutely," Maudlin chimed in. As usual, she was practically vibrating with eagerness to please Josephine. "If they want someone who can blend into a mansion and look the part, you're a shoe-in."
Lois finally looked up, her eyes sliding across the desk to me.
"What about Gisela? She had the highest clinical scores in the department this quarter. If they want competence, she's top of the pile."
The chatter died. The silence that followed was heavy, the kind that made you acutely aware of the fluorescent hum overhead.
Josephine's eyes narrowed, scanning me from my ergonomic support shoes to my hair.
The subtle shift in the room's energy was all too familiar.
It wasn't the kind of prejudice anyone could point to. It lived in the little things, the kind l'd spent my whole life learning to spot as someone who wasn't ivory.
No slurs. Nothing blatant enough for HR to care about.
Just being left out of lunch orders, conversations dying the second I walked over, and compliments that sounded nice until you thought about them for more than a second.
I didn't give them the satisfaction of looking up. I just kept my focus on the keyboard.
"Gisela is great with the floor patients," Josephine murmured, her voice dripping sweet. "But a private estate placement for someone like Lucien Dela-Lucchese? That's a different league."
A collective gasp rippled through the huddle.
"Wait, him?" Maudlin whispered, leaning in. "The aerospace guy?"
"The very one," Josephine purred. "My cousin's in luxury real estate. She says his family basically owns the private airfields in the state. And there are crazy rumors about his under-the-table business. Private intelligence, military-grade stuff. You look at his pictures, and you just know. Cold, terrifying eyes."
She sighed, dreamily.
"Honestly, it's so hot. A little bedside manner, some strategic touching while checking vitals... I'd have him wrapped around my finger in a week."
I bit my lip to keep from laughing out loud. The man was hiring a private nurse, meaning he was likely in critical condition, and Josephine was writing an erotic thriller in her head.
The heavy double doors swung open, cutting her off. Cindy, Dr. Salvador's assistant, stepped into the hub looking utterly bored. Her eyes locked onto me.
"Gisela," she called out. "Dr. Salvador wants you in his office. Now."
"Now?" I paused. "I'm right in the middle of a tracking summary."
"He said immediately. Leave it for the next shift." Cindy spun on her heel and marched back out.
Behind me, a low snicker broke out. "Oof, Salvador is on a warpath today," Maudlin whispered. "Better you than me."
Josephine giggled, crossing her arms.
"Well, I highly doubt it's about the Dela-Lucchese contract. Lucien doesn't exactly look like the type of man who would want someone like her in his personal space."
The words hung in the air, thick and poisoned. 'Someone like her.'
I stopped dead in my tracks. I turned around slowly, my brows furrowing as I fixed my eyes directly on Josephine.
She didn't even bother hiding it behind a polite smile this time. It was just straight-up racism, neatly packaged as a 'high-class aesthetic' choice.
"What exactly do you mean by that?" I asked. My voice was perfectly flat.
Josephine's smile faltered. She quickly fluttered her hands, grabbing a clipboard to fan herself.
"Oh, goodness, don't be so sensitive, Ella! I just mean, looking at the media coverage, he's never seen with anyone who isn't from his own... background. His own race. It's just a preference thing. No need to get defensive."
I looked at her, letting my gaze linger on her face until her forced smile completely vanished and she shifted uncomfortably under my stare.
I didn't argue. I didn't waste my breath trying to explain how disgusting her words were because people like Josephine didn't want to learn; they wanted a reaction.
I gave her a look of profound disgust, turned my back on the entire group, and walked down the hall toward the executive suites.
The administrative wing of the hospital was significantly quieter than the busy floor of the surgical ward. It was carpeted, absorbing the sound of my footsteps as I approached the heavy mahogany door bearing the name Dr. Gerald Salvador, Chief of Thoracic Surgery.
I knocked twice out of habit before turning the knob and stepping inside.
The office smelled of old paper, rich cologne, and the faint aroma of espresso.
Large windows looked out over the Atlanta skyline, casting the room in natural afternoon light. Dr. Salvador was seated behind his massive wooden desk, surrounded by stacks of medical journals and patient files.
Looking at him, you would never believe the man was in his late sixties. He possessed the lean, athletic build of a man twenty years his junior, a proof of his strict marathon training and decades of disciplined living.
The only true indicator of his age was his beard; a thick, neatly trimmed layer of silver and black that framed a strong, deeply lined jawline.
As soon as he heard the door click, he raised his head, removing his reading glasses and letting them hang from the cord around his neck.
A genuine, warm expression immediately transformed his face.
"Ah, Gisella. Come in, come in. Have a seat," he greeted me, gesturing toward one of the leather armchairs opposite his desk.
I walked over and sat down, my hands instinctively finding each other in my lap. I began fiddling with my fingers, twisting a small silver band on my thumb as I tried to gauge the reason for this sudden summons.
"Cindy said it was urgent, Doctor. Am I in some sort of trouble with the Tomas chart?"
Dr. Salvador let out a soft, deep chuckle, rolling his eyes slightly.
"You? In trouble? Gisela, if every nurse in this facility operated with your level of precision, I would actually sleep more than four hours a night."
Before I got a chance to bask in the compliment, he cleared his throat, his expression transitioning into something far more serious.
He reached into his drawer, pulled out a thick, navy blue leather folio, and slid the file across the polished surface of the table.
I stared down at the gold-embossed emblem on the cover, then looked back up at him, my brow raised in confusion.
"What is this?"
"Have a look, Gisela. It's right in front of you."
