Her eyes burned with venom as she glared at me. "You're doing this on purpose, aren't you? Trying to destroy me? My fiancé is the richest man in the city! One word from him and every single one of you will be out on the street!"
I cut her off. "It's too early to worry about any of that. If we don't operate now, the infection will spread. Forget marriage—you could suffer permanent damage to your reproductive system. Or worse, it could kill you."
I was simply stating facts.
For patients like her, sympathy was worthless.
The nurse beside me handed over the surgical consent form. Sophie snatched it and tore it to shreds.
"Sign? I'm not signing anything!" she shrieked. "You quacks are trying to hurt me! I'll report every one of you! I'll destroy your careers!"
Then something seemed to occur to her. Her gaze turned venomous, locking onto me. "Who do you think you are? You think you're qualified to operate on me? Get your chief of surgery in here. Now. Or I'll have my fiancé tear this dump to the ground!"
If her condition weren't so critical, I wouldn't bother.
But duty is duty. I couldn't bring myself to walk away.