Chapter 11: A SILENT GAME OF ATTENTION 

A SILENT GAME OF ATTENTION 

Stella sat up in her hospital bed, the dim light from her phone illuminating her face. She had spent the last twenty minutes scrolling through Wilson's Instagram, watching the life she had no idea the doctor had.

Her thumb hovered over the latest post—Wilson still at the club, drink in hand, looking relaxed yet effortlessly dominant in the dim, moody lighting.

But what caught Stella's attention the most was an earlier post about 2 days ago—a picture of Wilson in scrubs, carrying the same baby in a front carrier. The baby had appeared in at least 5 of her posts so far. The baby's face wasn't visible, but the sight of Dr. Wilson Ellah with a baby always strapped to her chest sent her mind into a whirlwind.

Was it hers?

Stella bit her lip, debating for a long moment…

AT THE CLUB 

Wilson barely glanced at her phone whenever it lit up. She got hundreds of followers a day—it was nothing new.

But when one particular notification appeared on her screen, she froze.

Stella Edward followed you.

Wilson's stomach tightened, her thumb immediately tapping the notification. She wasn't sure why she cared so much, but there it was—Stella's profile, verified, millions of followers, and a carefully curated feed of a life filled with luxury and fame. 

Was she thinking about me? Was she searching for me in the media?

Wilson exhaled through her nose, an odd mix of amusement and curiosity playing in her chest.

So… she was watching. She kept fighting with her. thoughts 

Tapping on Stella's profile, Wilson skimmed through her photos—movie premieres, designer outfits, behind-the-scenes clips of her acting career.

Yet, something about the way Stella had followed her made Wilson wonder if she was more interested in her than just a causal connection.

Emily nudged her, pulling her attention away. "You've been staring at your phone for the last two minutes. Important text?"

Wilson locked her screen, hiding the small smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "Something like that."

She allowed Emily to continue drinking, but her mind was far away from the club.

She had a feeling Stella was still watching.

And for some reason, she didn't mind it at all.

Emily was drunk. Not just tipsy, but completely gone.

Wilson sighed as she pulled Emily's arm over her shoulder, helping her out of the club and into her black SUV outside. Emily carried herself with an air of quiet confidence that suggested she wasn't just another ordinary woman.

Wilson had taken her phone earlier in the club to search for her earliest contact. She wanted to make sure someone was at home to receive Emily. 

When they arrived at Emily's place, the house staff immediately rushed over. It was clear Emily wasn't new to this. And they knew who Wilson was as well except it was long since they saw her.

Still, Wilson didn't just leave her at the door. She helped the servants carry her upstairs, stepping into Emily's bedroom for the first time in over a year.

And just like that, memories flooded in.

She had spent so many nights here—back when this place had felt like home. She remembered waking up to the scent of Emily's perfume lingering on the sheets, the soft hum of music playing in the background, and the way Emily would always pull her closer, whispering sleepy complaints whenever Wilson tried to leave for work too early.

Now, standing here again, it felt different. Familiar, yet distant.

The room was still the same—soft pinks, pastels, delicate lighting. It was a stark contrast to Wilson's own minimalistic, neutral-toned home. A space that once felt warm, inviting. Now, it only reminded her of how much had changed.

Wilson helped lay Emily down on the bed, adjusting the pillows to make sure she was comfortable.

Just as she turned to leave, Emily's hand shot out, grabbing her wrist.

"Would you stay… for some time?" Emily's voice was slurred, her eyelids heavy.

Wilson exhaled, gently prying her fingers off. "No, Emily. I have responsibilities at home."

Emily made a soft, sleepy sound of protest but didn't fight it. Wilson pulled the blanket over her and turned off the bedside lamp before heading out.

As she walked back to her car, her phone vibrated.

A notification from Instagram.

Stella Edward liked your post.

Wilson paused.

So, she really was watching.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of her lips as she slipped into the driver's seat.

"Interesting."

A CALL THAT SOBERED HER UP 

Wilson had barely settled into the seat of her SUV when her phone rang.

She frowned at the screen. It was Dr. Reynolds, one of her assistant surgeons. He wouldn't be calling unless something was seriously wrong.

She picked up. "Wilson."

His voice came through, tight and urgent. "Dr. Wilson, we need you at the hospital. Now. It's urgent."

She ran a hand down her face. "What happened?"

"It's Mrs. Patterson."

Wilson froze. That was her patient. The complicated amputation surgery she had performed just before heading to the club.

"What about her?"

"She woke up." A beat of silence. "She saw her arm was gone… and she's losing it."

Wilson shut her eyes.

Damn it.

She wasn't fit for surgery. She was still slightly tipsy from the drinks at the club. If this was a surgicall emergency, she wouldn't be able to operate at her best.

"Give me details. Is she stable?"

"Not really." Dr. Reynolds hesitated. "She's tearing up the room. Ripped out her IV, broke a tray, tried to attack a nurse. We sedated her slightly, but she's still aggressive. We need you here."

Wilson exhaled sharply, gripping the bridge of her nose.

"I'm on my way."

She hung up and knocked on the driver's seat.

"Step on it."

The car accelerated through the quiet city streets as Wilson sat back, forcing herself to sober up.

She needed to think fast. This wasn't just about a surgery—this was a mental health crisis. Mrs. Patterson wasn't just in pain—she was in shock.

Wilson clenched her jaw.

She had saved the woman's life. But now, she had to save her mind.

And she wasn't sure which one was harder.