The Notebook and the Scalpel

My name is Lucy Scott, and I have been working as Simon Lewis's assistant for eight years. Over these eight years, I have grown from a naive medical student into a capable surgical assistant. Everyone believed I was Simon Lewis's most trusted confidante. Until this afternoon, when I was organizing files in his office, and unexpectedly found a locked brown notebook. The key hung inside his desk drawer — the very same one I had seen countless times while fetching his files. Compelled by a strange impulse, I opened the notebook. Inside, it was neither case summaries nor surgical plans, but a booklet specifically dedicated to Lisa Quinn. Lisa Quinn was his junior by three years when she joined the hospital. She had a pampered temperament and mediocre medical skills, yet she always received special treatment from Simon Lewis. His notebook recorded her preferences, her menstrual cycle, and even the symptoms and medications whenever she had a mild cold. "Today, Lisa has a slight fever. Deeply worried, I personally stayed with her until late at night, only leaving after she fell asleep." "Lisa complained that the operating table was too high; arrangements have been made for logistics to adjust its height." Each line was written with a tenderness unlike that of Simon Lewis, who was cold and rigid at the operating table. My fingertips grew cold; as I turned to the last few pages, my heart suddenly tightened. It read: "On the eighteenth of next month, Lisa's birthday, all appointments that day must be canceled to accompany her to the suburban hot spring resort." The eighteenth of next month is exactly the day my father is scheduled for craniotomy. That surgery is extremely complex; I pleaded with Simon Lewis for a long time before he finally agreed to be the lead surgeon. Last week, he suddenly informed me that the surgery would be handed over to another doctor, citing a "last-minute important academic conference." It turns out that so-called academic conference was just an excuse to accompany Lisa Quinn for her birthday. The office door was pushed open while I still stood frozen in place, clutching the notebook tightly in my hand. Simon Lewis walked in and, seeing the notebook I held, his gaze darkened slightly, though no emotion flickered across his face. "You saw it." His tone was even, as if discussing something insignificant. "Why?" My voice trembled, and even my breath was laced with pain. "My father's craniotomy—you simply postponed it, just to attend Lisa Quinn's birthday?" "It's merely a work arrangement." He took off his white coat and hung it neatly on the rack, his movements so composed they felt almost deliberate. "Other doctors can perform that surgery; there's no need for me to be the lead surgeon." "Other doctors?" I suddenly raised my voice, tears welling uncontrollably, "Do you know how complex my father's condition is? How long did I have to beg you before you agreed? You promised to do your best!" "Lucy Scott," he turned around, his gaze as cold as ice, "don't bring personal feelings into work." "I am the Department Director, and I have the authority to arrange my own schedule." "Personal feelings?" I laughed, tears streaming down my face, "Eight years, Simon Lewis. I've followed you for eight years. To you, my father's surgery is just a matter of rearranging your schedule?" He didn't say another word; he simply took out his phone, his fingers scrolling over the screen as if replying to messages. That cold expression was like a dull blade, slowly cutting into my heart. I clenched my notebook tightly and turned to leave the office. The lights in the corridor were harsh and pale, making me shiver all over. Eight years of loyalty and trust—it turned out to have been entirely one-sided.