Rebirth Into My Second Chance

At lunchtime, I headed to the cafeteria with some colleagues and from a distance, we spotted Max dining alone. It seemed like an invisible barrier surrounded him, leaving a few empty tables in his wake. Doctors passing by would offer polite greetings before choosing seats further away. One colleague nudged my shoulder, saying, "See? Your mentor's prestige in the hospital is undeniable. It's like he's off-limits to most, and here you are, up close and personal. We're all quite impressed. You're doing great."

Another chimed in with a giggle, "Dr. Hilton is so handsome. I've assisted him in surgeries and found myself stealing extra glances while mopping his brow. For some reason, even his sweat seemed to smell good."

This comment drew a playful rebuke from the first colleague, "That crush of yours got you transferred to another department by Dr. Hilton himself. Served you right."Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

"They say people with connections avoid becoming Dr. Hilton's students. Nobody wants to be reduced to tears after a surgery session with him."

Their banter continued as I absent-mindedly poked at my unappetizing meal. Coming from the Hart family had made my palate quite finicky over the years.

Just as I was lamenting the poor quality of the cafeteria food, I saw Claude's assistant, Neil, approaching with a lunch box in hand. Neil typically only ran errands for her, which made me frown in anticipation of the awkwardness to follow. Before I could refuse any special treatment, Neil was already by my side, respectfully handing me the insulated lunch box.

"Miss, Mrs. Hart has sent your lunch."

My colleagues gaped at me, their mouths full of food, stunned by the revelation of my family's attentiveness.

"Claire Floyd, you're like royalty!" they managed to sputter out, choking down their surprise along with their food.

They eyed my casual white T-shirt and jeans with a mix of shock and admiration.

"And here you are, choosing to endure Dr. Hilton's rigorous training? Why?"

Their real concern seemed to be whether my internship choice was influenced by Dr. Hilton's good looks.

I smiled, looking towards where Max had been seated, only to find him gone.

Taking the lunch box from Neil, I remarked, "No need for this anymore; the cafeteria food is fine."

Neil's expression didn't change, but I could tell he knew I hadn't touched my cafeteria meal. He was too sharp not to notice.

"Madam also said if the internship gets too tough, she could arrange something else for you," he relayed.

I couldn't help but smirk. Neil was Claude's assistant, yet he was invoking Mrs. Hart's name. Claude was indeed behind this gesture. "Thanks, but I'm good here," I responded.

After Neil left, I shared the contents of the lunch box with my colleagues. Inside were all my favorites: lobster thermidor, roast chicken legs, grilled salmon, beef and potatoes, and a luxurious truffle soup.

In my past life, Claude had been just as caring until Kate came into the picture. Then everything changed.

Or maybe Claude's kindness was just a public act, a way to keep up his image as a benefactor to the child of the family that had saved him.

"This cooking is incredible," my

colleagues raved. "Claire, how many Michelin stars does your chef have? We've never had anything this delicious. This roast chicken s out of this world." en

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Sipping the soup, I caught sight of Neil getting into a car outside the hospital - a Maybach, Claude's

personal vehicle. He had come after all

For some reason, as a ghost, I could clearly remind myself that I harbored resentment towards Claude.