I knew I couldn’t let Arthur’s lies stand. Taking a deep breath, I walked directly into the hallway circle where they stood, my new hospital contract clutched in my hand. Dr. Vance’s eyes, troubled and scrutinizing, landed on me.
“Dr. Vance,” I said, my voice steady, cutting through the tense air. “My father is misinformed. Or perhaps, deliberately misleading you.”
I extended my hand, offering him the certified state medical board registration and my signed contract offer letter. The embossed seals gleamed under the soft hallway lights.
“My bankruptcy,” I explained, looking him directly in the eye, “was a direct result of my ex-husband’s fraudulent loan schemes. I was legally cleared of all involvement six months ago. The court records are public, should you wish to verify them.”
I watched as Dr. Vance took the documents, his fingers brushing mine. He scanned the state registration, then the contract, his brow furrowing slightly as he confirmed the certified seal and my name. He then looked up, his gaze moving between Arthur’s red face and my determined one.
“As for my stability,” I continued, “my valedictorian transcripts and board results should speak for themselves.”
Arthur spluttered, trying to interject, but Dr. Vance held up a hand, silencing him. He was clearly processing the stark contrast between Arthur’s frantic accusations and the undeniable, official documentation I presented.
Dr. Vance’s gaze lingered on the contract’s title: “Assistant Chief of Trauma.” He knew what that position entailed. He knew the kind of scrutiny it demanded. And he knew that my father was actively trying to sabotage me.
His expression shifted, from troubled concern to a cold, hard anger directed squarely at Arthur. The realization was clear in his eyes: Arthur Holloway had been actively defaming his own daughter, the very person Northwestern Memorial had just entrusted with significant responsibility.
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