Synopsis-
Dr. Rayhan Malik, a hopeless romantic ER doctor, believes in soulmates despite the chaos of his job. When the cold, pragmatic Dr. Evangeline Thorne joins the team, their clash of ideals sparks tension. But as they navigate life-or-death situations, their walls begin to crumble, and an unexpected love starts to form. However, with past traumas and hidden scars, can they overcome their fears and find love in the most unpredictable of places?
Chapter 1: The New Arrival
The doors of St. Augustine Hospital’s emergency department swung open with a gust of cold London air and a pair of red-bottomed heels that didn’t belong anywhere near a trauma bay. Dr. Evangeline Thorne walked in like she owned the floor, her tailored navy coat catching the fluorescent light, her platinum hair in a severe bun that could cut glass. She didn’t glance at the waiting room overflowing with patients. She didn’t flinch at the screams echoing from a nearby trauma bay. Her gaze was fixed straight ahead, like the chaos around her was beneath her notice.
Rayhan Malik noticed her long before she noticed him.
He was hunched over a chart at the nurses’ station, his sleeves rolled up and a coffee stain drying on his scrubs. He had just come off a 12-hour shift and was halfway through writing a note on a patient who had swallowed a thumbtack when she appeared in his peripheral vision—a vision that belonged on the cover of a medical fashion magazine, not a frontline ER.
“Who’s the ice queen?” he murmured to Nurse Priya.
“She’s the new attending from Harley Street. Private sector royalty. Dr. Evangeline Thorne,” Priya whispered, eyes wide. “Word is she’s been sent to ‘observe’ us.”
Rayhan’s brows rose. “Observe? What are we, a wildlife reserve?”
Before Priya could respond, Evangeline approached the desk with the precision of a scalpel. “I need access to all patient logs for the past 48 hours,” she said crisply. “And I’ll need a full list of the trauma team’s competencies. Including yours, Dr…?”
“Malik. Dr. Rayhan Malik,” he said, standing up and offering a hand. “Welcome to the jungle.”
She didn’t take his hand. Instead, she tilted her head. “You’re the one they call Dr. Romantic, aren’t you?”
Rayhan blinked. “Guilty. Though I didn’t pick the name.”
“I figured,” she said coolly, flipping open a leather-bound tablet. “Only someone hopelessly sentimental would be proud of it.”
The words stung more than he expected.
He leaned in slightly, a hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You don’t believe in romance?”
“I believe in data, outcomes, and evidence-based treatment plans. Romance has no place in a hospital. Especially not in an emergency department.”
Rayhan chuckled. “Then you’re in the wrong place, Doctor. Around here, love and chaos tend to walk in hand-in-hand.”
She arched a perfect brow. “Sounds inefficient.”
He watched her walk away—every step a dismissal. She was beautiful, sure. But in the same way winter was beautiful: crisp, cold, and likely to kill anything warm that got too close.
Still, something about her lingered in his mind longer than it should have.
Later that night, as he handed off a trauma case to the next shift and pulled on his coat, he paused at the glass doors leading out into the foggy London street. Somewhere deep in the hospital, Evangeline Thorne was probably reviewing charts with surgical precision, dissecting every inefficiency she could find.
And yet, all he could think was—what happened to her heart that made her build walls so high?
Dr. Romantic had no answers yet. But something told him that the story behind her ice might just be worth melting for.
Chapter 2: The Collision
The emergency department pulsed with the kind of barely controlled chaos that only a Saturday night in London could bring—car crashes, bar fights, and overdoses all arriving in rapid succession. Alarms blared. Monitors beeped. The smell of antiseptic barely masked the metallic tang of blood.
Dr. Rayhan Malik was in his element.
He leaned over a teenage boy with a deep abdominal wound, barking orders with calm urgency. “Two units of O-neg, wide-bore IV, prep for the OR. We’re not losing this kid tonight.”
Across the room, a commotion erupted as Dr. Evangeline Thorne entered with a trauma cart, flanked by a pair of junior doctors trailing behind her like obedient shadows. She was all clipped commands and icy precision.
“This patient needs a CT before he’s opened up,” she declared, eyeing the boy on the gurney. “We don’t cut without confirming the bleed’s location. It could be retroperitoneal.”
Rayhan froze, scalpel in hand.
“There’s no time. He’s hemodynamically unstable. We need to operate now.”
Evangeline crossed her arms. “If you open him up blindly, you could worsen his condition or miss a secondary bleed. That’s not medicine—it’s guesswork.”
Their voices rose above the noise, drawing stares from nurses, orderlies, and even the usually unflappable charge nurse, Priya.
Rayhan took a step closer. “This isn’t Harley Street, Dr. Thorne. We don’t always get the luxury of perfect conditions.”
“And this isn’t a battlefield,” she snapped. “You don’t get to play the romantic hero with someone’s life.”
That did it.
The word romantic—used like an insult, a punchline.
He looked at her with a flash of something sharp in his gaze. “Being called Dr. Romantic doesn’t mean I’m reckless. It means I still believe this job is about people. Not just protocol.”
She held his stare, her expression unreadable. “Belief doesn’t save lives. Skill does.”
The silence that followed was palpable, a standoff between heart and logic in the middle of a bleeding emergency.
Eventually, Priya stepped in. “We’re losing him. No time for debate.”
Rayhan made the call. “To the OR. Now.”
The team moved swiftly, tension thick in the air.
Later that night, as the boy stabilized post-op, the staff lounge buzzed with whispers.
“Did you see that fight between Dr. Romantic and the Ice Queen?”
“Ten quid says she quits within the week.”
But Rayhan wasn’t thinking about gossip. He sat alone, staring at the vending machine, the adrenaline fading into quiet frustration.
She’d challenged him—in front of everyone. But beneath her arrogance, there had been something else. A flicker of fear? A desperate need to be right?
Evangeline, meanwhile, stood in the darkened hallway, watching the OR light flicker from red to green.
She wouldn’t admit it out loud, but Rayhan’s decision had saved the boy’s life.
Still, she couldn’t shake the image of his eyes when she’d mocked him. Not angry. Just… disappointed.
For a man called Dr. Romantic, he had a way of making her feel like maybe—just maybe—she’d been the one who didn’t understand what medicine was really about.
Chapter 3: Love Letters and Bitter Tea
It was a quiet lull between emergencies, the kind that made doctors uneasy. In the staff lounge, the hum of the vending machine filled the silence, along with the faint ticking of the ancient wall clock. Rayhan sat hunched over a notepad, his brow furrowed in concentration as he wrote, his pen gliding across the page with practiced ease.
He didn’t notice when Evangeline entered.
She was only there for a cup of tea—her third of the evening, strong and unsweetened. But as the kettle clicked off, her gaze drifted toward the table. A crumpled piece of paper sat unattended where Rayhan had been moments before, left behind in his rush to respond to a Code Blue.
It was a letter. Handwritten. On hospital stationery.
She shouldn’t have picked it up. But curiosity tugged at her fingers, and before she could stop herself, she unfolded the page.
“To the woman I haven’t met yet…”
Her eyes scanned the words.
It was raw. Honest. A confession dressed as a daydream. He wrote about waiting—about believing there was someone out there who would love him without conditions, without trying to change him. Someone who wouldn’t flinch at the chaos of the ER or the ghosts of his past. Someone who would see him not as Dr. Romantic, but as Rayhan Malik: flawed, exhausted, hopeful.
Evangeline folded the letter slowly, her breath caught somewhere in her chest.
It was nonsense, of course. Idealistic. Foolish.
But something about it clung to her ribs.
She slipped the letter into her coat pocket before she even realized what she was doing.
That night, at home in her minimalist flat overlooking the Thames, she sat on her sterile white sofa with the letter in her lap. She read it again. And again.
It made no sense. Men like Dr. Rayhan Malik weren’t real. At least, not in her world. Her father had taught her that love was leverage, a transaction. Her ex had proven it. And yet… here was this man—this Dr. Romantic—writing letters to a woman who might never exist, as if he believed that just hoping hard enough could summon her into being.
Fool.
But when she finally went to bed, she tucked the letter into her bedside drawer, beneath her watch and the novel she never finished.
She didn’t know why.
And she didn’t sleep well.
At the hospital the next morning, Rayhan checked his coat pockets, then the staff lounge, then the nurse’s desk. The letter was gone.
He sighed, thinking he must have lost it in the shuffle of a long shift.
But across the ER, Evangeline passed him in the hallway. For the first time, her eyes lingered on his—just for a second longer than necessary.
Rayhan blinked. Had she just looked at him? Really looked?
He smiled faintly.
Dr. Romantic didn’t know where his letter had ended up.
But something told him it had landed exactly where it needed to.
Chapter 4: A Night to Bleed
The call came in at 11:47 p.m.—a pile-up on the M25. Four vehicles. Dozens injured. Multiple critical.
Within minutes, the emergency department transformed from tension to total war. Sirens screamed as ambulances flooded the bay. Blood stained the floors before anyone had time to mop. Chaos was everywhere.
And at the center of it all stood Dr. Romantic.
Rayhan Malik moved like water under pressure—calm, direct, focused. His hands were steady even as his heart thundered in his chest.
“Thoracotomy tray, now!” he ordered, crouched over a woman with a collapsing lung. “Evangeline, I need hands!”
She was already beside him, gloved and ready. No hesitation. Just action.
They worked together seamlessly, passing tools, anticipating each other’s moves. Every second counted, and they counted together. The tension that usually crackled between them gave way to something different now—synchrony. Trust forged in trauma.
For fourteen relentless hours, they stitched, cut, resuscitated, lost patients, saved others. The ER was soaked in blood and sweat and raw human noise.
It wasn’t until the sun cracked the London skyline that it ended.
The last critical patient was wheeled up to the ICU. Nurses slumped in chairs, eyes hollow. A paramedic cried quietly by the vending machine.
Rayhan walked into the supply room to grab more gauze—and found her there.
Evangeline sat on the floor, her coat half-on, her face in her hands. Her pristine bun had come undone, wisps of platinum hair clinging to her temples. Her scrubs were soaked. Her shoulders trembled.
He hesitated at the door. The woman in front of him wasn’t Dr. Thorne, the ice queen from Harley Street. She was just… Evangeline. And she was breaking.
Rayhan stepped in slowly. No words. Just silence. And then, gently, he sank to the floor beside her.
She didn’t move for a long time.
“I couldn’t save the little boy,” she whispered. “The one in the green jumper.”
“I know,” he said softly. “I couldn’t save the woman with the wedding ring. We did what we could.”
She looked at him then—really looked. There was no judgment in his face, no smugness, no I-told-you-so. Just understanding.
“How do you do this?” she asked. “Day after day?”
He gave a tired smile. “I write letters.”
Her eyes narrowed, confused.
Rayhan leaned his head back against the cabinet. “To someone I haven’t met yet. It helps me remember why I care so much.”
Evangeline went still.
She knew the letter he meant.
A long silence passed between them, broken only by the humming of the fridge and the distant beeping of a monitor in recovery.
Then, without thinking, she reached out. Not for comfort. Not for drama. Just instinct. Her fingers brushed his, tentative and trembling.
Rayhan didn’t move. He didn’t have to.
Because for the first time since she arrived at St. Augustine’s, she didn’t feel like a stranger.
And for the first time, she allowed herself to sit in the quiet, beside Dr. Romantic, and just bleed.
Chapter 5: Ice Begins to Melt
Monday brought the usual madness—understaffed shifts, overfilled trauma bays, and a cold drizzle that soaked through patients and paramedics alike. But something had shifted in the air at St. Augustine’s, something almost imperceptible.
It started with a laugh.
A real one.
From Dr. Evangeline Thorne.
It happened mid-morning, in Trauma Bay 3, when Rayhan accidentally called a laryngoscope a “laryngosword” in front of a nervous med student. The student had gone pale. Rayhan had doubled down on the joke, wielding the instrument like a fencing foil. “En garde, tonsils!”
And Evangeline—witness to the whole thing—actually laughed.
Not a scoff. Not a smirk.
A laugh. Clear. Brief. Unmistakably human.
Rayhan didn’t mention it. But he noticed. So did half the staff.
Later, during rounds, she offered praise to a nurse. Then thanked a porter. Then—most shocking of all—asked Rayhan if he wanted to co-sign her surgical notes on a trauma case.
“You’re not so unbearable when you’re not playing the romantic savior,” she said.
He grinned. “And you’re not so terrifying when you’re not breathing down people’s throats like a Victorian ghost bride.”
She gave him a warning look, but her lips twitched.
Progress.
But the ice was only melting on the surface. Underneath, the frost was still there.
That evening, a call came in about a high-profile patient: a billionaire investor with chest pains. Evangeline’s world.
She met the incoming stretcher with her usual elegance, greeting the man by name. “Charles. You look pale.”
“Better now that you’re here,” he replied, clutching his chest with dramatic flair.
Rayhan, watching from the nurses’ station, saw her tone shift. Smooth. Polished. Detached. She ordered tests like she was conducting an orchestra. She smiled politely at the man’s awful jokes. When he demanded a private room and a personal cardiologist flown in from Geneva, she nodded without blinking.
He approached as she signed off a chart.
“He’s stable,” Rayhan said. “We don’t need to treat him like royalty.”
“He’s a priority case,” she said, her voice back to ice. “We don’t choose who matters. We just follow protocol.”
“You mean the protocol of the rich?” he asked, his voice lower.
She paused, a flicker of guilt in her eyes.
“You don’t get it,” she said finally. “In my world, keeping people like him happy keeps hospitals funded.”
“And in mine,” Rayhan replied, “keeping people alive—regardless of their bank accounts—is why I became Dr. Romantic in the first place.”
The words hung between them.
Later, she sat in her office, staring at the letter in her desk drawer. She had read it again last night. And the night before.
It spoke of love that didn’t calculate value. Love that didn’t come with strings or stocks or strategic alliances.
She hated how much she wanted to believe in it.
And yet, she couldn’t look at Rayhan’s name on a patient chart without feeling something stir inside her.
The ice hadn’t shattered.
But it had definitely cracked.
Chapter 6: Past Lives, Present Scars
The day started like any other—too many patients, not enough staff, and coffee that tasted like punishment. Rayhan moved through the ER with his usual warmth, sleeves rolled up, stethoscope slung around his neck like a talisman.
Until he saw the name on the intake list.
Margaret Klein.
Fifty-eight. Car accident. Mild head trauma.
His heart skipped.
He hadn’t seen that name in over twenty years.
She was wheeled in by a paramedic, blood caked in her hair, muttering something about a cat darting into the road. Rayhan froze at the sight of her. She was older now, frailer. But it was her.
The woman who’d once been his social worker. The one who had tried, and failed, to get him adopted.
Dr. Romantic wasn’t ready for this.
He approached slowly, every step a memory. The broken foster homes. The bruises he lied about. The hospital visits he didn’t want to explain. Margaret had been the only adult who ever looked him in the eye and asked, Are you safe?—and meant it.
“Margaret?” he asked softly.
She blinked at him, dazed. Then recognition flickered. “Rayhan Malik? My God…”
He gave a weak smile. “You still remember me.”
“How could I forget you?” Her voice cracked. “You used to write poems about becoming a doctor. Said you’d heal people with words.”
Evangeline entered then, pausing just outside the curtain. She heard the name, saw the tension in Rayhan’s jaw, and for once, she didn’t interrupt.
She listened.
Later, after Margaret was stabilized and resting in recovery, Rayhan sat beside her in the quiet ward. Evangeline stood at a distance, arms folded, eyes softer than usual.
“You look like you became who you always wanted to be,” Margaret said, her voice weak but proud.
“Some days,” Rayhan replied. “Other days I still feel like that lost kid in the system.”
She reached for his hand. “But you kept your heart. You didn’t let the world take that from you.”
When he stepped out of the room, Evangeline was waiting.
“She knew you,” she said.
Rayhan nodded. “She was the first person who saw me. Not just the file. Not the bruises. Me.”
Evangeline didn’t respond right away. Then she asked, almost cautiously, “Was that why you became Dr. Romantic?”
Rayhan laughed quietly. “It’s not a nickname. It’s a survival method. If I didn’t believe in something better, I’d have drowned a long time ago.”
Evangeline looked at him, and for the first time, saw more than the cheerful doctor who annoyed her with kindness and handwritten letters. She saw a boy who had stitched his own heart back together, thread by painful thread.
“You think love heals everything?” she asked.
“No,” he said gently. “But it gives you something worth healing for.”
That night, alone in her flat, Evangeline poured herself a glass of wine and stared out at the glittering London skyline.
Rayhan’s words echoed in her mind.
Love wasn’t a distraction. It was a reason.
And maybe, just maybe, Dr. Romantic had a point after all.
Chapter 7: The Kiss That Wasn’t
The rain fell hard that night, slicking the city in a silver haze. Inside the ER, the shift dragged on with dull monotony—nothing life-threatening, just a steady trickle of broken bones, chest pains, and bad decisions.
Rayhan found himself charting alone in the on-call room, exhaustion softening his features. His once-crisp scrubs clung to him from a spilled coffee. He scribbled notes with half-lidded eyes, his pen trailing off mid-word.
The door creaked open.
Evangeline stepped in, her silhouette outlined by the hallway light. She looked tired too—bone-deep tired. Her bun was loosened again, wisps of blonde curling near her jaw. Her coat was damp from the rain, and her heels were swapped out for plain white sneakers.
She closed the door behind her.
“I needed quiet,” she said. “The lounge is loud.”
Rayhan gestured vaguely to the chair across from him. “Plenty of quiet in here. Just me and my never-ending chart backlog.”
She sat.
For a moment, they didn’t speak. The only sound was the rain drumming against the window, steady and unrelenting.
“I read another one,” she said finally.
He looked up.
“Letter,” she clarified. “The one tucked into the back of your locker.”
His brow lifted in amusement. “So you’re a repeat offender now.”
She ignored the tease. “You wrote, ‘I hope when I find you, you don’t ask me to prove I’m worthy of love. I hope you just… love me anyway.’”
Rayhan’s expression shifted—open, vulnerable. “That one was from the week my last foster brother OD’d. I didn’t think anyone would ever read it.”
“I wasn’t supposed to,” she murmured. “But I did.”
A silence bloomed between them, thick with unsaid things. The air felt charged, as if one wrong move would shatter it.
“Why do you write them?” she asked softly.
He shrugged. “Because if I don’t believe in something more than this—than blood and burnout—then what’s the point?”
She looked away, toward the window. “I used to believe in something. But it left.”
Rayhan leaned forward slightly. “Who hurt you?”
Evangeline turned to him, startled. No one ever asked that. Not her colleagues. Not her ex. Not even her father. They only ever assumed she had it all—and that she wanted nothing else.
He didn’t press her. Just waited.
“I did,” she whispered. “I hurt myself. I let people tell me who I had to be until I forgot who I actually was.”
The raw honesty caught in her throat. Rayhan reached out, instinctively, and gently touched her hand.
Their eyes met.
It was a moment suspended—between the past and future, between logic and longing.
He leaned in. Slowly. Carefully. As if giving her time to stop him.
And she didn’t.
But just before their lips touched, she pulled back.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t fall for me. You’ll regret it.”
Rayhan stayed where he was, his breath warm between them.
“Too late,” he said softly.
She closed her eyes.
And then she stood, composed herself, and walked out without another word.
The door clicked shut.
Rayhan exhaled, burying his face in his hands.
Dr. Romantic had gotten close.
But not close enough.
Chapter 8: Secrets in a Syringe
It was supposed to be a routine procedure—a straightforward laparoscopic repair on a middle-aged woman with internal bleeding from a fall. Nothing complex. Nothing controversial. But nothing in the ER stayed routine for long.
Rayhan had scrubbed in with a clear mind. Evangeline had even passed him the pre-op chart without her usual chilly detachment. Things were finally… steady.
Until the woman crashed on the table.
Monitors screamed. Her blood pressure dropped. The anesthesiologist barked out vitals. Rayhan worked fast, hands steady, trying to stabilize the hemorrhage. Evangeline joined the chaos mid-swing, sliding in beside him, her expression locked in urgency.
They saved her. Barely.
But the questions started before the patient even reached recovery.
By morning, an internal review had been launched. The patient’s family filed a complaint, claiming negligence. Someone alleged the wrong dosage of anesthetic was given. And the chart—the chart Evangeline had reviewed—was missing.
Rayhan was summoned.
The boardroom was cold and clinical, filled with senior consultants and a risk management officer who looked like he hadn’t smiled since the Blair administration. They asked questions like scalpels. Sliced through timelines. Demanded clarity. Accused without words.
And when they asked about the chart, Rayhan’s stomach dropped.
“It was there,” he said. “I saw it. Dr. Thorne handed it to me.”
Evangeline, sitting at the far end of the table, looked up sharply.
“Are you implying I lost the chart?” she asked, her voice clipped, unreadable.
“No,” he said quickly. “I just—I remember you handed it to me. And then it was gone.”
A beat of silence.
Then, for the first time since she walked into that hospital, Evangeline Thorne made a choice that had nothing to do with logic or self-preservation.
“I found it,” she said evenly. “In the bin, outside the OR. It had been stained with blood, partially illegible. I should have reported it sooner.”
A collective murmur rippled through the room.
Rayhan looked at her, stunned. He knew she hadn’t found it. He knew she had just lied—for him.
After the meeting, he caught her by the stairwell.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” she said, eyes forward. “But I did.”
“Why?”
She hesitated. Then met his gaze. “Because for once, someone believed in me first. Without asking for anything.”
Rayhan swallowed hard.
“You know what this means, right?” he said. “You could face disciplinary action.”
“I know.”
“You put your career on the line for me.”
She stepped closer. “You’re Dr. Romantic. You write letters to ghosts and hope they’ll turn into people. You see love in warzones. You believe in impossible things. Maybe it’s time someone believed in you.”
He didn’t know whether to thank her or pull her into his arms.
So he said nothing.
And she walked away, back into the storm she had just stepped into willingly—this time, for him.
For Dr. Romantic.
Chapter 9: A Love Undeniable
The hospital hadn’t quite settled since the hearing. Whispers lingered in corners, glances stretched a little too long, and silence followed Rayhan wherever he went.
But none of that mattered.
Because the only person he was thinking about was her.
Evangeline.
She had lied for him—put her spotless record on the line to protect Dr. Romantic, the very title she used to mock. And now, every time he saw her across the trauma bay, something in his chest tightened. Something real.
That night, the ER was blessedly quiet. Rain tapped against the windows like a metronome, rhythmic and soothing. Rayhan found himself in the radiology hallway, leaning against the cool wall, chart in hand, eyes closed.
“You’re avoiding me,” came her voice.
He looked up to find Evangeline walking toward him, arms crossed—not in hostility, but in hesitation. She wore her scrubs like armor, but her eyes… her eyes had softened.
“I didn’t want to pressure you,” Rayhan said. “After what you did…”
“Don’t.” She stopped a few feet away. “Don’t thank me again.”
He nodded slowly. “Then what should I say?”
She inhaled. “You could start by telling me why.”
“Why what?”
“Why you keep looking at me like I’m the one you’ve been writing to.”
The question sliced through the air, sudden and bare. Rayhan swallowed.
“Because maybe you are,” he said. “Or maybe I just want you to be.”
She looked at him—really looked. Her walls were trembling now, not just cracked but shaking. And before either of them could second-guess, she closed the distance.
The kiss came like a collision.
Fierce. Breathless. Long overdue.
Rayhan’s hands curled into her damp hair as she pulled him closer, desperate to silence the doubts in her mind. She tasted rain and adrenaline and the ache of everything she had never let herself feel.
When they finally broke apart, her forehead rested against his.
“I’m terrified,” she whispered.
“So am I.”
She stepped back, her hands still on his chest. “I don’t know how to love someone who believes in forever.”
“You don’t have to know,” Rayhan said. “You just have to try.”
She didn’t answer. But she didn’t walk away either.
Later, in the staff lounge, they sat side by side on the worn leather couch. No words. Just quiet presence. Their hands found each other naturally, fingers intertwined like sutures closing something invisible.
The world hadn’t stopped spinning. The ER was still broken and bloody. Their lives were still complicated and messy.
But in that moment, Dr. Romantic wasn’t writing to a ghost anymore.
He was writing to her.
Chapter 10: The Ex-Factor
The week after their kiss was a strange new world—one filled with lingering touches in quiet corridors, subtle glances during rounds, and a silence between Rayhan and Evangeline that felt less like avoidance and more like something sacred.
But peace never lasted long at St. Augustine’s.
Not for Dr. Romantic.
It was just past noon when the department’s glass doors slid open, and in walked Lord Sebastian Hale—tall, polished, aristocratic to his core. He was the kind of man whose presence turned heads and silenced rooms. His designer coat was draped over one arm, and his smile was the kind that belonged in glossy society columns, not trauma bays.
Rayhan watched from across the room as Evangeline greeted him.
The way her posture straightened. The way her lips formed a practiced smile. The way Sebastian leaned in, familiar and possessive.
It hit Rayhan like a blow to the chest.
Later, in the staff room, Priya leaned over and whispered, “That’s the ex. Sebastian Hale. Billionaire. Hospital board donor. Rumor was they were engaged.”
Rayhan forced a smile. “Figures.”
He found her an hour later in the consult room, staring out the window like the skyline had answers.
“So,” he said, voice light but taut, “is this the part where the rich ex swoops in and reminds you who you used to be?”
Evangeline turned, surprised. “He’s just here for a routine cardiac review. I didn’t invite him.”
“Looked more than routine.”
She crossed her arms. “I didn’t know he was coming. And it doesn’t matter. That part of my life is over.”
“Is it?” Rayhan asked. “Because from where I stood, you looked like you belonged in his world.”
Her jaw clenched. “You think I belong with him because we wear the same brands? Because we speak the same cold language?”
“I think,” Rayhan said, “that you’re scared of what this—what we—could be. And it’s easier to slip back into something you can control.”
Her silence was answer enough.
Later that night, he saw them together again—this time at a quiet table in a private restaurant just across from the hospital. Through the rain-dappled glass, Evangeline was smiling. Sebastian touched her hand.
Rayhan turned away.
He didn’t sleep that night.
Neither did she.
Because what Rayhan didn’t see was the moment she pulled her hand away from Sebastian’s, or the way she stared at her wine glass with distant eyes.
“Evangeline,” Sebastian said smoothly, “you could have it all again. A private hospital. Full control. No chaos, no heartbreak.”
She looked at him, tired and wary.
“I already have chaos,” she whispered. “And I’m starting to think heartbreak might be worth it.”
But when she returned to the ER the next morning, Rayhan was gone.
No note.
No message.
No Dr. Romantic.
Chapter 11: Goodbye, Dr. Romantic
The morning shift came and went like a blur of antiseptic and heartbeats, but Evangeline couldn’t shake the tightness in her chest. The air in the hospital felt thicker than usual, weighed down by something she couldn’t quite name.
Rayhan had been absent. No messages. No calls. Just a vacancy that seemed to echo louder than the beeping monitors around her. It was as if he had disappeared entirely, leaving behind only fragments of his warmth—an extra coffee cup in the lounge, his stethoscope draped over a chair, his letters that still haunted her thoughts.
She couldn’t focus. Every time a page went off, she thought it would be him. But it wasn’t.
By late afternoon, the news broke.
Rayhan had resigned. Effective immediately.
Evangeline felt her heart drop. She found the paperwork in the HR office, his signature sharp and final on the resignation form. A decision made with no warning, no chance for anyone to change his mind.
She didn’t know what hurt more: the suddenness of his departure or the realization that she had never told him how she truly felt.
She rushed to his locker, hoping for some clue, some sign that he hadn’t just left without a word.
The locker was empty.
Except for one thing.
A single folded letter.
She opened it slowly, the paper creasing under her fingers.
“To the woman who made me believe in more than just the heartbeats in my chest. I’ve always believed in something better. Something real. But you made me see that I’m more than just the man in scrubs. You made me feel like I could be loved for who I am, not what I do. You taught me that love isn’t about waiting for perfection—it’s about accepting the flaws and believing in each other anyway. You deserve that kind of love too. And I hope, one day, you’ll find it.”
The words burned her eyes. The letter wasn’t a goodbye—it was a plea. A plea to fight for something she was too scared to embrace.
Tears blurred her vision as she stuffed the letter into her coat pocket and rushed out of the hospital, desperate to find him.
But when she reached the streets, the city felt unfamiliar. The lights blurred into a sea of indifference. Rayhan was gone. Gone without a trace, and she had no idea where to look. He had disappeared into the night like a phantom, leaving her with only the echoes of his presence.
Her phone buzzed, jolting her from her thoughts. She looked at the screen. Sebastian.
She answered without thinking.
“Evangeline, I’m here. We need to talk.”
Her hands shook as she stared at the dark streets.
No, she needed to talk to Rayhan.
And she wasn’t sure if she could ever forgive herself for letting him go.
Chapter 12: A Box of Letters
The world felt quieter in Rayhan’s absence. The hospital seemed colder, its corners more empty, as if his presence had been the warmth that kept it from spiraling into clinical detachment. Evangeline went through the motions—rounds, trauma cases, paperwork—but everything felt like a performance, a distraction from the gnawing emptiness that came with knowing he was no longer there.
She had spent the past few days replaying their conversations in her mind, each one weighted with things unsaid, moments missed. She hadn’t even realized how much she had needed him until he was gone. The thought of never hearing his laugh again, of never sharing another quiet moment between trauma cases, hit her with a force that left her breathless.
And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to admit to anyone what had happened. Not even to herself.
The truth was simple: she had let him slip through her fingers.
That afternoon, after another long, exhausting shift, Evangeline found herself wandering through the ER’s darkened halls, her feet moving almost on autopilot. She walked toward the staff locker rooms, mind spinning with confusion and regret, when something caught her eye.
It was Rayhan’s old locker.
The door was slightly ajar, a few stray papers peeking out. She hadn’t dared go near it, not since the day he’d resigned. But today, she felt an inexplicable pull.
She pushed the door open.
Inside, his things were gone. The stethoscope. The extra coat. The lab notes. But something remained, tucked neatly in the back—something that had clearly been left behind intentionally.
A small, weathered box.
Curious, she pulled it out, her fingers trembling slightly. It was heavier than she expected. Dust had settled on the edges, as if it had been forgotten for a long time.
Evangeline carefully lifted the lid.
Inside, there were dozens of letters. Each one sealed in an envelope. The handwriting was unmistakable—Rayhan’s, looping and neat, as though each word was a promise he had yet to fulfill. There was no name on the outside. No address.
Just the words: To the woman who will find me.
Her heart stuttered.
She picked up the first letter and unfolded it gently.
“I believe that love isn’t something you find—it’s something that finds you when you least expect it. I’ve been waiting my whole life for a love that doesn’t judge me for my flaws, a love that sees me for who I am. But more than anything, I believe I’ve been waiting for you. The woman who will look beyond my broken pieces and accept me for what I am.”
The words swam before her eyes, pulling at something deep inside her, something she had been running from for far too long.
She read more.
“I’ve always believed in soulmates. Maybe that makes me foolish. But the more I see the way people treat each other here—like they’re disposable—the more I believe that love is the only thing worth fighting for. It’s the only thing that lasts.”
And another.
“Maybe you’ll never read these letters. Maybe I’ll never meet you. But in a world where everything else feels so fleeting, I need to believe there’s something bigger than all this. Something that will make it all make sense.”
By the time she finished reading the last letter, Evangeline was crying.
She had seen Rayhan’s vulnerability in the ER—his compassion, his unwavering belief in love, in the impossible. But she had never truly seen him. Not until now. Not until she realized the depth of his heart, the way he had poured himself into words—words that had never been meant to be read, but were written all the same.
Her fingers trembled as she placed the last letter back in the box. She stared at the contents for a long time, feeling something break inside her. All this time, Rayhan had been writing to her, even before he knew who she was. Each letter, each promise, each hope… they had all been meant for her.
For her.
The door to the staff room opened suddenly, breaking her reverie. She looked up to see Priya standing there, eyes wide, then narrowing in concern.
“Are you okay?” Priya asked.
Evangeline couldn’t answer. She simply looked at the box, the letters, and then back to Priya, whose gaze softened as she understood.
“You have to go after him,” Priya said softly. “Before it’s too late.”
Evangeline stood frozen for a moment. Before it’s too late—those words cut deeper than anything Priya could have said.
Without another word, she grabbed the box, tucked it carefully under her arm, and rushed out of the staff room. She didn’t know where Rayhan had gone or how she was going to find him.
But she knew one thing for sure.
She couldn’t let Dr. Romantic be a story that ended in letters. She had to find him.
She had to tell him what he had already known—that he wasn’t the only one who had been waiting.
Chapter 13: The Crash
It was a quiet moment, the kind that came only after a long shift. The rain had finally stopped, leaving the London streets glistening under the pale moonlight. Evangeline stepped into the cab, her mind still reeling from what she had just discovered—the letters, Rayhan’s words, the love he had so freely poured onto the page.
She had to find him.
She couldn’t let him go without telling him how she felt. How she had felt for so long. But the longer she sat in the cab, staring at the city lights passing by, the more the weight of her decision pressed down on her chest.
She needed to find him. But how?
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she glanced down. It was a message from Sebastian.
“I need to see you. Tonight. We need to talk about your future.”
Evangeline scoffed under her breath. He had no idea that the future she had once imagined was already crumbling at her feet. She quickly dismissed the message, her finger hovering over the screen, before sending a quick reply: “I’m done, Sebastian. Don’t contact me again.”
She locked her phone and pressed it to her chest as the cab pulled up to her apartment. But the moment the door swung open, a loud screech of tires interrupted the night’s peace. Her heart skipped. She turned toward the street just as headlights blinded her through the fog, a car careening out of control, skidding toward the curb where she stood.
She didn’t have time to think.
Before she could move, the car slammed into her, sending her flying backward into the cold, wet pavement. The impact was like a thunderclap—her vision swirled, pain radiating through her body in a dizzying rush. She gasped for breath, but the air wouldn’t come.
Then darkness.
When Evangeline’s eyes fluttered open, it was the bright, sterile lights of St. Augustine’s that greeted her. She was in a trauma bay, surrounded by the familiar faces of the ER team. But it was Rayhan’s face that loomed above her, his features pale and strained.
“Evangeline,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Stay with me. Just stay with me.”
She blinked slowly, the fog of pain beginning to clear, but the crushing weight of what had just happened sank in all at once.
The crash. The car. The darkness.
“I’m… I’m here,” she whispered, her voice weak but steady. She felt his hand tighten around hers, as though he were holding on to her as if she might slip away.
“Don’t you dare leave me,” he murmured, his forehead resting against hers.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The chaos of the hospital seemed to fall away, and it was just the two of them—Rayhan and Evangeline—caught in a moment that neither of them could deny any longer.
She could feel his pulse in his hand, the warmth of his skin, the desperation in his touch.
“I was going to find you,” she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. “I—I had to tell you. I—”
Rayhan shook his head, a soft laugh escaping his lips despite the tension in his chest. “I know,” he said. “I knew, Evangeline. I knew.”
His thumb gently brushed the back of her hand, his gaze never leaving her face. “I’ve been waiting for you. All this time. I don’t care about the rest of the world. I just care about you.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, overwhelmed with the rawness of his confession. She had always thought she needed something more, something grander, something that could shield her from the chaos of life. But now, in the quiet of the ER, in the midst of broken bodies and unspoken fears, she realized that the only thing she truly needed was right here, in front of her.
Rayhan.
“Don’t leave me,” he whispered again, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t care about what’s happened before. I don’t care about the past. I just need you here. With me.”
Evangeline felt tears slide down her face, and for the first time in a long time, they were tears of relief. She wasn’t running anymore. She didn’t need to be perfect. She didn’t need to be anyone but herself.
And she didn’t need to wait for something impossible.
“I’m here,” she whispered, her voice stronger now. “I’m here, Rayhan.”
He smiled, a true, unguarded smile that lit up his face. He leaned in, brushing his lips against her forehead, the tenderness of his touch making her heart race.
“I’ll never let you go,” he murmured.
The sound of her heart monitor was steady again—stronger, with a beat that matched the rhythm of the love they both had denied for so long.
And for the first time, Evangeline didn’t wonder if love was enough. Because she knew it was.
She was where she was always meant to be. And Rayhan, Dr. Romantic, was the only love she needed.
Chapter 14: Between Life and Love
The world outside the hospital had faded into a blur of rain-soaked streets and flashing neon signs. Inside, the sterile walls of St. Augustine’s felt more like home than they ever had before. Rayhan sat beside Evangeline’s bed, his hand clasped around hers, unwilling to let go. The doctors had stabilized her, but there was no promise of how long she would remain unconscious.
Every breath she took was a battle, a fight to pull her back from the brink of something she couldn’t even remember.
It was strange, being here. Strange how the ER had once felt like his battlefield, where he fought for the lives of strangers. But now, as he watched Evangeline’s chest rise and fall, it wasn’t just a life he was trying to save—it was his own.
Rayhan leaned forward, brushing a strand of hair from her face. His thumb traced the curve of her cheek, a soft, tender motion that he’d only ever allowed himself in private.
“I know you’re in there,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “And I’m not going to leave. Not this time. Not ever.”
He sat in silence for a long time, the weight of the moment pressing on him like an invisible force.
The night shift came and went. The sterile hospital lights buzzed softly overhead as Rayhan never moved. Not for the sounds of trauma cases, not for the doctors who came and went. He stayed by her side, his heart beating for both of them now.
When morning came, he didn’t expect her to wake. But she did.
Evangeline’s eyes fluttered open slowly, her pupils dilated as she tried to adjust to the brightness of the room. She blinked a few times, her gaze unfocused as she struggled to process where she was. The sharpness of her confusion was quickly replaced by a deep sense of recognition.
And then, her eyes locked with his.
“Rayhan,” she whispered, her voice hoarse, barely audible, as if the words themselves were a fight.
“I’m here,” he said, leaning closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m right here.”
A tear escaped from her eye, sliding down her cheek as she tried to move, her body weak and unresponsive. But Rayhan didn’t let go of her hand. His fingers tightened around hers, grounding her.
“Don’t try to move yet,” he said, his voice soothing but filled with urgency. “You’ve been through a lot. Just breathe. I’m not going anywhere.”
She nodded slowly, the weight of her exhaustion settling in.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to leave you.”
Rayhan smiled softly, his heart aching as he brushed her cheek gently with the back of his hand. “You didn’t leave me. You were just… lost for a while. But you’re here now.”
Her lips parted as if she were about to say something, but she didn’t. She simply let her eyes fall closed for a moment, and in that quiet space between words, Rayhan realized how fragile everything was. He couldn’t protect her from the world, not all the time. But he could stay with her. He could be the one constant thing in her life, no matter how hard it was.
He let his forehead rest gently against hers, a quiet promise. “You’re not alone. You’ll never be alone again.”
Evangeline’s breath hitched, and she leaned into his touch, her body relaxing as if she could finally surrender to the safety of his presence.
A nurse entered shortly after, checking her vitals and updating Rayhan on her progress. He gave her a quick nod, never once taking his eyes off Evangeline, the woman who had somehow unraveled his heart with nothing but her presence.
When the nurse left, Rayhan spoke again, his voice softer this time, filled with a kind of reverence that only came from living through something so close to losing it all.
“I love you,” he said simply. “I didn’t know what love was until I met you. I didn’t know it could hurt this much or feel this good. But I love you, Evangeline. And I always will.”
Her eyes fluttered open again, this time with a smile—a small, fragile thing, but it was there. Her fingers squeezed his hand, an unspoken acknowledgment of what had been said.
“I love you too,” she whispered back, her voice still weak, but steady with sincerity. “I always have.”
And for the first time, the weight of everything—the chaos, the fear, the scars—seemed to lighten. Because in that moment, in the stillness of the hospital room, they had found each other. And nothing else seemed to matter.
Rayhan kissed her forehead gently, savoring the soft warmth of her skin, the feeling of her hand in his. He had spent so much time waiting for love to find him, for the world to finally make sense. But now, with her beside him, he realized that maybe love had always been there—it just needed the right moment to surface.
And for them, that moment had arrived.
Chapter 15: The Final Twist
The quiet hum of the hospital felt like an echo as Rayhan walked through the halls, Evangeline by his side, her steps slower than usual but steady. She was finally awake, finally here, and every inch of his being wanted to stay in this moment—this quiet, this peace. But reality had a way of creeping back in, no matter how hard you tried to hold onto something beautiful.
As they entered the hospital chapel—where they had first found a rare moment of solace amidst the chaos—Rayhan felt the weight of everything pressing down on him. His hand tightened around Evangeline’s.
“I don’t want to leave here,” he whispered, his voice raw. “I want to stay with you like this.”
“I know,” she said softly. “But we can’t stay here forever, can we? There’s a whole world waiting for us.”
Rayhan nodded, though a knot tightened in his chest. A whole world. He had been avoiding the harsh reality of that world—the one full of complications and choices he wasn’t sure he was ready to face. The world where Evangeline’s past, her family, and the burdens of her life weren’t just things she could leave behind in a hospital bed.
They knelt together in front of the altar, hands clasped, and for the first time since the accident, Rayhan felt like he could breathe. The silence was comforting, the flickering candles casting a soft glow on their faces. They weren’t rushing. They weren’t fighting. They were simply… here.
Until the door creaked open behind them.
Rayhan didn’t turn around, but Evangeline’s eyes darted toward the noise. When she saw who it was, her body stiffened.
A figure stood in the doorway. Tall. Distinguished. Too familiar.
Her father.
David Thorne.
The man who had been absent for most of her life, only appearing when it suited him. The man who had left her to fend for herself, teaching her that love was just another transaction. The man whose shadow had loomed over her, even when he wasn’t physically present.
“Evangeline,” he said, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife. “We need to talk.”
Rayhan’s hand went instinctively to Evangeline’s, squeezing it tighter. He wasn’t sure what was worse—the presence of her father, or the familiar coldness that seeped from the man as he stepped forward.
Evangeline didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she turned her face away, trying to steady her breathing. Rayhan’s heart pounded in his chest. He knew who this man was, but what did he want now?
“What do you want?” she asked, her voice tight, but there was a strength in it Rayhan hadn’t heard before.
David Thorne glanced at Rayhan, his expression cold but calculating. “It’s about your future. About what you’ve inherited.” His eyes flicked to the box she still carried under her arm, the box of letters that had been a lifeline to both of them.
Evangeline’s breath hitched. She knew what he meant. She knew what he had been preparing to tell her for weeks now. The inheritance. The power. The control. The strings attached to everything she had ever wanted to walk away from.
“Everything, Evangeline. Your mother’s estate. The private hospital we own in Geneva. It’s all yours—if you come back. If you leave this… this behind,” he said, his gaze hard. “You don’t have to stay in this place, in this hospital, fighting for every inch of your life. You could have it all. Everything we’ve ever discussed. Power. Control. No more chaos.”
Rayhan’s grip on Evangeline’s hand tightened, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Evangeline had already heard the offer. She knew the weight of it. It was the same one she had turned down once, but now, after everything, it seemed like it was being thrown at her again—her father’s way of making her his.
Evangeline’s gaze locked onto her father’s, and she stood slowly. Her chest rose and fell with each breath, her hand still in Rayhan’s, but her eyes now fierce with something more than just the shadow of the past. It was clarity. A sense of self that she had never known before.
“I’ve already made my choice,” she said, her voice steady.
David Thorne’s eyes narrowed, frustration flickering across his face. “You’re throwing everything away. Everything I’ve worked for. Everything I’ve built for you.”
“No,” Evangeline said, her voice unwavering. “I’m not throwing anything away. I’m choosing something else. I’m choosing to live my life on my own terms. I’m not a pawn in your game anymore.”
Rayhan stood, pulling her close to him, but letting her face her father as she spoke her truth.
David’s gaze shifted to Rayhan, his expression darkening. “You think she’ll be happy with you? With this?” He sneered, his disdain palpable. “You’re a dreamer, Rayhan. And she’s—”
“Enough!” Evangeline snapped, her eyes flashing with a fierceness that made her father step back slightly. “You don’t get to tell me what I can or can’t have. You never did, and you never will again.”
Rayhan’s chest swelled with pride, but he said nothing. He knew this moment belonged to her.
David Thorne stood silently for a long moment, the weight of her words sinking in. Then, with a stiff nod, he turned on his heel, his coat billowing behind him as he walked out of the chapel, leaving them in silence.
Evangeline exhaled sharply, the tension finally leaving her shoulders. Rayhan’s hand remained on her back, steady and grounding.
“I don’t know what comes next,” she whispered, her voice fragile.
Rayhan cupped her face, his touch tender and unwavering. “I don’t either. But we’ll face it together.”
And as she looked into his eyes, the final weight of her father’s words fell away. The future wasn’t something that had been handed to her—it was something she could choose. And with Rayhan beside her, she knew that no matter what came next, she wouldn’t have to choose alone.
The chapter was finally closing on the past.
And the story of Dr. Romantic was just beginning.
