Chapter Text
The event hall at The Ritz-Carlton was bathed in a warm, amber glow, a fitting reflection of the supposed prestige of Tar Valon General Hospital. Beneath crystal chandeliers and walls adorned with modern art, the city's medical elite celebrated another year of achievements, funds raised, and massaged egos. For Siuan Sanche, a cardiothoracic surgeon with steady hands and an ironically unsteady heart that evening, the party was a sea of familiar faces, an ocean of professional smiles and idle chatter through which she navigated with veteran skill. But her beacon, the only true point in that entire universe of artificiality, was Moiraine Damodred.
And, Light help her, how Moiraine looked.
Standing near the bar, holding a glass of red wine with an innate elegance that seemed to defy physics, she was the centerpiece of a painting Siuan could have gazed at for hours. Her long brown hair, usually tied back practically for work, cascaded in a silky waterfall over her shoulders, catching golden highlights in the soft light. The dress she wore was a simple, stunning masterpiece in a shade of barley-blue, a color that made her light blue eyes shine like ice under a winter sun. The fluid, elegant fabric draped her body in a way that was both modest and profoundly suggestive, tracing curves Siuan knew intimately, had explored with fingers, lips, and a silent devotion she never dared voice aloud.
Desire hit Siuan like a punch to the gut, so strong and primal it nearly stole her breath. It was a physical reaction, pure and undeniable, a heat that spread from her core to her fingertips, making her clutch her glass of white wine tighter. But, as always happened when she watched Moiraine long enough, the desire shifted, melding with something deeper, more dangerous. It was affection. A wave of overwhelming tenderness for the slight quirk of Moiraine's lips when she heard something she deemed intellectually poor, for the focused intensity in those clear eyes when they settled on something—or on someone, like now, on Siuan.
Moiraine spotted her across the crowd. Her blue eyes met Siuan's brown ones, and a small, near-imperceptible smile appeared. It was a private smile, a code only they understood. A corresponding squeeze answered in Siuan's chest. Just sex, she reminded herself, the mantra she repeated like a shield. Good company. Nothing more. She doesn't want more. You don't want more. It's perfect like this.
It was a lie she told herself with such conviction that sometimes, in her weakest moments, she almost believed it.
Moiraine extricated herself from the group of impressed residents surrounding her and crossed the hall toward Siuan. Every movement was graceful, deliberate. Siuan felt several gazes follow Moiraine, a mix of admiration and want. She didn't blame them.
"Dr. Sanche," Moiraine's voice was velvet-soft, yet with a resonance that cut through the ambient buzz. "It seems you survived today's surgery. The boy is well?"
Siuan swallowed dryly, pushing away the image of the small heart she had mended hours before. "He is. Thanks to my divinely skilled hands and your perfectly calculated anesthesia, Damodred. He's in the ICU, stable."
"Good." Moiraine stopped beside her, her arm almost brushing Siuan's. The heat from her body was a magnet. "I hate losing patients. It ruins my evening."
Siuan let out a low laugh, a genuine sound amidst the room's pretense. "Only your evening? I get furious. That's why you're the anesthesiologist and I'm the surgeon. You're cold and calculating. I'm passion and controlled chaos."
Moiraine raised one perfect eyebrow, an amused glint in her eyes. "Cold? I prefer the term 'strategist.' And your chaos, as I recall, has landed us in some... interesting situations."
The innuendo hung in the air between them, heavy with memories of hot nights, skin against skin, muffled whispers against pillows. Siuan felt another flare of heat. Moiraine had a gift for transporting them, with a single phrase, to the privacy of one of their apartments, away from everyone and everything.
"'Interesting' is one word," Siuan retorted, her own characteristic humor emerging as a shield against the vulnerability she felt. "I'd go with 'catastrophically and fantastically rewarding.'"
"I'll note that suggestion for my memoirs," Moiraine said dryly, but the corner of her mouth twitched, fighting a fuller smile.
They fell into a comfortable silence for a moment, watching the crowd. It was easy, like this. It always had been. Conversation flowed between them like a well-known river, with currents and eddies only they knew how to navigate. Siuan felt a pang of something dangerously close to happiness. She was here, with the smartest, most beautiful, most fascinating woman she had ever known, and this woman chose her, repeatedly, to share her time and her bed. It was enough. It has to be enough, she thought, taking a sip of wine.
It was then that Moiraine's gaze was caught by something—or someone—across the hall. Her eyes narrowed slightly, the expression of amused intimacy giving way to her professional mask of polite interest.
"I must go pay my respects to the administrative board," she said, her voice taking on a flat, neutral tone. "Director Gill has been staring at me for five minutes with the expression of a beached fish. I should go over before he suffers apnea."
Siuan nodded, trying not to show the disappointment she felt at the wall lowering between them. "Go on. Save the fish. I'll manage here."
Moiraine shot her one last look, quick and intense, that said 'later,' before turning and melting into the crowd with her usual grace. Siuan watched her go, the blue dress disappearing and reappearing among the dark suits of the executives.
Alone again, Siuan took another sip of wine. The fruity flavor suddenly seemed less appealing. She turned toward the bar, thinking of ordering something stronger, when she saw her.
A dark-haired woman with sleek black hair and a bold red dress approached Moiraine just as she reached Director Gill's group. She wasn't one of the bureaucrats. Siuan knew all the hospital doctors, and that face was new. Pretty. Young. With a confidence in her bearing that made the hair on Siuan's arms stand up.
The new doctor—she had to be a new hire—greeted the director with a firm handshake and a broad smile before immediately turning to Moiraine. And then, it happened.
Siuan saw both their body language shift. The stranger leaned in slightly, invading Moiraine's personal space in a way that wasn't professional. Her eyes traveled over Moiraine from head to toe, and the desire in them was so palpable Siuan could feel it from ten meters away. But it was Moiraine's reaction that stopped Siuan's heart.
Moiraine didn't step back.
She didn't offer her usual cool smile or raise the icy barrier she used to fend off unwanted advances. Instead, she tilted her head, listening to something the woman was saying. And then, she smiled. It wasn't the small, private smile she reserved for Siuan. It was an open, genuine smile of interest. Her blue eyes sparkled with intellectual curiosity, a gleam Siuan knew well—it was the look that appeared when Moiraine found someone or something that challenged her sharp mind.
The woman in red laughed at something Moiraine said, lightly touching Moiraine's arm with her fingers. The touch was brief, but intimate. Too intimate.
And Moiraine allowed it.
Siuan's world narrowed to that single point. The party's murmur became a distant buzz, muffled by the blood roaring in her ears. She felt her insides twist, a knot of venomous serpents stirring in her gut. Jealousy. Pure, primal, and agonizing.
She knew. Light, how she knew. She had no right. None. They had an arrangement. Just sex. Good company. No drama, no possessiveness. They were the very rules Siuan had insisted on, in the beginning, afraid to give herself completely and be rejected. Moiraine, in her logical, reserved nature, had accepted the terms with an ease that had hurt Siuan at the time and now haunted her.
The wine in her glass suddenly tasted like bile. It turned bitter, acidic, hard to swallow. She looked at the pale liquid, feeling nauseous. Her hand, usually so steady in the operating room, trembled slightly.
Swallow it, she commanded herself, her inner voice icy and full of scorn. Swallow the wine and swallow the jealousy. You have no right to feel this. You have no right to claim anything.
But, oh, how she wanted to.
A violent, utterly irrational impulse shot through her. She wanted to stride across the hall, grab that woman in the red dress by the hand and yank her away from Moiraine's arm. She wanted to step between them, block the view, assert a possession she did not have. She wanted to yell, fight, shake Moiraine by the shoulders and ask her how she dared, how she dared smile like that, how she dared let those covetous eyes devour her like that, in public, in front of her.
She saw the woman say something more, and Moiraine laughed—a real laugh that made her eyes crinkle. It was a rare and precious sound. Siuan felt it like a knife to the chest.
It's just sex, the mantra echoed in her mind, but it sounded hollow, false. It's just sex. You don't love her. She doesn't love you. It's convenient. It's pleasurable. It's...
She watched Moiraine raise her hand to gesture as she explained something, her long, elegant fingers tracing shapes in the air. The woman in red watched, fascinated, completely captivated. Siuan knew that spell. She had fallen under it herself.
The weight of her own decision crushed her. She had been the architect of her own agony. By insisting on not feeling, on not committing, she had placed herself in that vulnerable, horrible position: the spectator. The nobody.
Siuan forced the wine glass to her lips and took a large gulp. The bitter liquid went down her throat like ground glass. She swallowed, tasting despair and powerlessness.
She had no right to claim. But, sitting on the lonely throne she had built for herself, Siuan Sanche, normally so centered and calculated, wished with a ferocity that frightened her that she had had the courage to break her own rules before it was too late.
The ache in her chest was a living thing, a monster with sharp claws that fed on every shared laugh, every exchanged glance between Moiraine and the intruder. The hall, once a space of professional celebration, had transformed into an arena where her greatest battle was to remain still, her face impassive, while her world quietly crumbled from within.
She didn't know how much longer she could bear it.
Time lost all meaning. For Siuan, the universe had narrowed to a distant stage where a torturous play was being performed. Moiraine and the woman in red—whom her mind had now dubbed “The Siren,” for her deceptive beauty and hypnotic allure—were the leads. She, Siuan, was the captive audience, forced to watch every act, every nuance, unable to scream, unable to intervene.
Every gesture was a cut. Every smile, a stab.
The Siren laughed again, her head thrown back, exposing the graceful line of her neck. Moiraine responded with a nod, her lips forming words Siuan couldn't hear but imagined were clever, insightful, irresistible. The Siren's hand touched Moiraine's forearm again, this time letting her fingers linger for a second longer—a test of invisible boundaries. Moiraine didn't move. Didn't pull away.
Siuan felt her nails dig into her own palms. The pain was real, a sharp counterpoint to the dull agony consuming her from within. She needed to move. She needed air. But her feet were rooted to the marble floor, betraying her. Her iron will, so famous in operating rooms, had evaporated, leaving behind a scared, jealous girl.
A waiter passed by with a tray of champagne flutes. Siuan grabbed one so tightly she feared it might shatter. She took a long sip, not tasting it, only feeling the cold burn of the bubbles down her throat, a harsh contrast to the stifling heat enveloping her.
It's just sex, the mantra returned, but now it sounded like a weak whisper, drowned out by the roar of the jealous sea in her mind. You have no right. You have no right.
But her heart—the damnable, stubborn organ she mended in others but couldn't control in herself—screamed the opposite. It screamed that those moments of intimacy, those deep conversations in the early hours, the muffled laughter against sweaty skin, weren't just anything. They were everything. They were pieces of her soul she, foolish and cautious, had handed to Moiraine without ever admitting their worth.
And now Moiraine, with her impulsive and chaotic nature that could be as endearing as it was dangerous, was entertained by a new intellectual toy. A new fan for her personal cult. The Siren was obviously smart, confident—exactly the type to draw Moiraine in like a beacon. Siuan could see the intellectual attraction on Moiraine's face, the spark of genuine interest in a mind that might rival her own.
And beneath that intellectual pull, Siuan was perversely forced to admit, lay an undeniable physical attraction. The Siren was stunning. Young. Vibrant. Everything Siuan, in her moments of deepest insecurity, felt she was not.
Director Gill and the other bureaucrats seemed to have faded into extras. The conversation was now clearly between Moiraine and The Siren. A universe of two. Siuan saw The Siren pull a business card from the small clutch she carried and hand it to Moiraine. Moiraine took it, her fingers brushing the other woman's for a brief instant. She looked at the card, nodded, and then did something that made Siuan's stomach turn over completely.
Moiraine took out her own elegant, discreet clutch, retrieved her wallet, and extracted one of her own cards. She handed it to The Siren with a professional smile that, to Siuan, seemed loaded with obscene promise.
They exchanged cards.
The act was so banal, so professional. And, in the context of that night, that interaction, it was the most intimate and treacherous thing Siuan had ever witnessed. It wasn't a number scribbled on a napkin. It was their professional identities, their formal means of contact, being offered on the stage of a blatant flirtation.
Siuan tasted metal in her mouth. She was dying inside, shattering, and no one else in the hall seemed to notice. The orchestra played a soft waltz. People laughed and danced. The world kept spinning, absurdly oblivious to her personal apocalypse.
She finally managed to move her feet. She stepped away from the bar, nearly stumbling into a group of nurses. She mumbled a hoarse "excuse me" and headed for the side balconies overlooking the hotel gardens. She needed solitude. She needed to escape that sight.
The night air outside was a shocking, blessed chill. It was cold, a biting wind that raised goosebumps on her skin beneath her olive-green silk dress. She leaned against the stone railing, her hands gripping the cold surface, and took a deep breath, trying to tame the hurricane inside her.
She closed her eyes, but the image was burned onto her eyelids: Moiraine smiling, The Siren touching her, the cards being exchanged. An infinite loop of torture.
"Sanche? You alright?"
The voice made her eyes snap open. It wasn't the voice she both loved and feared in that moment. It was the deep, concerned voice of Lan Mandragoran, the chief of orthopedic surgery and, unbelievably, the closest thing Moiraine had to a best friend. He was a rock, a man of few words and unshakable loyalty. And he was looking at her with an expression that said she was very much not alright.
Siuan forced her lips to curve into something resembling a smile. "Perfectly, Mandragoran. Just needed some air. It's stuffy in there."
Lan leaned against the railing beside her, his large frame imposing against the night's darkness. He didn't speak, just looked at her, his penetrating gaze seeing far more than she'd like.
"It's Damodred," he said finally, not as a question, but as a clear statement.
Siuan felt a fresh surge of panic. Was it that obvious? "What about Damodred?" she tried, looking away toward the gardens.
"You're looking at her like you could cut her in half with a glare. And frankly, the new neurosurgery resident who won't stop touching her, too."
Siuan clenched her jaw. So she was a resident. Even younger. More impressionable. Easier to captivate with Moiraine's aura of mystery and intelligence.
"She can do what she wants," Siuan said, her voice rougher than she intended. "It's none of my business."
Lan made a low sound that might have been a laugh or a grunt. "Of course it isn't."
They fell into silence for a moment. Siuan was grateful for his quiet presence. Lan wasn't one for unsolicited advice or cheap psychology.
"She's an idiot," he said, suddenly, his voice low but firm.
Siuan looked at him, startled. "Who?"
"Moiraine."
Siuan was stunned. Lan was fiercely loyal to Moiraine. He never criticized her. "Why would you say that?"
"Because she's in there, entertained by a cheap admirer, while the only person who really matters is out here, freezing and looking like she's about to be sick."
Siuan felt tears burn her eyes. She forced them down with brutal strength. "That's not true, Lan. We… we don't have anything serious. It's casual. She doesn't owe me anything."
Lan turned to her, his gray eyes serious. "We all see what you two refuse to name, Siuan. The whole hospital sees it. What you have might not have a label, but casual?" He shook his head. "Don't make me laugh. The entire rainbow of emotions on your face right now is not 'casual.'"
Siuan didn't know what to say. Her mask of coolness was cracking, and the raw vulnerability beneath was terrifying. She had always considered herself the more centered, the more reserved one. Moiraine was the impulsive one. But in that moment, she was pure, unbridled emotion.
"What do I do, Lan?" The question came out a broken whisper, an admission of defeat.
"You go in there and stop being a spectator in your own life," he said simply. "Or you go home and leave her behind. But standing here, torturing yourself, is a cowardice that doesn't suit you, Sanche."
Before she could answer, the balcony door opened. Light and music from the hall burst into the quiet, and with them came the voice that haunted Siuan to her bones.
"Siuan? Are you alright? I've been looking for you everywhere."
Moiraine stood in the doorway, her blue dress like a splash of night sky in the dark. Her face was slightly flushed, whether from wine or the animation of conversation. Her blue eyes sought Siuan's, concerned, confused.
Lan took a step back, an almost imperceptible movement that said 'the ball's in your court.' He nodded at Moiraine. "Damodred. Party's great. They're looking for you for the thank-you speech."
Moiraine made a face. "Director Gill can thank himself. I'm not giving a speech." Her gaze didn't leave Siuan. "You left so abruptly."
Siuan felt all words die in her throat. She wanted to scream. She wanted to ask about the resident, about the cards, about the smile. She wanted to wrench the truth from those perfect lips. But fear paralyzed her. Fear of the answer. Fear of hearing that yes, Moiraine was interested, that she had every right to be, that Siuan meant nothing beyond convenient sex.
"I needed air," Siuan repeated, her voice sounding hollow and distant even to her own ears. "I'll be back in."
She saw a shadow of disappointment cross Moiraine's face. Did Moiraine expect something else? A fight? A question? An assertion of ownership? Siuan didn't know. Her own reserve, her own reluctance to appear vulnerable, was her own prison.
"Alright," Moiraine said, her voice losing some of its animation. "Don't get lost in the garden. I hear the koi in the pond are particularly menacing."
It was an attempt at humor, weak, trying to reach their earlier bantering tone. It fell like a stone.
Moiraine hesitated a second longer, her eyes searching Siuan's for a clue she refused to give. Then, with a brief nod, she turned and went back inside, the door clicking shut behind her with a soft sound that echoed like a cell door locking.
Lan let out a long sigh. "Well, that was… pathetic."
Siuan pressed her forehead against the cold stone of the railing. The pain was a relief. "Shut up, Mandragoran."
"You have two choices," he insisted, merciless. "Go in there and deal with it, or go home. Now."
Siuan lifted her head. The sea inside her was no longer raging; it was cold, dark, and dangerously calm. The sharp pain of jealousy had morphed into a heavy, poisonous resignation.
"You're right," she said, her voice now flat, controlled. The surgeon had regained control, smothering the wounded woman. "It is cowardice."
She straightened up, smoothing her dress, picking up the champagne flute she'd left on the railing. She drank the rest in one gulp.
"And which one are you choosing?" Lan asked, watching her.
Siuan looked at the closed door, at the hall where Moiraine was, likely already back in the thrall of the Neurosurgery Siren.
"I'm going home," she said, the decision weighing like lead in her soul. "There's a complex cardiac procedure early tomorrow. I need clarity."
It was a lie. She needed to flee. She needed to lock herself in her apartment and let the pain consume her in private, away from Moiraine's eyes, away from the possibility of further humiliation.
Lan studied her face for a long moment and then nodded, resigned. "Alright. I'll tell her you weren't feeling well."
"Don't tell her anything," Siuan corrected, her tone final. "She won't even notice I'm gone."
She didn't wait for his reply. She turned and walked along the balcony, toward the side entrance that led to the lobby and the taxis. Each step was an effort, as if she were walking against a strong tide.
She didn't look back. If she had, she might have seen Moiraine, across the hall, her blue eyes anxiously scanning the crowd for a glimpse of olive-green silk, a shadow of sharp concern on her face, her smile for the new resident no longer reaching her eyes.
But Siuan didn't look. She simply walked away.