"Boy, it sure is slow tonight." One of the new ER interns said, pulling out his phone to check some football scores.

I glared back at him in disbelief. Clearly, he had no idea how things worked around here. You never jinxed it by saying things were quiet, especially on a Friday night. It could go from a slow night to a fucking mad house in seconds, and anybody who had worked in the ER long enough knew better.

His proctor, Ian, had been one of my residents the first few years he was here, and we'd spent enough time together for him to know that I was about to strangle the poor kid. "Max, why don't you make yourself useful and go get us some coffee?" He chuckled.

"On it." He jumped up, eager to please. "Double espresso coming right up. What about you Dr. Bennett?"

"Americano for me. Thanks." I grunted, flipping through a stack of charts on the desk. The kids scurried off.

As if on cue, the registration receptionist dropped fifteen fresh case files into the basket to be picked up. I rolled my eyes at Ian, who just laughed.

"Don't even say it. We're lucky we got a few minutes of peace." Ian grabbed a few and glanced through them. "I'll take the broken arm in Four if you want to take pains in Seven." He arched his eyebrow at me, handing me a file. I had about three hours' worth of reports to catch up on, but as the chief physician, I also had to jump in and support my team.

"Fine. But can you teach your rookie to keep his mouth shut next time?" I chided.

"On it." He smirked. Ian had been my right-hand man since I'd taken over as chief a few years ago. He was good enough to have any position in this hospital, but we made a great team here in the ER and we both knew it.

I took the file from him and headed down the hall. The man's chest pains just turned out to be indigestion, and it was a quick case. Grabbing another folder off of the counter, I headed to the next room.

Before heading inside, I glanced over the details on the page. There weren't many, but most of the time, that was good. Female, twenty-seven, cut on the forehead. It sounded like this one would be pretty straightforward as well.

"Claire?" I asked, pulling the curtain back and entering the room.

"Yes." The woman smiled sweetly.

Wait a second. I knew this woman. Didn't I treat her a few weeks ago? A separated shoulder from a skiing accident—that was it. But her name wasn't Claire. Wasn't it... "Jessica?"

"Uh, no." She gave me a confused look. "My name is Claire."

I pressed my lips into a firm line. I was absolutely positive this was the same woman, but her chart said she'd never been here before and she wasn't using insurance—a detail I remembered that about Jessica, too. Not because it was all that unusual for patients to come in without insurance, but it was for a woman like her.

Whoever she was, she was put together. Not a single hair out of place, or flaw in her makeup, despite the pain she was complaining about. She carried a Bottega Veneta bag and had an enormous rock on her left hand. The thing was at least five carets. A pair of dark Ray-bans held her brown curls at bay. Her nails were perfectly manicured, and she had a very certain air about her. I wasn't usually one to make judgments about my patients, but this woman came from money. A lot of it. So her lack of insurance was a little unusual. Unless, of course, she was leaving it blank on purpose.

"Right." I nodded, it pressing her on it just yet. I wanted a better handle on what exactly was going on here. "So I'm Dr. Bennett. You're here to get that cut checked out?"

She nodded.

"It's a pretty nasty gash. Do you want to tell me a little more about what happened?" Setting her chart down, I pulled on a pair of gloves. I sat down next to her on the bed so I could get a better look once she told me what happened.

She pursed her lips, hesitating for a second as if to get her story straight. "It was stupid, really. I was cleaning the kitchen cabinets and dropped something on the floor. I bent down to get it and forgot that I left the upper cabinet open. When I stood up, I hit my head on the corner."

"I see."

She winced when I touched the area around her cut. I was close enough to notice some faint, older bruising along her cheek and collarbone as well. It looked like she tried to cover it up with makeup, but it was wearing thin.

After hearing her story, I knew she was full of shit. I'd been working in the ER long enough to know a case of domestic violence when I saw it. It made perfect sense. The fake names, not leaving any kind of paper trail by using her insurance, the injuries and their bogus stories were a dead giveaway themselves.

"Well, you definitely need stitches, I'll put a little lidocaine on it and we'll get you stitched up and on your way."

"Thank you so much, Dr. Bennett." A weak smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

She was in complete denial about what her husband or boyfriend was doing to her, thinking I'd fallen for her act. I would have to be careful how I handled this.

I gave her the lidocaine shot, and she grimaced at the sting.

"Sorry about that." I flashed her a smile.

She shrugged. "Not so bad."

"You're sure you haven't been here before, Claire? You look really familiar." I said, tying her stitches in. It would only take a few to close the cut up, but I took my time.

Her cheeks turned crimson. "No, I haven't. I don't even live around here."

"Oh, yeah?" I pressed. "Where are you from?"

"Tribeca." She said, not wanting to offer many more details. Tribeca was a hell of a long way to come from to find an ER. She must have passed thirty on her way here.

"Wow." I arched my eyebrows at her. "That's a nice neighborhood. My brother lives up that way, in Soho."

"That's a beautiful area." Her phone started buzzing in her bag and she got nervous. "How long is this going to take?"

"Just a few more minutes." I said. "I saw on your chart you're paying in cash. Sometimes that takes a little longer. There is more paperwork you have to fill out, so as soon as I'm done here..."

"What do you mean?" She cut me off. "That last time I was here, there wasn't any..."

Her eyes widened, and she immediately clamped her mouth shut, realizing what she'd said.

"So, you have been here before?" I said pointedly.

Claire clammed up, glancing away from me.

"Look, Claire, I think I know what's going on here, and I can help you. This is a safe, confidential place and if someone is doing this to you..." I started, taking my opportunity to confront her on the abuse.

"What?" She reeled back, standing up quickly. "What the hell are you talking about? I told you what happened to my forehead."

"I know what you told me. But I think it's a lie to cover for whoever is hurting you. Just like the skiing accident that caused your separated shoulder." I tried to stay as calm and level-headed as I could. This wasn't the first time I had to confront a patient this way, and her reaction wasn't all that surprising.

She bit her lip, realizing there was no point in lying about the time she was here before. "I don't know what you think you know, Dr. Bennett, but you're wrong. Now, if there isn't anything else, I need to go check out."

"You don't need to do that. I can get the police here and they can help you file a report and get you into protection if necessary. Why don't you start by telling me your real name?" I offered.

"I don't want the police. I don't want any of this. All I needed was for you to stitch up me head and you did that, so I need to go before..."

"Before what, Claire? Before your husband finds out that you were here? Why else are you at a hospital in the Bronx?"

Tears welled up in her eyes, and I was afraid I was pushing her too hard.

"I need to go." She clenched her jaw, grabbing the rest of her things and brushing past me.

I thought about going after her and pressing her for more, but I didn't. She wasn't in a place to leave right now, and I had to respect that. I didn't agree with it — I had already seen what the bastard was capable of doing to her — but I did have to respect where she was. Especially considering I didn't even know her real name.

I watched as she tossed a bunch of cash on the check-out counter and disappeared out the front door. The receptionist glanced my way with a confused expression.

I shrugged my shoulders at her and cleaned up the rest of my stuff in the room. It frustrated me I hadn't been able to help the woman, and I knew this would be on my mind for the rest of the night. It was both a blessing and a curse.

My family always said I had a bleeding heart, and I'd been that way my entire life. Even when we were little, I couldn't even kill a big. My brother, Derek, used to set ants on fire with a microscope, and every time I saw him do it, I'd run screaming and crying into the house. I guess that was how he ended up where he did and I ended up as an ER doctor.

I let out a heavy breath of frustration. I hated accepting that I couldn't help everyone. No matter how hard I worked, I couldn't save every person who walked through these doors, and that was the very worst part of my job.

I pushed my way out of the crowded ER and out to the parking lot to find my car. How had I been so unlucky that I ended up with the same doctor I had a few weeks ago? Or maybe it was that I was stupid enough to go to the same hospital in the first place.

After my fight with Robby, I knew my head was going to need stitches. I couldn't take the chance of going to a hospital by us and risk someone recognizing me, so I scouted out this one several weeks ago. In total, I'd been there three times. Once when Robby twisted my wrist so hard that he broke it, once when he shoved me into the wall and separated my shoulder, and then tonight, when he smashed his beer bottle against my head.

It made me sick just thinking about it. What if Riley had come downstairs? What if she heard the commotion and ventured down to see me on the floor with shattered glass everywhere, blood pouring out of my head, and her father standing over me laughing? It was a nightmare. Everything about this situation was. And the worst part was, there was nothing I could do.

Robby Hastings wasn't just your typical abusive drunk. He was a high decorated detective in the NYPD, and his father was a New York State senator. He was the Golden Boy no one would believe was capable of something like this. If I tried to tell anyone or go after him, I'd come out of it looking like the crazy one and I'd lose my daughter. I'd seen him and his father ruin the lives of countless people over the years and now here I was, trapped in their suffocating web.

As I made my way home, I fought back my tears, trying to piece together just how I ended up like this. Dr. Bennett's words echoed in my mind, and for the first time, I'd heard someone else acknowledge what Robby was doing to me and call it what it was.

I slipped up, and Dr. Bennett saw right through me. Now there was no way I could ever go back to that hospital. He seemed genuinely concerned, and a part of me felt bad about the way I'd run out on him, but he had no idea what he was getting in to.

No one could help me.

No one could make this go away, and the last thing I wanted was to drag any else into it.

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***If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic violence of any kind, please reach out to someone in your community. In the US, that number is 1-800-799-7233**