Sign the resignation letter, Diana, or I’ll make sure no hospital in this state

I picked up the pen. Preston’s smile widened. “Smart girl. I knew you’d see reason.” I clicked it open, then set it back down on his desk, untouched. “Actually, Dr. Whitlock, I came here to give you something.” I pulled a slim manila envelope from under my arm and placed it gently beside his resignation letter. “What is this?” he scoffed. “Open it.” Inside were screenshots. Forty-two of them. Every text he’d sent me at 11 p.m. asking me to ‘swing by the on-call room.’ Every voicemail slurring through bourbon, ordering me to alter a patient’s chart after he’d dosed them wrong. The Pyxis logs showing him pulling fentanyl under three different patient names — patients who never received it. And on top, a single business card. Federal. DEA. “Agent Ruiz says hello,” I said quietly. “She’s been building the case for four months. I just gave her the last piece tonight, right before I came up here.” The color drained from his face like someone had pulled a plug. “You — you wouldn’t —” “I already did.” The door opened behind me. Two agents stepped in, badges out, calm as Sunday morning. Preston stood up so fast his chair hit the wall. “Diana, please —” he whispered, and for the first time in three years, he used my real name instead of sweetheart. I picked up his resignation letter, the one he’d written for me, and slid it back across the desk. “Sign it,” I said. “On your knees, if you have to. I hear that’s the position you prefer.” As they walked him out in handcuffs, the night-shift nurses lined the hallway in absolute silence. Then one of them started clapping. Then another. By the time the elevator doors closed on Preston Whitlock’s white, sweating face, the whole floor was applauding. I went back downstairs, washed the blood off my hands, and finished my shift. The next morning, the hospital board called. They didn’t want my resignation. They wanted to offer me his job.