She came to me for a pimple. One look, and I knew it was cancer. I scheduled a biopsy and surgery immediately. Instead, she claimed I was deliberately trying to scar her face to ruin her title as the "Nation's Ageless Goddess." Guided by her, a massive swarm of fans launched a cyberbullying campaign against me. "A dermatologist trying to treat cancer? Stay in your lane. If you can't cure it, don't touch it." "What kind of quack is this woman? You’re just jealous because my queen is young and beautiful!" My husband—the hospital director—didn't stand by me either. He forced me to issue a public apology online. I laughed in sheer disbelief. Twenty years of practicing medicine, countless patients healed, and this was how I was repaid? Framed and slandered. In a rage, I quit my job, filed for divorce, and left the country to travel the world. I didn't expect that a few months later, those same fans would be blocking my driveway. "Dr. Song, please, we’re begging you! Save her!" 1 "Serena is glowing!" "Serena, get out of that hospital! Don't let that butcher touch your face!" "Don't be scared, Serena! We'll protect you!" Serena Vance, forty years old but looking twenty-five, stood in the hospital lobby. Wearing oversized sunglasses and a designer mask, she waved to her screaming fans with a detached, arrogant grace. She acted like she was walking the Met Gala red carpet, not standing in a medical facility. I was just trying to get to work. I pushed through the crushing crowd, struggling to reach the entrance. Suddenly, I was yanked backward. My spine slammed against a marble pillar, the pain making me break out in a cold sweat. I glared at the woman who grabbed me. Instead of apologizing, she smirked and "accidentally" splashed her hot Starbucks latte all over my scrubs. "Oh my god! Isn't this the great Dr. Song? So sorry, I didn't see you there." She covered her mouth, giggling. The fans around her sneered, looking at me like I was trash. It was a freezing Chicago winter. The wet scrubs clung to my skin, sending a violent shiver down my spine. I was about to argue when a cold voice cut through the noise. It was my husband, Richard, the hospital director. "Dr. Song, you’re ten minutes late. What are you doing loitering? Come to my office. Now." I wasn't surprised. I’d been getting doxxed and harassed online for a week because of Serena’s diagnosis. It was disrupting the hospital's operations. But what he said next made me shake with rage. "We’ve received a coordinated complaint from the fan club," Richard said, closing the door. They accused me of malpractice and practicing outside my scope. They demanded my immediate termination and a video apology posted to all social media platforms. I frowned deeply. "Richard, we’ve been married for decades. Do you honestly think I would misdiagnose someone on purpose? My records are in the system. Send an auditor. I have nothing to hide." I was the top dermatology resident in my class. I followed Richard to this hospital right out of med school. Twenty years later, my record was spotless. I slept well at night knowing I did my job. And now, they were lying through their teeth, and my own husband wasn't defending me? "Katherine, I know you’re good," Richard said, sipping his coffee. "But doctors make mistakes. Serena is a national treasure. Her fanbase is massive. I’m your husband, yes, but I’m also the director of this hospital. My hands are tied." My face went pale. "What are you saying?" He sighed. "Apologize. Or step down as Chief of Dermatology. Take a sabbatical until the mob calms down." I laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. I followed protocol. Why should I take the fall for a diagnosis I knew was right? If I apologized, I was admitting guilt. My career would be over. "Richard, let Serena go to another specialist. Let them prove me wrong. Until then, I admit nothing!" Richard slammed his mug on the desk. "Katherine! Don't be selfish! Think about the hospital's reputation! Everyone knows you’re my wife. Do you want them to think I’m covering for you? Have you thought about me at all?" I gritted my teeth so hard my jaw ached. "But—" "Get out," he snapped. "Tomorrow morning, I want to see that apology video. Or you can pack your bags and go home. You’re getting too old for this stress anyway." I walked back to my office, chest tight with anger and grief. But I couldn't even get inside. My office was packed with fans. 2 "Apologize, you witch!" The roar stunned me. A middle-aged man, clearly a superfan, threw a stack of photos at me. The corner of one sliced my cheek, drawing blood. "Katherine Song, don't pretend you didn't target Serena on purpose! You know your husband and Serena were childhood sweethearts. You’ve been jealous for years! You finally found a chance to ruin her face!" I looked down at the photos scattered on the floor. Richard and Serena, looking very cozy. I took a deep breath. "I am a doctor. My treatment plan has nothing to do with my husband. If you don't trust my diagnosis, take her to Mayo Clinic. Take her to Johns Hopkins. Go anywhere else!" A few young girls in "Team Serena" hoodies chimed in. "Serena already sent photos to a specialist in Switzerland. The results are coming in any minute. We’re going to expose you as a fraud." "We’re livestreaming this. Don't try to run." My intern, Holly, tried to shield me. "Dr. Song is a board-certified expert! She wouldn't make a diagnosis like that without certainty. Wait for the facts!" The middle-aged man sneered. "My son is in med school. He looked at Serena’s Instagram photos and said her skin is fine." "Exactly. Does she think she's the only doctor in the world?" Holly wanted to argue, but I shook my head. "If you want to wait," I said calmly, "we wait." I knew what I saw. That lesion on Serena’s face was a basal cell carcinoma. It is the most common form of skin cancer. Highly treatable if caught early. A simple excision. But because I suggested surgery, she spun a narrative that I was out to disfigure her. Looking at the photos on the floor, the way Richard looked at her... I connected the dots. They were likely having an affair. That was why she was so paranoid about me holding a scalpel to her face. A notification pinged on a fan's phone. "See! Switzerland says it's just cystic acne!" "In your face, Doctor!" "Apologize! Now!" I shook my head in disbelief. "Telemedicine has limits. You can't diagnose texture through a filtered photo. We need a biopsy." The word 'biopsy' set them off again. "Biopsy implies cutting! She starts filming her new movie next week! You just want to scar her!" I tried to reason with them, but the mob had made up its mind. 3 #UnethicalDoctor #FireDrSong #JusticeForSerena We were trending on X (formerly Twitter). The narrative was set: The jealous wife utilizing her medical license to disfigure her husband's beautiful celebrity friend. Strangers flooded the hospital's Yelp and Google reviews. "Is this where they hire butchers? Zero stars." "This woman treated my mom once. She has RBF (Resting Bitch Face). Never smiled once." "I heard she starves her inpatients. Revoke her license!" I read the comments, clutching my chest. As a Chief Resident, I worked 12-hour shifts. I skipped lunch. I didn't have the energy to smile 24/7. And "starving" patients? That's called NPO—nothing by mouth before surgery. Basal cell carcinoma rarely spreads, but rarely isn't never. If she ignored it... I worried about my patients until I developed chronic migraines. And this was the thanks I got. To make matters worse, Richard issued a statement on the hospital's official account, apologizing for "personnel misconduct" and promising "internal restructuring." He threw me under the bus. Then, Serena tweeted. @SerenaVance: "Thanks for the love, guys! I'm fine. Dr. Song and I are friends—she was just teasing me because we go way back. Please don't be mean! <3" She attached the Swiss "diagnosis." It looked like she was defending me, but it was a calculated move. She tagged my personal account. Within minutes, my inbox exploded. "Nice try, Karen. If you're lonely, get a cat, don't come for Serena." "Jealous much? You're old and dried up. Serena is timeless." "My dad is a lawyer. We're going to sue you into homelessness." The notifications were a ceaseless drone of hate. I wanted to quit right then. But I had inpatients who needed me. I didn't sleep a wink that night. 4 The next morning, I dragged myself to work. I just needed to discharge my current patients. Then I could figure this out. I walked onto the ward and saw Richard surrounded by a group of angry family members. "Dr. Evans, we trust you," a woman shouted. "But we don't trust your wife! You need to assign a new doctor to my mother immediately!" "Yes! She brings personal vendettas into the exam room!" Richard held up his hands. "I understand. Dr. Song was out of line. I’m handling it." I recognized the woman. Brenda. Her mother had a growth on her neck. "Brenda," I stepped forward. "I have been treating your mother for three years. You can request a transfer, but you cannot question my medical expertise." Richard glared at me. "Katherine! Watch your tone! Apologize to them." I ignored him. Brenda pointed a finger in my face. "If you had a conscience, you'd quit. If anything happens to my mom, I'm suing!" I looked around. Patients I had treated for years looked away, refusing to meet my eyes. Something inside me snapped. The thread I had been holding onto for twenty years... it just broke. It wasn't worth it. I took a deep breath. I took off my white coat. "Fine," I said. My voice was eerily steady. "I quit." Richard paused, then nodded, satisfied. "Good. You should have done that yesterday." I looked him in the eye. "But I will not apologize." "And Richard? I resigned. You didn't fire me." "And if you all think I’m biased, find someone else. Good luck." Richard’s face darkened. "Katherine, admit you were wrong. Is your ego that big?" I laughed. "I wasn't wrong." "Come home tonight. We need to discuss the divorce." 5 My mother-in-law called to scream at me, telling me I was being dramatic and ungrateful. I hung up on her. I had carried that family and that hospital on my back. I was the one working double shifts while Richard played golf and networked. I was packing my clothes when I found it. A diamond earring, wedged between the cushions of our sofa. I recognized it immediately. Serena had worn the pair in a magazine shoot last month. I gripped the earring until it dug into my palm. So, I was right. Serena came to the hospital not for medical advice, but to mark her territory. My suggestion of surgery spooked her, so she weaponized her fanbase to remove me from the equation. And Richard helped her. He gaslit me into an apology to protect his mistress. Honestly? I didn't even feel sad. Just disgusted. If Serena wanted to ignore a cancerous tumor because her boyfriend said it was "just a pimple," that was natural selection at work. I slept like a baby that night. The divorce was fast. Richard wanted me gone. I took my half of the assets—liquid cash and investments. He kept the house. On my last day at the hospital to sign paperwork, the fan club was waiting outside with a banner: "DING DONG THE WITCH IS GONE." Brenda was there, chatting with them, laughing about how Serena would stay young forever. "The old hag finally left," someone shouted as I walked to my car. Holly, my intern, walked me out, tears in her eyes. "Dr. Song, I know the truth. They're idiots." I patted her hand. "Let them be. You can't save people who don't want to be saved." I was 49. I was wealthy. I was single. I booked a one-way ticket to Europe. For twenty years, I hadn't taken a real vacation. I had missed weddings, birthdays, and life, all for the hospital. Now? The world was mine. A month later, while sipping wine in a vineyard in Tuscany, I saw Serena on the cover of Vogue. She looked stunning. But I noticed the heavy makeup on her cheek, and the strategic placement of a feather accessory covering the lesion. Marketing accounts posted side-by-sides of her face and my old diagnosis, mocking me. "Dr. Song said this was cancer. Look at her now! glowing!" "Serena 1, Haters 0." Some med students commented, "Actually, she should really get that checked again..." They were swarmed by the hive. "Stop spreading anxiety!" "Are you Song's burner account?" I clicked "Not Interested" and locked my phone. You can't cure stupid. 6 Two weeks later, Holly texted me. Holly: Dr. Song... Richard and Serena just went public. She sent a photo. Paparazzi caught them kissing in Malibu. I texted back: What’s the narrative? Holly: They’re claiming 'True Love.' Check trending. I downloaded X again. #SerenaRichardLove #Soulmates #FinallyTogether Serena posted a photo of a marriage license. @SerenaVance: "Yes, Richard and I are together. We were childhood sweethearts, but life kept us apart. After 20 years, and his divorce, we reconnected. I want a family. I want love. We are legally married! @RichardEvans" Richard quoted it: "No more regrets. @SerenaVance" The comments were nauseatingly positive. "So brave! Love wins!" "Finally! They look so good together." "That ex-wife was definitely the problem." My name wasn't mentioned once. They had clearly hired a PR firm to scrub me from the narrative. I clicked on a fan video of them walking down Rodeo Drive. They were holding hands. But Serena looked... gray. She was thin. Too thin. And she kept coughing. I zoomed in. The lesion on her face had grown. She had covered it with a heavy-duty bandage, trying to pass it off as a fashion statement. I shook my head. Richard, the great doctor, was blind. Or maybe he just didn't want to see it. Metastasis. It was happening. I grabbed my popcorn. The show was just starting.
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