"A man can never outdo a woman when it comes to love and revenge" - Gavin D'Amato, War of the Roses (1989)

A/N: Deciding whether or not to continue on, this was just an idea that came to me as I was debating on the "Red to the Rescue" idea. It could tie in, I guess. In fact, it does. So, what I'm saying is, it will be updated in a while*. I know I probably said that about "RttR" but, it will take a while to update because I need to get good grades, and summer house exams are coming up.

* Indicates no actual time span, because I just am not really that good of a multitasker.

Amelia :)

The doctor lay on the bed on the on-call room, which was deathly quiet. Just because she was there. The other doctors feared her, partly because she was beautiful, but there was something cut off, something cold, that lay underneath. Something broken and damaged. She opened her eyes suddenly, even though she had barely closed them ten minutes earlier. Almost as if she didn't trust even the empty room. She got to her feet, calmly pulling on her lab coat as she headed for the door. She paused, lost in thought.

Her eyes, once a sea blue, were now hollowed with loss and loneliness, rimmed, almost permanently, with dark blue rings underneath. But it wasn't just from her choice of profession. Her skin, although still tanned, no longer glowed, and had lines where they never before existed. Her heart ached, all day, every day. She longed for what she had lost, what had been taken from her. It was all-consuming. Work, eat, plan, sleep. And not necessarily in that order, either.

Rage and revenge were the only things that got her out of bed, desire to cause what had been inflicted on her. Her time was near, everything was falling into place. She tightened the drawstring on her scrubs as she got up from the on-call room, and tucked her hair behind her ears. She mentally checked herself. Was she ready? Correction: would she ever be? She slipped on the mask that she always wore now. No-one would ever worm their way into her heart as he had. She was Jeanne Benoit, chief resident. She was no-one's girl.

In those first few months, she had been a wreck. Her work had not suffered, no; if anything, it had been the only thing to benefit. She had thrown herself into all her cases, she had become the perfect doctor. Shit, she had even gone up in status, if that was possible. She spent all her time at the hospital, working long hours, exhausting herself so she wouldn't fear sleep. As soon as the opportunity came up for a transfer, she grabbed it with both hands.

And she hadn't looked back. Until she saw the name printed on the roster for that day. At the meeting, with the other doctors consulting with her, on her new trial for- She sucked in a breath, but quietly. Her mind went blank as she read the name that accompanied the picture, her blood rushing in her ears as if she was upside down. She couldn't think straight. That one name was here, on that list. Her list. It was too perfect. But it was the Polaroid that really got her. She excused herself, and walked calmly to the bathroom. A vindictive smile spread across her face as she shut the cubicle door.

She thought she'd never want to see that face again. The image of it was burned into her retinas, and when she closed her eyes, she savoured its negative. A stupid pseudonym wouldn't and couldn't fool her. Even though her face was tired and worn in the photograph accompanying her file, it was unforgettable. She had seen it, on his fireplace, even if she was wrapped up by another man, he had stood too close to her for her liking. She had never asked him who she was, but she found out afterwards. Not the way she wanted to, and she was beyond surprised, to say the least. The woman poured into the dress did NOT look like she was capable of destroying her emotions. But she did. Almost effortlessly.

"Elodie Matthews, my ass," she thought. Those green eyes were now ringed with guilt, almost as if she knew who was gazing at her Polaroid. Almost as if she knew the pain Jeanne had suffered. But one thing Jeanne didn't like about the current photo was how much of herself that she saw in that face. Defeat, loss and pain shone out from the washed-out face like a beacon. She wondered if she looked like that sometimes. If she had those same haunted eyes. For she knew who those eyes belonged to.

Those were the haunted eyes of one Jennifer Shepard.