Hunting Down My Mysterious Doctor Wife

The private elevator chimed softly as the doors slid open, revealing the penthouse suite of the exclusive Manhattan VIP club. Fidel stumbled out of the elevator. He pressed his hand hard against his forehead, his breathing ragged. He collapsed onto the center of a massive velvet sofa, his long legs sprawling out. Julian followed close behind, his hand resting instinctively on the grip of the pistol holstered under his jacket. His eyes never left Eleanora. Eleanora walked into the room, her silver briefcase swinging lightly at her side. She ignored Fidel's groans of pain. She walked straight to the large marble coffee table in front of the sofa. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a thick packet of medical-grade sanitizing wipes. She pulled one out and began to wipe down the surface of the marble. She scrubbed with intense, methodical pressure, her eyes tracking every inch of the stone. When she finished the first pass, she threw the wipe into a nearby trash can, pulled out a fresh one, and wiped the entire table down a second time. Fidel opened one bloodshot eye. The sharp smell of alcohol and bleach hit his nose. "What the hell are you doing?" he ground out through clenched teeth. Eleanora didn't look at him. "Creating a sterile field. I despise the bacteria of strangers." Fidel's eye twitched. The blatant insult to his environment grated on his nerves, but the pounding in his skull robbed him of the energy to argue. Eleanora placed the silver briefcase onto the clean marble. She popped the dual metal latches. The case opened, revealing rows of glowing glass vials and a velvet roll holding dozens of silver needles. She unrolled the velvet. She pulled out a long, impossibly thin silver needle. At the very base of the needle, carved into the metal, was a tiny, intricate plum-blossom. She held the needle up to the light. "Lie back," Eleanora commanded, turning to Fidel. "And keep your mouth shut." Fidel's hands clenched into fists. He was the king of Wall Street. Men begged on their knees for his attention. No one gave him orders. He glared at her, his chest heaving. Eleanora stared right back, her face devoid of any sympathy. She tapped the needle against her gloved finger. "Or you can sit there and let your brain hemorrhage. Your choice." Fidel swallowed hard. He let his head fall back against the velvet cushions and squeezed his eyes shut. Eleanora stepped between his knees. She leaned over him. A faint, clean scent, like rain on cold stone, mixed with the harsh smell of sterile latex drifted down, filling Fidel's lungs. Her gloved fingertips pressed firmly against the skin of his temples, finding the inflamed nerve clusters. Fidel's entire body flinched at the physical contact. His muscles locked up, rejecting the touch. "Relax your jaw," Eleanora warned, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "If you tense up, the needle snaps off inside your skull." Fidel forced his muscles to uncoil. Eleanora's wrist flicked. The plum-blossom needle pierced the skin just above his ear, sliding deep into the tissue with terrifying precision. Julian took a half-step forward, his heart hammering in his chest, but Fidel raised a single finger, ordering him to stay back. As the first needle settled into the nerve block, a microscopic fraction of the pressure in Fidel's head released. Eleanora didn't pause. Her hands moved like lightning. She drove five more needles into specific pressure points across his scalp and neck. She turned back to the case, grabbed a glass syringe, and drew a pale blue liquid from one of the vials. She grabbed Fidel's forearm, her grip bruisingly tight. She found the vein and pushed the needle in, injecting the serum straight into his bloodstream. The cold liquid rushed through Fidel's veins. Instantly, the blinding agony that had tortured him for five years evaporated. It didn't fade; it was violently shut off. A heavy, crushing wave of exhaustion slammed into his brain. Fidel opened his eyes, trying to look at the woman standing over him. Before he could form a single word, his eyelids fluttered shut, and his body went completely limp against the sofa.