I Lost My Genius Surgeon Wife

Justine pushed open the heavy mahogany door of her bedroom. She stepped inside, turned around, and immediately threw the deadbolt. The solid click locked the McConnell family out. She walked straight past the massive four-poster bed and into the expansive, marble-clad en-suite bathroom. She reached out and flipped the switch for the vanity lights. The harsh, bright LED bulbs flared to life, illuminating the mirror. Justine stopped and stared at her reflection. The right side of her face was a horrifying mess. The skin over her cheekbone was split open, the edges jagged and raw. The surrounding tissue was already swelling into an angry, purple mound, narrowing her right eye into a slit. Half-coagulated blood painted the right side of her jaw and stained the collar of her white cashmere top. Her eyes, however, were completely calm. They were the eyes of a surgeon assessing a trauma patient. Cold. Analytical. Detached. She crouched down and opened the cabinet beneath the dual sinks. She reached past the expensive La Mer face creams and Chanel bath oils, pushing her hand all the way to the back. Her fingers found the hidden latch. She pulled out a heavy, professional-grade medical trauma kit. It was the only piece of her past she had smuggled into this house. Before she became Carl McConnell's silent accessory, Justine Ward had been the top surgical resident at Johns Hopkins. She had hands that could stitch a torn artery in the dark. She had been weeks away from accepting a prestigious fellowship in trauma surgery in Zurich, Switzerland, poised to become one of the youngest lead surgeons in her field. She hauled the heavy kit onto the marble counter and unzipped it. She pulled out a bottle of medical-grade hydrogen peroxide, a pack of sterile cotton swabs, and a sheet of artificial skin dressing. She soaked a cotton swab in the peroxide. Without a single moment of hesitation, she pressed the soaked cotton directly into the open gash on her cheekbone. The chemical reaction was instantaneous. Thick white foam bubbled up from the wound as the peroxide attacked the bacteria and the torn tissue. The pain was blinding. It felt like a lit match being pressed directly against her skull. Justine sucked in a sharp, hissing breath through her teeth, but her hand did not shake. Her fingers remained perfectly steady. As the physical pain burned through her nervous system, it dragged a memory to the surface-a memory from three years ago in a sterile VIP hospital room in Washington D. C. The room smelled of bleach and impending death. Her older sister, Eleanor, lay in the hospital bed, her body broken beyond repair from a massive car pile-up. Eleanor's skeletal hand had gripped Justine's scrub top with terrifying strength. Tears streamed down Eleanor's sunken face as she begged. Justine, please. Carl's family is ruthless. Claire will eat Leo alive. She will bring in some socialite stepmother who will destroy my boy. Promise me you'll marry Carl. Promise me you'll protect Leo. Please, for my blood. Carl had been standing at the foot of the bed. He wore a black trench coat, looking like a grieving statesman. He had looked Justine in the eye and sworn a solemn oath. I will respect you as my equal, Justine. I will protect you for the rest of my life. Crushed by the weight of her dying sister's tears and the suffocating guilt of family duty, Justine had nodded. She had thrown her Zurich offer into the trash and walked into the McConnell cage. Justine blinked, pulling herself back to the present. She looked at the bloody cotton swab in her hand. She let out a short, sharp laugh that sounded more like a sob. Carl's "protection" was throwing her into a freezing koi pond, locking her in a 55-degree cellar, and smashing her face open with a two-pound book. And Leo. The boy she had sacrificed her entire future to protect. The boy had looked her dead in the eye, pushed her into the water, and smiled as she drowned. Justine tossed the bloody swab into the trash can. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. "I paid my debt, Eleanor," Justine whispered to the empty room. "I owe you nothing anymore." She peeled the backing off the artificial skin dressing and carefully, expertly applied it over the cleaned wound. It sealed the cut perfectly, stopping the bleeding and protecting the tissue. She zipped the trauma kit shut and shoved it back into the dark recesses of the cabinet. When she stood back up, a massive wave of dizziness hit her. The adrenaline from the cellar was crashing. Her core temperature was still dangerously high. The room spun wildly. She grabbed the edge of the marble sink to keep from collapsing. She forced her legs to move. She stumbled out of the bathroom and walked toward the bedside table. She picked up the heavy, antique landline phone. She dialed the internal estate extension for the head housekeeper. Herta answered on the second ring. "What is it?" Herta's voice was dripping with insolence. "I have a severe infection and a high fever," Justine said, her voice completely devoid of emotion. "My face is severely injured. I will not be attending the afternoon reception for the Astor-Paine family." Herta let out a loud, mocking scoff. "Do not use cheap excuses to avoid your duties as the hostess, Mrs. McConnell. The Madam will not tolerate it." Justine did not argue. "If you want the Astor-Paine family to see Carl's wife greeting them with a face covered in blood, you are welcome to send your security guards to drag my body down the stairs." Before Herta could respond, Justine reached down and violently yanked the phone cord out of the wall jack. The line went dead. She had physically severed her communication with the rest of the house. She turned away from the bed and dragged her heavy feet toward the antique writing desk in the corner of the room. She unlocked the bottom drawer and pulled out a thick, sealed manila envelope. Inside the envelope was a legal document her private lawyer had drafted three weeks ago. She had kept it hidden, paralyzed by the lingering guilt of her promise to Eleanor. It was a Relinquishment of Stepparent Guardianship. Justine pulled the cap off her fountain pen. She flipped to the last page of the document. She did not hesitate for a single second. She pressed the nib to the paper and signed her name with sharp, aggressive strokes: Justine Ward. Not McConnell. Ward. The moment the ink dried, the massive, suffocating boulder that had been sitting on her chest for three years shattered into dust. She could breathe. She slid the document back into the manila envelope and placed it dead center on the writing desk, right where anyone walking into the room would see it. It was a ticking time bomb. Her mission was complete. Her body finally gave out. Justine stumbled away from the desk. Her knees buckled. She collapsed onto the massive bed, her hands blindly grabbing the heavy comforter and pulling it over her shivering body. The darkness of the fever rushed up to swallow her brain. But as her eyes fluttered shut, the corners of her mouth lifted into a genuine, peaceful smile. She was finally free.