No Longer His Captive Surgeon Wife
I was a top cardiac surgeon, trapped in a dead marriage with a ruthless billionaire.
One afternoon, he brought his mistress to my hospital, ordering me to perform her high-risk heart surgery.
When I refused and handed him our divorce papers, he violently tore them up and threatened to erase my name from the medical community.
Worse, I discovered they had a five-year-old surrogate son—bought and born the exact same year I bled out on an operating table, losing our baby.
The mistress mocked my trauma, calling me a barren piece of trash who couldn't give him an heir.
I slapped her across the face.
The next morning, the NYPD publicly handcuffed me in my own hospital.
She had framed me for attempted murder, claiming I injected her IV with a lethal dose of potassium.
My husband cornered me in the interrogation room.
"Just confess to me. I will throw enough money at the DA to make this entirely disappear."
I looked into his dark eyes and saw nothing but raw, unfiltered suspicion.
He actually believed I was a jealous murderer.
I swore I would rather rot in a concrete cell for the rest of my life than bow down to them.
Just as my childhood savior miraculously appeared to bail me out, my phone rang.
The mistress had gone into full cardiac arrest.
Only I had the surgical skill to save her.
I turned around, deciding whether to let the woman who ruined my life die, or pick up my scalpel.
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Chapter 1
The heavy mahogany double doors of the Chief of Surgery's office yielded to Amy Leach's push.
She stepped inside, the sharp, sterile scent of bleach clinging to her white coat, a stark contrast to the stale, conditioned air of the room. Her muscles ached from six hours bent over an operating table.
Blinding afternoon sunlight sliced through the gaps in the window blinds. Amy blinked, her vision temporarily whiting out.
As her eyes adjusted to the glare, the silhouette in the center of the Persian rug sharpened into focus. It was a custom-built, high-end wheelchair.
Sitting in it was Amira Hughes.
Amira's face was pale, but the arrogant tilt of her chin and the pristine cut of her designer hospital gown betrayed the fragility she tried to project.
Amy's stomach dropped. A violent, physical wave of nausea hit the back of her throat. Her lungs seized, trapping the oxygen in her chest. The phantom scent of blood from five years ago filled her nostrils.
Then, her eyes drifted past the wheelchair.
Standing by the floor-to-ceiling window was a tall figure in a tailored, pitch-black suit. The man slowly turned around.
Beckham Graham.
His face was a masterclass in cold geometry-sharp jawline, straight nose, and eyes as dark and unforgiving as a winter ocean.
Their gazes collided in the dead air of the room.
For a fraction of a second, a tremor of raw, suppressed shock cracked the ice in Beckham's eyes. Then, the frost returned, thicker and more impenetrable than before.
Julian, the Chief of Surgery, stood up from behind his desk. He cleared his throat, the sound loud in the suffocating silence.
"Dr. Leach, please come in. I believe you need to meet the sponsors of our new wing-"
Beckham raised a single, large hand. The gesture was slight, but it commanded absolute obedience. Julian snapped his mouth shut.
Beckham bypassed the desk and walked straight toward Amy.
His heavy leather shoes sank into the rug, each step a muffled, rhythmic thud that hammered against Amy's ribs.
He stopped exactly half a meter in front of her. His sheer size blocked out the sunlight, casting a dark shadow over her face. He looked down at her.
"You will take over Amira's cardiac repair surgery immediately," Beckham said.
His voice was a flat, emotionless command. It wasn't a request. It was an order from a king to a peasant.
Amy's fingers curled into the deep pockets of her white coat. She gripped the cold rubber tubing of her stethoscope until her knuckles turned a translucent white.
She tilted her chin up, meeting his dead stare. A cold, hollow laugh scraped its way out of her throat.
"No."
Behind Beckham, Amira let out a weak, pathetic cough. She slumped slightly in her wheelchair, her hand fluttering to her chest in a practiced display of vulnerability.
The temperature in Beckham's eyes plummeted. The muscle in his jaw ticked.
"Do not bring your petty, personal vendettas into medical practice, Amy," he warned, his voice dropping an octave.
"Personal vendettas?" Amy spat the words out. The metallic taste of adrenaline flooded her mouth. "You mean like the time you threw me out on the street five years ago without a single question? Is that the vendetta you're referring to?"
Beckham closed the distance between them. He reached out, his large fingers clamping around her jaw.
He forced her head up. His grip was a vice of warm, hard skin.
"If anything happens to Amira," he whispered, his breath brushing her cheek, "I will make sure your name is erased from the entire North American medical community. You will never hold a scalpel again."
Amy did not flinch. Her eyes were dead, locked onto his.
She brought her hand up and slapped his wrist away. The sharp smack echoed in the room. A faint red mark bloomed on his pale skin.
She took a deliberate step back, putting a safe distance between her body and his overwhelming heat.
Her trembling hands reached up, adjusting the collar of her white coat. It was her armor.
"I am no longer that helpless foster kid you could crush under your heel," Amy stated, her voice eerily calm. "Find another doctor."
She turned on her heel and marched toward the heavy mahogany doors.
Before her hand could touch the brass handle, two massive bodyguards in black suits stepped out from the shadows of the hallway. They crossed their thick arms, forming a human wall.
"Name your price," Beckham's voice hit her back like a physical blow. "Whatever conditions you want. Just do the surgery."
Amy didn't even turn her head. She stared at the broad chests of the bodyguards.
"Get the hell out of my way," she snarled.
The bodyguards hesitated. They looked past her, waiting for a signal.
A heavy silence stretched. Then, Beckham gave a slight nod.
The bodyguards stepped back, dropping their arms.
Amy grabbed the handle, yanked the door open, and stepped out. She slammed the heavy wood shut behind her, the loud bang vibrating through the floorboards.
She leaned her back against the cold, sterile wall of the corridor. Her chest heaved as she dragged air into her burning lungs, trying to calm the frantic, erratic beating of her heart.
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7.4
I single-handedly saved my family's corporate empire from a hostile takeover, securing our market share for the next decade.
But my grandfather didn't see me as a hero. He saw me as a flawed piece of inventory.
To calm the board and fix the reputation I supposedly ruined, he forced me into an arranged marriage, auctioning me off to the highest bidder.
Desperate, I turned to my childhood friend, Egnacio, the only person who ever promised to protect me.
But instead of saving me, he publicly humiliated me. He used my desperation as a networking opportunity, pitching my arranged marriage as a business deal to a ruthless private equity king named Dexter Mathews.
Later that night, I caught Egnacio holding my cruel cousin in his arms.
"What man wants to be with a woman who looks at you like she's planning a hostile takeover?"
Hearing him mock my pain shattered the last bit of hope I had.
I realized I was never family to them. I was just a sharp knife, used to cut down their enemies and then traded for cash before I got dull.
The heartbreak vanished, replaced by a cold, violent rage.
I didn't break, and I didn't run.
Instead, I got into the back of Dexter Mathews's car. He had watched my family tear me apart, but he didn't see a broken pawn. He saw a queen.
And together, we were going to burn their entire empire to the ground.
9.7
Clarissa rushed into a crowded nightclub for one simple reason: to save her wildly drunk best friend.
But her ruthless billionaire husband, Giovanny, was watching from the VIP room. After effortlessly ruining a man just for grabbing her wrist, Giovanny punished Clarissa for breaching their public image contract with an impossible curfew.
When she inevitably arrived back at his penthouse late, he didn't just yell. He forced her to her knees by his bathtub to wash his back, making her watch an explicit, humiliating video as punishment.
A sudden family medical emergency dragged them to his parents' estate. Still in her soaked, transparent dress and his misbuttoned shirt, Giovanny's mother caught them. She joyfully assumed they had been passionately intimate.
Instead of clearing her name, Giovanny pulled Clarissa close and lied to his mother's face.
"We are working very hard on the family's future, Mother."
He locked her in the guest suite, tossed a sheer silk nightgown on the bed, and literally shattered the tablet holding their "no-contact" prenuptial agreement. He then slapped a file against the window—he had secretly bought all her father's toxic debt.
Clarissa was terrified. They were supposed to be business allies bound by a strict contract. Why was he suddenly acting like a predator determined to own her body and soul?
"Give me an heir, or your father goes to federal prison," he whispered.
Stripped of all choices, Clarissa picked up the white silk. She would surrender tonight to save her family, but as his shadow swallowed her, she made a silent vow to survive this monster, and one day, tear his empire to the ground.
9.7
Emaline Finley was drowning in massive debt to keep her dying father alive, even enduring a humiliating blind date with an arrogant man just to find a financial lifeline.
But the fatal blow came from her former best friend, Kitty. Kitty, who was already engaged to Emaline's ex-boyfriend, deliberately told Emaline's father that his expensive treatments were bleeding his daughter dry.
Out of extreme guilt, her father threw away his life-saving medication and checked himself out of the hospital to die at home. When Emaline found him, he was coughing up pools of bright red blood, his lungs rapidly collapsing. As the paramedics rushed him away, Kitty called to gloat, mocking Emaline's poverty and telling her to go watch her father die.
Emaline was completely shattered, suffocating under the sheer injustice of it all. She had been betrayed, stripped of her dignity, and was now forced to watch her only parent slip away because of a cruel, spiteful lie.
Just as her world went dark, a wildly wealthy stranger stepped in. Cullen Preston, the mysterious man who had witnessed her humiliating date, paid the astronomical medical bills and brought in the city's top surgeon to pull her father back from death. But his salvation wasn't charity.
"Consider it a dowry."
He bought her father's life, and in exchange, he demanded Emaline as his wife.
8.0
My abusive step-family isolated me completely, holding my mother's medical funds hostage to control my every move.
Yesterday, they finalized my sale.
"You will marry Rudy Petrov next month. He is fifty, wealthy, and willing to overlook your lack of pedigree."
Pushed to the absolute edge, I did the insane. I posted an ad online offering my life savings of $50,000 for a contract husband. A stranger named Brennan agreed.
But my family wouldn't let me go. They forced me back for a dinner by threatening my mother's life-saving prescriptions.
At the table, they relentlessly mocked my new "poor IT guy" husband and intentionally burned my hand with boiling tea.
Worse, the housekeeper locked me in a guest room and forced drugs down my throat so Rudy could come in and assault me.
I lay there paralyzed on the floor, bleeding from Rudy's slap, utterly terrified. I couldn't understand why my own family would throw me to the wolves, and I felt a crushing guilt for dragging an innocent, ordinary guy into my nightmare.
Until a pitch-black Maybach smashed through the estate's wrought-iron gates at eighty miles an hour.
My "poor" husband kicked the solid oak doors off their hinges, beat Rudy half to death, and carried me out into the rain.
I didn't know it yet, but the ordinary man I hired to save me was a ruthless billionaire, and he was about to erase my family's entire empire by morning.
8.8
Elizbeth married the wealthy heir Carlton Wilkinson to save her grandfather's life's work.
But on their wedding night, instead of a loving husband, she faced a cold tyrant. He forced her to sign a brutal prenup, stripped her of all family rights, and banished her to a dingy guest room.
He was convinced she was just a pathetic, gold-digging liar.
When a catastrophic pain attack drove Carlton to smash his own head against the wall, Elizbeth rushed in to save him using her specialized acupuncture. She risked her life to calm his spasming nerves.
But the moment he woke up, he nearly choked her to death. He threw her against the wall, bleeding and bruised, accusing her of using cheap parlor tricks to poison him.
The next morning, his greedy relatives openly mocked her cheap clothes, waiting like vultures for Carlton to drop dead so they could steal his fortune.
Elizbeth was humiliated and terrified, but she soon discovered a classified secret.
Carlton was a former Delta Force operator slowly going mad from an undetectable weaponized biotoxin. The poison made him paranoid and violent. He would rather die in agony than accept help from a woman he despised.
Begged by his desperate grandfather, Elizbeth knew she had to cure him in the shadows.
At 1:00 AM, she slipped a heavy, odorless sedative into his water and sneaked into his pitch-black bedroom to begin the detox.
But as her silver needle hovered over his skin, a massive hand shot out and pinned her violently to the mattress.
"How much did they pay you to poison me?" he hissed in the dark, his eyes wide awake and blazing with murderous fury.
7.1
The night before her wedding to Wall Street billionaire Everette Baird, Deliah Quinn stood happily in her haute couture gown.
Then, her younger sister Arvilla walked in, handed her a drugged glass of champagne, and slammed an ultrasound on the vanity.
"I'm pregnant with Everette's child," Arvilla sneered.
Before Deliah's paralyzed body could react, Arvilla dragged in a canister of industrial gasoline, soaked the bridal suite, tossed a lighter, and locked the heavy oak doors from the outside.
To escape the roaring inferno, Deliah smashed the glass balcony and threw herself into the freezing, violent waters of the Atlantic Ocean.
For five agonizing years, everyone believed the Quinn heiress was dead.
Deliah returned to New York entirely reborn—a top architectural designer and a single mother, having scrubbed her past clean and forgotten the people who destroyed her.
She only wanted a peaceful life with her five-year-old genius son, Leo.
But she had no idea her son was secretly hacking airport security cameras to find himself a wealthy stepdad.
Leo deliberately bumped into a terrifying, cold-blooded tycoon, spilling scalding coffee on his custom suit to get his attention.
When Deliah frantically rushed over to protect her son and apologize, the air in the terminal vanished.
Everette Baird stared at the exact face he had obsessively mourned for five years, his eyes turning pitch black as he crushed his phone in his bare hand.