No Longer His Captive Surgeon Wife

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.