No Longer His Captive Surgeon Wife

Amy pushed off the cold wall of the corridor. Her legs felt like lead, but she forced them to move.

She walked quickly down the long hallway, her sensible heels clicking against the linoleum floor, until she reached the door at the very end. It was her private office.

She pushed the door open, stepped inside, and walked straight to the water dispenser in the corner.

Her hands were shaking so violently she could barely hold the paper cup. She pressed the lever, letting the ice-cold water fill the cup, desperate to wash down the bile rising in her throat.

She brought the rim to her lips.

The office door was violently shoved open from the outside. It hit the wall with a deafening crack.

Beckham walked in. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated control.

He reached behind him, pushed the door shut, and turned the deadbolt. The sharp click of the lock echoed in the small room like a gunshot.

Amy spun around like a cornered cat. The ice water sloshed over the rim, soaking the back of her hand.

"Do you not understand the concept of personal space?" she yelled, her voice cracking.

Beckham ignored her. He walked slowly, casually, across the room until he stood in front of her desk.

"Name your price, Amy," he demanded, his tone cold and laced with a businessman's calculation. "How much do you want on the divorce settlement to nod your head and walk into that operating room?"

The sheer arrogance of his money hit her like a physical slap. The heat of anger flushed her cheeks.

She slammed the paper cup onto the dispenser tray and marched behind her desk.

She yanked open the bottom drawer. It stuck for a second, but she pulled with all her strength. She dug past medical journals and grabbed a slightly yellowed manila folder.

She threw it onto the center of the desk. The loud smack made the pens in her cup rattle.

"I don't want your money," Amy said, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "I just want my freedom."

Beckham's eyes dropped to the folder. He read the bold, capitalized letters printed across the top page.

DIVORCE AGREEMENT.

His eyes darkened instantly. The bored facade shattered, replaced by a dangerous, brewing storm.

A cruel, mocking smile twisted the corner of his mouth. "Playing hard to get, Amy? It's a bit pathetic."

Amy reached into her pen holder, pulled out a heavy Montblanc fountain pen, and held it out across the desk.

"Sign it."

Beckham didn't take the pen. He picked up the document. His eyes scanned the text with terrifying speed.

He stopped at the middle of the first page. His gaze locked onto the clause stating she would waive all alimony and leave the marriage with absolutely nothing.

The knuckles of the hand holding the paper turned white. The tendons in his wrist strained against his shirt cuff.

Without breaking eye contact, Beckham gripped the top of the pages with both hands.

With a sudden, violent jerk, he ripped the thick stack of papers straight down the middle.

The sound of tearing paper was loud and violent.

Amy's eyes went wide. The breath left her lungs.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" she screamed, lunging forward across the desk. She grabbed the lapels of his expensive suit jacket.

Beckham didn't step back. He let go of the torn pages. The heavy paper scraps fluttered into the air, falling around them like dirty snow.

He moved with terrifying speed. His large hand snaked around her waist, his fingers digging into her lower back.

He yanked her forward. Her stomach slammed against the edge of the desk.

His other hand planted firmly on the edge of the wood, trapping her completely between his hard body and the desk.

He lowered his head. His face was inches from hers. She could feel the heat of his skin and the warm, mint-scented breath ghosting over her neck.

"Here is the deal," Beckham whispered, his voice a low, vibrating threat that sent shivers down her spine. "You will only get my signature when Amira walks out of this hospital fully cured."

Amy thrashed against him. She pushed her hands flat against his solid, unyielding chest, trying to shove him away.

Beckham simply tightened his arm around her waist. The sheer difference in their physical strength was suffocating. She couldn't move an inch.

Humiliation burned in her throat. She bit down hard on her lower lip to stop herself from crying out. The sharp, metallic taste of her own blood flooded her tongue.

"Fine," she choked out, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "I'll think about it."

Beckham stared at her bleeding lip for a long second. Then, he slowly released her waist.

He stepped back, his hands casually smoothing down the front of his perfectly pressed suit jacket.

"You have twenty-four hours to clear out of this office if you refuse," he stated.

He turned and walked out, leaving the door wide open.

Amy's knees buckled. She collapsed into her office chair, her legs completely giving out, staring at the torn pieces of her freedom scattered across the floor.