No Longer His Captive Surgeon Wife

It was eleven o'clock at night.

Amy sat on the cheap, sagging sofa in her Brooklyn apartment. She was wearing a faded cotton t-shirt, aggressively rubbing a towel through her wet hair, trying to scrub the hospital smell off her skin.

On the scratched coffee table, her phone suddenly vibrated violently. The screen flashed with an unknown number.

She picked it up and swiped accept.

"Dr. Leach," the cold, mechanical voice of Beckham's executive assistant filled her ear. "Mr. Graham requires your presence downstairs immediately."

Amy stood up, walked to the window, and pulled back the cheap plastic blinds.

Parked on the dark, narrow street below was a massive, gleaming black Lincoln Navigator. It looked like a spaceship dropped into a slum.

"Tell him to go to hell," Amy said flatly, preparing to hang up.

"Kevin has refused to eat or drink for the entire day," the assistant said quickly, dropping the bomb. "He is showing signs of severe dehydration."

Amy's hand tightened around the phone. The plastic casing creaked under her grip.

An image flashed in her mind-the little boy with the bleeding knee, looking at her with those desperate blue eyes.

She cursed under her breath. She threw the towel onto the sofa, grabbed her trench coat from the hook, and snatched her keys.

She marched downstairs and slid into the suffocating, leather-scented back seat of the SUV.

The car glided silently over the Brooklyn Bridge, leaving the gritty streets behind and entering the pristine, hyper-wealthy enclave of the Upper East Side.

The private elevator opened directly into the penthouse. The space was a monument to cold, hard wealth-acres of marble, steel, and glass.

Reginald, the elderly butler with perfectly combed white hair, rushed forward. His face was lined with genuine distress. He placed a pair of sanitized slippers at her feet.

"Madam," Reginald said, his voice trembling slightly. "The young master has locked himself in his room. He won't let anyone near him."

The title Madam felt like a needle sliding under Amy's skin. It was a brutal reminder that she was still legally chained to this family.

She stepped into the slippers, her face a mask of professional indifference. "I am a cardiac surgeon, Reginald. Not a pediatric psychologist."

Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Beckham walked down from the second floor. He looked wrecked. His usually perfect dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His eyes were bloodshot, ringed with dark shadows of exhaustion.

He walked straight up to Amy, his broad shoulders tense with a father's raw anxiety. "Go up there and look at him," Beckham said, his voice hoarse and desperate, stripping away his usual CEO arrogance. "He only reacts to you. Just calm him down. Please."

Amy stared at him, her eyes narrowed in deep suspicion at this sudden display of vulnerability.

Beckham took a step closer. The heavy scent of tobacco and male sweat radiated off his skin.

"What's the matter?" he pleaded, a rare crack in his iron facade. "Are you going to let a five-year-old boy suffer because of us?"

The desperate plea hit its mark. Driven by the hope of finding a crack in his armor to negotiate her freedom, Amy marched past him, her slippers slapping against the hard oak stairs as she climbed to the second floor. She followed the long, carpeted hallway to the door at the very end.

She could hear the sharp, plastic cracking sound of toys being smashed against a wall.

Beckham reached around her and turned the brass doorknob. He pushed the door open.

The room was a disaster zone. Torn pages of expensive picture books and shattered Lego pieces covered every inch of the floor.

In the far corner of the massive bed, Kevin was curled into a tight ball, holding a pillow over his head like a shield.

Beckham took one step into the room.

Kevin shrieked. He grabbed a heavy plastic Transformer and hurled it directly at Beckham's head.

Beckham tilted his head, the toy missing his temple by an inch and shattering against the doorframe. His face turned a dangerous shade of purple. He opened his mouth to yell.

Amy took a deep breath. She reached out, placed her hand flat against Beckham's hard chest, and shoved him backward into the hallway.

"Get out," she ordered, her voice low and absolute. "Do not agitate the patient."

Beckham's jaw clenched so hard she thought his teeth would crack. But he looked past her at the trembling boy on the bed. He swallowed his rage and took a step back.

Amy stepped into the ruined room. She reached behind her back, grabbed the doorknob, and pulled the door shut right in Beckham's face.

She twisted the lock. The loud click echoed in the room, sealing her inside with the boy, and locking the father out.