The Jilted Heiress Claims The Surgeon Brother

Angelena lay in the dark, but sleep wouldn't come. The memories of the betrayal had faded, but they had opened the door to something else. Something worse. Something beautiful and agonizing. The last three years. The years everyone thought she was alone. Because she was. But not completely. The hospital door, cracked open. Dalton standing in the hallway, his back rigid. He was pressing a check into the doctor's hand. "I don't care what it costs. Fly in the specialist from Zurich. Now." The fever. The horrible, burning fever that made the world swim. She had drifted in and out of consciousness, but she always knew when he was there. The cool, damp cloth on her forehead. The smell of his cologne, clean and sharp, cutting through the stench of sickness. She had opened her eyes once, just a slit, and seen the red veins bursting in the whites of his eyes. The late-night video calls. She had woken up to the sound of his voice, low and urgent, speaking to doctors in London and Tokyo. Debating treatment plans, demanding second opinions, fighting for her life as if it were his own. She had asked him once, "Why are you doing this?" He had looked at her, his face a mask of exhaustion and something deeper, something terrifying. "Because you're Angie." And then, the end. The final night. The rain beating against the window. She had felt the cold creeping in, starting from her fingertips and moving inward. He was there. He was always there at the end. He was holding her hand. The great Dr. Barron, the man who never cried, had tears streaming down his face. He was shaking, his shoulders heaving with silent sobs. "I'm sorry, Angie. I'm so sorry. I couldn't save you." A tear slid down Angelena's cheek, hot and wet. She wiped it away fiercely. "I'm here now, Dalton," she whispered into the dark room. "I'm going to love you so hard you'll forget how to breathe." Across the garden, in the study of the main house, Dalton hung up the phone. He leaned back in his leather chair, staring at the ceiling. The confusion was eating him alive. The smile. The touch. The instant acceptance. It didn't make sense. Five years of heartbreak doesn't just vanish overnight. He needed data. He needed facts. He stared at the encrypted phone in his desk drawer, a bitter taste in his mouth. He hated this. It felt like a betrayal, a violation of the fragile trust she was offering him. But the woman he saw today was a beautiful, brilliant stranger, and the not-knowing was eating him alive. He had to understand. He had to be sure she was safe. With a heavy sigh, he picked up the secure phone and dialed a number he rarely used. It rang twice. "Dalton? To what do I owe the pleasure? You never call." The voice was male, British, amused. Caleb Vance. "I need a favor," Dalton said, skipping the pleasantries. "I need you to look into someone for me." "Sounds serious. Who's the target?" Dalton paused, his jaw tightening. "Angelena Barlow." A low whistle came through the speaker. "The heiress? The one who just got back? Dalton, you sly dog-" "Cut the crap, Caleb," Dalton snapped. "I need to know everything about her time in Europe. Specifically the last three years. I want to know if something happened to her. An accident. A trauma. A man. Anything." There was a beat of silence. "You know this is highly irregular. If she finds out-" "She won't," Dalton said, his voice cold and final. "Just do it." Caleb sighed. "Fine. Actually, wait." A pause, the faint sound of keyboard clicks in the background. "You might be in luck. Her name came up peripherally on another file. A client of mine was tracking a socialite who ran in the same circles in Paris. I might have some initial intel." Dalton sat up straight, his grip on the phone tightening. "What stories?" He was stepping off the cliff. For the first time in his life, he wasn't going to just watch from the shadows. He was going to find out the truth.