The Masked Surgeon: My Husband's Ultimate Regret

Julian stared at Ellie, his mind reeling. He scrutinized her face, searching for any flicker of deceit, any hint that she was the source of the voice mocking him in his own head. But her expression was a placid mask of mild concern. His hands, hanging at his sides, clenched into fists so tight his knuckles ached.

"The agreement," Ellie said, her voice soft, breaking the tense silence. She pushed the signed document across the glass table toward him. The paper whispered against the surface, a sound that grated on his raw nerves. "It's done."

He glanced down at the elegant, flowing signature. Ellie Hayes. She had agreed too quickly, too easily.

"You don't need to worry about the alimony stipulated in the prenuptial agreement," she continued, her tone consistently indifferent. "I don't want any of it. I'll leave with what I came with."

As if I need his dirty money, the voice scoffed inside his head, dripping with disdain. The interest from one of my offshore accounts could buy this entire penthouse ten times over.

Offshore accounts.

The two words detonated in Julian's brain like a grenade. His eyes widened, a jolt of pure shock running through him. He stumbled back a step, the carefully controlled façade of the CEO of Hayes Industries shattering for a brief second.

He pressed the heels of his hands against his temples, a sudden, sharp headache pulsing behind his eyes. This had to be a hallucination. The stress of the latest hostile takeover bid on Wall Street, the long hours, the lack of sleep-it was the only logical explanation.

Ellie rose from the sofa, her movements fluid and graceful. She smoothed a non-existent wrinkle from her silk nightgown, preparing to walk away, to leave him to his apparent breakdown.

"Wait," he bit out, his voice raspy. Acting on pure instinct, he shot his hand out and grabbed her wrist. His grip was like steel, halting her instantly.

She gasped, a sharp intake of breath, and turned to look at him. Her eyes were wide, filled with a convincing performance of fear. "Julian, you're hurting me."

"The offshore accounts," he ground out, his voice low and dangerous, each word a struggle against the chaos in his mind. "What did you just say about offshore accounts?"

Ellie's heart skipped a beat. For a fraction of a second, her composure wavered, but her years of training kicked in. Her face remained a mask of bewildered innocence. "Offshore accounts? I don't know what you're talking about. You must have misheard."

Did this control freak install listening devices in the apartment? the voice in his head demanded, sharp with suspicion and calculation. Is that how he heard me muttering to myself?

Listening devices.

The confirmation was absolute. It wasn't a hallucination. It wasn't stress. He was hearing her thoughts. The realization was so profound, so world-altering, that he felt the floor tilt beneath his feet.

He released her wrist as if he'd been burned. He staggered backward, his legs unsteady, until the back of his thighs hit the hard edge of the marble coffee table. The sharp pain was a welcome anchor to reality.

Ellie watched him, her eyes cold and analytical despite her feigned concern. She took two steps back, creating a safe distance between them. "Are you feeling alright, Julian? Should I call Dr. Evans?"

Perfect, the voice sneered. The great Wall Street tyrant is finally losing his mind. Maybe he'll be committed. That would solve a lot of problems.

Hearing himself diagnosed as insane by the woman he thought he knew, Julian's pale face flushed with a dark, angry red. The sheer force of his CEO persona, the intimidating pressure he used to bend boardrooms to his will, radiated from him in waves.

He needed one more piece of data. One final cross-verification. He forced himself to breathe, to push down the storm of confusion and anger. "How are your relatives in Montana?" he asked, his voice deceptively calm. "I hope they're doing well."

Ellie lowered her gaze, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. "They're fine," she said softly. "Thank you for asking."

But in his head, her real answer was a blast of pure derision. Relatives? I haven't been back to that godforsaken farm in eight years. My real family isn't there.

My real family.

The words echoed. Julian's mind, trained to analyze complex data sets and find hidden patterns, went into overdrive. This woman, his wife of three years, the simple, pretty girl from a rural town, was a complete fabrication. Her entire life, as he knew it, was a lie.

His gaze dropped from her face to the signed divorce agreement on the table. A moment ago, it had been his victory, his liberation. Now, it felt like the most idiotic mistake of his life. He couldn't let her go. Not now. Not until he knew everything.

He lunged forward, snatching the thick document off the table. His fingers dug into the paper, creasing it deeply.

Ellie's brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "Is there a legal issue with my signature?"

"This document," Julian said, his voice a low growl as he shoved the papers back into the manila envelope, "requires a final risk assessment from my legal department."

You son of a bitch! her mind screamed, the raw fury a stark contrast to her silent, shocked expression. You go back on your word? I swear, I will shove this agreement down your throat!

Hearing the sheer violence of her thoughts, a strange, dark thrill shot through Julian. It was a perverse satisfaction, a primal urge to conquer this unknown, dangerous creature hiding in plain sight.

He didn't give her another glance. Grabbing his briefcase, he turned and strode toward his study at the end of the long hall, the heavy oak door closing behind him with a definitive thud. He left Ellie standing alone in the vast living room, her escape plan in tatters, her face a mask of stunned fury.