The Surgeon Heiress's Cold-Blooded Revenge
I woke up strapped to a cold steel operating table, the blinding light of a surgical lamp burning my retinas. I was a doctor, but I wasn't the one holding the scalpel this time.
Then I heard the voice of my stepfather, Arthur Bailey—the man who had seized my family’s entire estate after my father’s death. He wasn't there to save me; he was there to sell me. "Just get the kidney on ice for Archer," he told the butcher in scrubs. "Do whatever you want with the rest of her."
This wasn't a hospital; it was a slaughterhouse in Queens. To escape, I had to dislocate my own thumb to slip the leather cuffs and use a scalpel to slice my way out of the room. Covered in blood and grime, I crashed Arthur's high-society gala at the Plaza Hotel, only to find my family pretending to mourn my "mental breakdown" while they planned my permanent disappearance into an asylum. Even as I stood before them, dripping with sewer water and rage, they tried to have me dragged away as a lunatic.
I was a top-tier trauma surgeon, yet I was being treated like a piece of meat by the people who were supposed to be my family. The betrayal tasted like copper in my mouth, a cold, slow panic turning into a simmering, absolute fury. I didn't understand how they could look at me and see nothing but a collection of spare parts.
That's when Cedric Mullen, the billionaire I’d been legally married to while he was in a coma, stepped out of the shadows to claim me. He didn't want a wife; he wanted a legal asset to unlock his inheritance. I looked into his predator's eyes and signed his contract, trading my silence for his resources. I told him, "I want Arthur Bailey destroyed. I want him to feel what it’s like to be cut open and left for dead." I wasn't a victim anymore; I was a reckoning.
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Chapter 3
The police burst through the double doors, their yellow rain slickers clashing with the ruined elegance of the ballroom. They had guns drawn, confused by the chaos, the darkness, and the strobe lights.
"Nobody move!" a sergeant bellowed.
Victoria was already sobbing, pointing a manicured finger at her. "She's violent! She attacked us! She tried to burn the hotel down!"
Chantelle was still on the floor, sputtering. "She's crazy! Arrest her!"
She didn't look at the police. She walked to the head table.
There was a bottle of Dom Pérignon sitting in a bucket of melting ice. It was unopened.
She picked it up. It was heavy, cold, and solid.
She turned the bottle upside down. She found the sweet spot on the bottom of the glass. She struck it against the edge of the heavy oak table.
Pop.
The cork flew across the room. Foam erupted, white and fizzy.
She didn't drink it. She walked over to where Chantelle was trying to stand up.
She flinched, covering her face. "Don't hit me!"
She tilted the bottle.
The expensive, golden vintage poured over her head. It soaked her ruined hair, ran down her face, and mixed with the sewer water on her dress. She sputtered, coughing as the alcohol hit her nose.
Cedric, who had been helping her up, froze. He looked from Chantelle's humiliated face to hers, and his expression hardened into cold fury. He took a step to shield her from her.
"That's enough," he said, his voice low and dangerous, clearly directed at her. He was protecting his savior.
A gasp rippled through the room. Someone in the back laughed. A short, nervous sound.
Arthur lunged at her. His face was purple. "You ungrateful little bitch-"
Two officers grabbed him. "Back off, sir! Stay back!"
An officer rushed toward her. He had handcuffs out. "Ma'am, turn around. Hands behind your back."
She dropped the empty bottle. It rolled on the carpet with a hollow thud.
She turned around. She put her hands behind her back.
As the cold metal clicked around her wrists-wrists that were still bruised from the leather straps in the clinic-she looked up.
To the VIP balcony.
No one was there. Her eyes scanned the crowd, finally landing on Cedric Mullen. He was no longer shielding Chantelle. He was leaning against a pillar, watching her.
He wasn't smiling. But he wasn't looking away.
He turned to the man beside him-Harrison, his fixer. She saw his lips move. Get her file.
The officer shoved her forward. "Let's go."
They walked past Arthur. He was breathing hard, his eyes promising murder.
She stopped. The officer tugged her arm, but she planted her feet.
She leaned in close to Arthur. She smelled his fear. It smelled like sweat and expensive cologne.
She mouthed the words, a silent promise only he could understand: "Now they're all watching."
"You'll die in a cell," he hissed. "I promise you."
She smiled, a thin, chilling curve of her lips, and let the officer pull her away.
The officer yanked her toward the exit.
They burst out onto Fifth Avenue. The rain had stopped, but the street was slick and black. The flashing lights of the police cruisers bounced off the wet pavement.
The paparazzi were there. A wall of lenses.
"Edythe! Edythe, over here!"
"Did you really flood the Plaza?"
"Is it true about the kidney?"
She didn't hide her face. She lifted her chin. She looked directly into the lens of the nearest camera. She wanted them to see the bruises. She wanted them to see the blood on her hospital gown.
She wanted to be a martyr they couldn't ignore.
Inside a black Maybach parked across the street, Cedric Mullen watched the live feed on his phone.
"She's a Holden," Harrison said from the front seat. "The daughter of the bankrupt Holden estate. The one your family's lawyers arranged for you to marry while you were in the coma. Legally, she's Edythe Mullen. The one the trust clause mentioned."
Cedric zoomed in on the screen. On her eyes. They were wild, but they weren't crazy. They were calculating.
"The clause says I need a wife to unlock the fifty-one percent," Cedric said.
"Yes, sir. But if she's convicted of a felony... arson, assault... the board will invalidate her. You lose the vote."
Cedric tapped the screen. He turned off the phone.
"Go to the 19th Precinct," he said.
Harrison looked in the rearview mirror. "Sir? You're going to bail her out?"
Cedric adjusted his cufflinks. "I'm not going to bail her out, Harrison. I'm going to contain her."
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9.4
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9.4
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