Chapter 5 5

Hunt stared at the divorce papers on his desk. The signature mocked him. Dianna Campbell.

"She blocked my number," Hunt said, looking at his phone. His voice was eerily calm.

Jeffrey stood by the door, trying to be invisible. "Sir, maybe we should-"

Hunt stood up. He grabbed the divorce agreement and walked to the shredder in the corner of the room. He fed the papers into the machine. The grinding noise was loud in the quiet office.

"She doesn't get to quit," Hunt said, watching the paper turn into confetti. "Not until I say so."

He turned to Jeffrey. "Freeze her accounts. Cut off her access to the supplementary cards. Flag her passport. If she tries to leave the state, I want to know."

"Sir," Jeffrey hesitated. "She... she didn't ask for any money in the agreement. Maybe she's serious."

Hunt's eyes were cold. "She'll be back when she gets hungry. She dropped out of college to marry me. She has no skills. She's a trophy wife without a shelf."

But his hand went to his own ring finger. He twisted the gold band. He didn't take it off.

One Year Later

Hunt stood at a gala, scanning the crowd. He was looking for a flash of blonde hair, a specific curve of a shoulder. He saw nothing. Every time his phone rang, he thought it was her, begging to come back. It never was.

Two Years Later

Hunt sat in a bar, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He was drunk. Chasity was sitting next to him, her hand on his arm.

"Hunt, it's been two years," she purred. "Let me move in. The master suite is empty."

Hunt pulled his arm away. "No. That's her room."

"She's gone, Hunt."

"She's on vacation," he slurred. "She's stubborn."

Three Years Later

Dianna stood in an operating theater in Zurich, her hands steady as she completed a complex coronary artery bypass. "Suture," she commanded in flawless German. Her path back had been grueling. She'd had to finish her residency, complete a brutal fellowship, all while raising a child alone. But she hadn't just returned to the path she'd abandoned; she had surpassed it, becoming known in elite European circles as the 'Ghost Surgeon' for her skill and her refusal to be photographed.

Four Years Later

Dianna sat in a private jet, looking out at the clouds. Next to her, a little boy with messy black hair and piercing blue eyes was playing with a toy stethoscope.

"Mommy," Leo said, pointing to a magazine on the seat. "Why does this man look like me?"

Dianna looked at the cover of Forbes. Hunt Brennan stared back. He looked older, harder.

"It's just a coincidence, baby," she said, closing the magazine.

Arthur Campbell sat across from her. "Are you sure about this, Dianna? Returning to New York? He is there."

"Clare is dying, Grandfather," Dianna said. "I'm the only one who can do the procedure. I won't let his sister die just because I hate him."

"He won't recognize you," Arthur said. "You're different."

Dianna touched her face. She was thinner. Her hair was shorter, sharper. Her eyes were colder.

"I'm counting on it."

The plane began its descent.

At Mount Sinai Hospital in New York, Hunt Brennan was pacing the hallway of the VIP wing. He looked like a caged animal.

"What do you mean you can't stop the bleeding?" he roared at the Chief of Surgery.

"Her anatomy is complicated, Mr. Brennan. We need a specialist. We've called in Dr. Campbell from Zurich. She's landing now."

"Campbell?" Hunt frowned. The name scratched at something in his memory, but he pushed it away. "I don't care who it is. Just save my sister."

The sound of a helicopter landing on the roof shook the building.

Minutes later, the elevator doors at the end of the hall pinged open.

Dianna stepped out. She was wearing navy blue scrubs, a surgical cap, and a mask. She was flanked by her team, moving with a speed and purpose that commanded the air around her. Hunt's pacing stopped dead. He didn't recognize the face, but the confident stride, the tilt of her head-it sent a jolt of unwelcome familiarity through him. It felt like a ghost walking over his grave.