Chapter 6

The atmosphere inside the penthouse VIP suite at NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital was suffocating.

The heart monitor beeped with a weak, irregular rhythm. Harold Page lay on the bed, his skin a sickly gray. He was dying.

Dr. Thaddeus Frye, the head of cardiothoracic surgery, wiped sweat from his forehead. He looked at Christian, who stood by the window like a dark storm cloud.

"His heart is failing, Mr. Page," Dr. Frye stammered. "We can't operate. It's too risky."

Christian turned around. His hands were shoved deep into his suit pockets. "Are you telling me the best doctors in New York are just going to stand here and watch him die?"

"Unless you can get the underground legend, The Surgeon," Dr. Frye said defensively. "No one else can pull this off."

A sharp, rhythmic clicking echoed in the hallway. High heels on marble.

The heavy double doors swung open. Two men in black suits stepped aside.

Heidi walked in. She wore a pristine, custom-tailored white coat over a black silk blouse. Her presence instantly sucked the oxygen out of the room. The medical experts instinctively stepped back, parting like the Red Sea.

Christian turned his head. His eyes locked onto her face.

His pupils dilated violently. His breath hitched. It was her. The woman from the parking garage.

The hospital director rushed forward, bowing slightly. "Mr. Page, this is the specialist we flew in. This is 'The Surgeon'."

Christian's jaw locked. He stared at her, trying to dissect her every movement. Heidi didn't even look at him.

She walked straight to the bed. She snapped on a pair of sterile gloves. She peeled back Harold's eyelids, checking his pupil response.

Dr. Frye tried to hand her a thick medical file. "Doctor, here are the charts-"

Heidi shoved the clipboard away without looking. "I memorized his scans on the helicopter."

On the bed, Harold Page slowly opened his cloudy eyes. His vision focused on Heidi's reconstructed face.

He didn't recognize her features. But he looked into her cold, resilient eyes. The heart monitor spiked slightly.

Harold's frail hand twitched. His dry lips parted. A tiny, raspy breath escaped his mouth. "You're... back."

Heidi's fingers paused on his wrist. Her stomach tightened. Four years ago, this old man was the only person in the Page family who treated her with an ounce of dignity. It was the only reason she took this job.

She squeezed his hand. "You are not going to die today," she said firmly.

Christian stepped up to the opposite side of the bed. He loomed over her, his presence demanding answers. "What are the odds of success?"

Heidi finally looked up. Her icy gaze met his dark eyes. She didn't flinch.

"Thirty percent," she said flatly.

The room erupted in gasps. Dr. Frye threw his hands up. "Thirty percent is murder! You can't authorize that!"

Heidi sneered. She leaned over the bed, planting both hands on the mattress. She stared Christian down, asserting total dominance over the room.

"Under his conservative plan, your grandfather is dead by midnight," Heidi said, her voice dripping with arrogance. "Sign the waiver and let me cut him open, or start picking out a casket right now."

Christian stared at the fierce, commanding woman in front of him. The contrast was mind-breaking. His Heidi would have cried at the sight of blood. This woman was the grim reaper in a white coat.

His instincts as a CEO told him to trust the arrogance.

Christian pulled his Montblanc pen from his pocket. He didn't break eye contact with her as he held his hand out to his assistant. "Give me the waiver."

He signed his name.