No Longer His Captive Surgeon Wife

The heavy mahogany double doors of the Chief of Surgery's office yielded to Amy Leach's push.

She stepped inside, the sharp, sterile scent of bleach clinging to her white coat, a stark contrast to the stale, conditioned air of the room. Her muscles ached from six hours bent over an operating table.

Blinding afternoon sunlight sliced through the gaps in the window blinds. Amy blinked, her vision temporarily whiting out.

As her eyes adjusted to the glare, the silhouette in the center of the Persian rug sharpened into focus. It was a custom-built, high-end wheelchair.

Sitting in it was Amira Hughes.

Amira's face was pale, but the arrogant tilt of her chin and the pristine cut of her designer hospital gown betrayed the fragility she tried to project.

Amy's stomach dropped. A violent, physical wave of nausea hit the back of her throat. Her lungs seized, trapping the oxygen in her chest. The phantom scent of blood from five years ago filled her nostrils.

Then, her eyes drifted past the wheelchair.

Standing by the floor-to-ceiling window was a tall figure in a tailored, pitch-black suit. The man slowly turned around.

Beckham Graham.

His face was a masterclass in cold geometry-sharp jawline, straight nose, and eyes as dark and unforgiving as a winter ocean.

Their gazes collided in the dead air of the room.

For a fraction of a second, a tremor of raw, suppressed shock cracked the ice in Beckham's eyes. Then, the frost returned, thicker and more impenetrable than before.

Julian, the Chief of Surgery, stood up from behind his desk. He cleared his throat, the sound loud in the suffocating silence.

"Dr. Leach, please come in. I believe you need to meet the sponsors of our new wing-"

Beckham raised a single, large hand. The gesture was slight, but it commanded absolute obedience. Julian snapped his mouth shut.

Beckham bypassed the desk and walked straight toward Amy.

His heavy leather shoes sank into the rug, each step a muffled, rhythmic thud that hammered against Amy's ribs.

He stopped exactly half a meter in front of her. His sheer size blocked out the sunlight, casting a dark shadow over her face. He looked down at her.

"You will take over Amira's cardiac repair surgery immediately," Beckham said.

His voice was a flat, emotionless command. It wasn't a request. It was an order from a king to a peasant.

Amy's fingers curled into the deep pockets of her white coat. She gripped the cold rubber tubing of her stethoscope until her knuckles turned a translucent white.

She tilted her chin up, meeting his dead stare. A cold, hollow laugh scraped its way out of her throat.

"No."

Behind Beckham, Amira let out a weak, pathetic cough. She slumped slightly in her wheelchair, her hand fluttering to her chest in a practiced display of vulnerability.

The temperature in Beckham's eyes plummeted. The muscle in his jaw ticked.

"Do not bring your petty, personal vendettas into medical practice, Amy," he warned, his voice dropping an octave.

"Personal vendettas?" Amy spat the words out. The metallic taste of adrenaline flooded her mouth. "You mean like the time you threw me out on the street five years ago without a single question? Is that the vendetta you're referring to?"

Beckham closed the distance between them. He reached out, his large fingers clamping around her jaw.

He forced her head up. His grip was a vice of warm, hard skin.

"If anything happens to Amira," he whispered, his breath brushing her cheek, "I will make sure your name is erased from the entire North American medical community. You will never hold a scalpel again."

Amy did not flinch. Her eyes were dead, locked onto his.

She brought her hand up and slapped his wrist away. The sharp smack echoed in the room. A faint red mark bloomed on his pale skin.

She took a deliberate step back, putting a safe distance between her body and his overwhelming heat.

Her trembling hands reached up, adjusting the collar of her white coat. It was her armor.

"I am no longer that helpless foster kid you could crush under your heel," Amy stated, her voice eerily calm. "Find another doctor."

She turned on her heel and marched toward the heavy mahogany doors.

Before her hand could touch the brass handle, two massive bodyguards in black suits stepped out from the shadows of the hallway. They crossed their thick arms, forming a human wall.

"Name your price," Beckham's voice hit her back like a physical blow. "Whatever conditions you want. Just do the surgery."

Amy didn't even turn her head. She stared at the broad chests of the bodyguards.

"Get the hell out of my way," she snarled.

The bodyguards hesitated. They looked past her, waiting for a signal.

A heavy silence stretched. Then, Beckham gave a slight nod.

The bodyguards stepped back, dropping their arms.

Amy grabbed the handle, yanked the door open, and stepped out. She slammed the heavy wood shut behind her, the loud bang vibrating through the floorboards.

She leaned her back against the cold, sterile wall of the corridor. Her chest heaved as she dragged air into her burning lungs, trying to calm the frantic, erratic beating of her heart.

Amy pushed off the cold wall of the corridor. Her legs felt like lead, but she forced them to move.

She walked quickly down the long hallway, her sensible heels clicking against the linoleum floor, until she reached the door at the very end. It was her private office.

She pushed the door open, stepped inside, and walked straight to the water dispenser in the corner.

Her hands were shaking so violently she could barely hold the paper cup. She pressed the lever, letting the ice-cold water fill the cup, desperate to wash down the bile rising in her throat.

She brought the rim to her lips.

The office door was violently shoved open from the outside. It hit the wall with a deafening crack.

Beckham walked in. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated control.

He reached behind him, pushed the door shut, and turned the deadbolt. The sharp click of the lock echoed in the small room like a gunshot.

Amy spun around like a cornered cat. The ice water sloshed over the rim, soaking the back of her hand.

"Do you not understand the concept of personal space?" she yelled, her voice cracking.

Beckham ignored her. He walked slowly, casually, across the room until he stood in front of her desk.

"Name your price, Amy," he demanded, his tone cold and laced with a businessman's calculation. "How much do you want on the divorce settlement to nod your head and walk into that operating room?"

The sheer arrogance of his money hit her like a physical slap. The heat of anger flushed her cheeks.

She slammed the paper cup onto the dispenser tray and marched behind her desk.

She yanked open the bottom drawer. It stuck for a second, but she pulled with all her strength. She dug past medical journals and grabbed a slightly yellowed manila folder.

She threw it onto the center of the desk. The loud smack made the pens in her cup rattle.

"I don't want your money," Amy said, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "I just want my freedom."

Beckham's eyes dropped to the folder. He read the bold, capitalized letters printed across the top page.

DIVORCE AGREEMENT.

His eyes darkened instantly. The bored facade shattered, replaced by a dangerous, brewing storm.

A cruel, mocking smile twisted the corner of his mouth. "Playing hard to get, Amy? It's a bit pathetic."

Amy reached into her pen holder, pulled out a heavy Montblanc fountain pen, and held it out across the desk.

"Sign it."

Beckham didn't take the pen. He picked up the document. His eyes scanned the text with terrifying speed.

He stopped at the middle of the first page. His gaze locked onto the clause stating she would waive all alimony and leave the marriage with absolutely nothing.

The knuckles of the hand holding the paper turned white. The tendons in his wrist strained against his shirt cuff.

Without breaking eye contact, Beckham gripped the top of the pages with both hands.

With a sudden, violent jerk, he ripped the thick stack of papers straight down the middle.

The sound of tearing paper was loud and violent.

Amy's eyes went wide. The breath left her lungs.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" she screamed, lunging forward across the desk. She grabbed the lapels of his expensive suit jacket.

Beckham didn't step back. He let go of the torn pages. The heavy paper scraps fluttered into the air, falling around them like dirty snow.

He moved with terrifying speed. His large hand snaked around her waist, his fingers digging into her lower back.

He yanked her forward. Her stomach slammed against the edge of the desk.

His other hand planted firmly on the edge of the wood, trapping her completely between his hard body and the desk.

He lowered his head. His face was inches from hers. She could feel the heat of his skin and the warm, mint-scented breath ghosting over her neck.

"Here is the deal," Beckham whispered, his voice a low, vibrating threat that sent shivers down her spine. "You will only get my signature when Amira walks out of this hospital fully cured."

Amy thrashed against him. She pushed her hands flat against his solid, unyielding chest, trying to shove him away.

Beckham simply tightened his arm around her waist. The sheer difference in their physical strength was suffocating. She couldn't move an inch.

Humiliation burned in her throat. She bit down hard on her lower lip to stop herself from crying out. The sharp, metallic taste of her own blood flooded her tongue.

"Fine," she choked out, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "I'll think about it."

Beckham stared at her bleeding lip for a long second. Then, he slowly released her waist.

He stepped back, his hands casually smoothing down the front of his perfectly pressed suit jacket.

"You have twenty-four hours to clear out of this office if you refuse," he stated.

He turned and walked out, leaving the door wide open.

Amy's knees buckled. She collapsed into her office chair, her legs completely giving out, staring at the torn pieces of her freedom scattered across the floor.

Amy sat paralyzed in her chair for ten long minutes.

She finally reached for a tissue, wiped the smear of blood from her lower lip, and forced herself to stand.

She needed caffeine. She needed to move. But she couldn't risk taking the main elevators and running into Beckham's security detail again.

She walked to the side of her office and pushed open the heavy fire door. The concrete stairwell was cold and echoed with her every step.

She walked down one flight to the third floor. The pediatric VIP wing was here, and it had a vending machine that sold terrible, strong black coffee.

She pushed open the third-floor fire door and stepped into the quiet, carpeted hallway.

As she rounded the corner toward the vending machines, a sound stopped her in her tracks.

It was a tiny, muffled sob.

The instinct of a doctor overrode her exhaustion. Amy turned her head, scanning the empty corridor.

Behind the shadow of a large, decorative Roman pillar at the end of the hall, she saw a small figure.

It was a little boy, maybe five years old. He was wearing a custom-tailored miniature suit, but right now, the expensive fabric was covered in dust. He was crouched on the floor, hugging his knees.

Amy's eyes immediately locked onto his bare knee. A fresh, angry scrape was oozing bright red blood down his pale calf.

She softened her footsteps and slowly approached him.

The boy's head snapped up.

Amy froze. When she saw his deep, striking blue eyes, her heart physically skipped a beat. A strange, heavy sensation settled in her chest. He looked so incredibly familiar, though she couldn't place why.

She dropped to one knee, ignoring the dirt on the floor.

"Hey there," she whispered in soft, gentle English. "Are you okay?"

The boy bit his lower lip. He didn't say a word. He just stared at her with intense, defensive eyes, like a frightened animal ready to bolt.

Amy reached into the deep pocket of her white coat and pulled out her portable first aid kit.

She unzipped it and pulled out an alcohol wipe.

As she tore the foil packet open, the boy flinched, shrinking back until his small spine hit the wall.

"It's okay," Amy cooed, holding her hands up, palms open, to show she meant no harm. "I'm a doctor. I just want to clean that up so it doesn't hurt."

She slowly reached out. Her fingers gently wrapped around his thin ankle.

The boy's entire body gave a violent shudder, but he didn't kick her away.

Amy moved with agonizing slowness. She dabbed the alcohol wipe around the edges of the wound, wiping away the sticky blood.

As she cleaned, she leaned her head down and blew a soft, cool stream of air over the scrape to ease the stinging pain.

She felt the rigid tension in the boy's small shoulders slowly melt away. The hard, defensive glare in his blue eyes softened into something vulnerable.

Amy peeled the backing off a bandage with little green dinosaurs on it and pressed it carefully over the cut.

She looked up, offering him a warm, reassuring smile. "All done. Good as new."

She placed her hands on her thighs, preparing to stand up and leave.

Suddenly, a chubby little hand shot out.

The boy grabbed the hem of her white coat. His tiny knuckles turned white from how hard he was gripping the fabric.

Amy froze. When the boy grabbed her hem, an indescribable wave of sorrow and familiarity violently gripped her heart. Her throat tightened painfully, a suffocating knot forming instantly. Tears pricked the back of her eyes as if some deep, buried part of her soul was awakened by this tiny touch. Unbidden, the memory of the cold operating room five years ago-the blood, the monitor flatlining, the baby she never got to hold-crashed into her mind.

Her hands moved on their own. She reached out and gently stroked the soft, messy curls on the boy's head.

It was as if the boy had found a safe harbor. He suddenly lunged forward, throwing his small arms around Amy's neck, burying his face in her shoulder.

Amy's body went rigid for half a second. Then, she closed her eyes, wrapped her arms around his small back, and hugged the strange child with a desperate, aching tightness.