The Surgeon's Secret: Hunted By My Ex

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed two times, the sound heavy and hollow in the silence of the Brennan estate. Dianna Campbell sat at the head of the long mahogany dining table. The wax from the tapered candles had long since melted onto the linen tablecloth, pooling like dried blood.

Dinner was cold. The Filet Mignon, the roasted asparagus, the truffle mash-it was all inedible now. Just like their marriage.

It was their third anniversary.

Mary, the head housekeeper, stepped out of the shadows of the kitchen doorway. She wrung her hands in her apron, her eyes darting between Dianna and the untouched food.

"Ma'am? Should I... should I clear the table?"

Dianna didn't look up. She just lifted her hand, a weak, dismissive wave. Her wrist felt heavy, weighed down by the diamond bracelet Hunt had given her the year before-not out of love, but because his publicist said it would look good in the society pages.

"Clear it, Mary. Please."

The heavy oak front door groaned open. The sound was followed by the sharp, uneven clatter of dress shoes on marble. Dianna's stomach tightened, a physical knot twisting behind her navel.

Hunt Brennan walked into the dining room. He brought the smell of cold rain and expensive scotch with him. He didn't look at the table. He didn't look at the decorations. He didn't look at her.

He loosened his tie as he walked past her, throwing his suit jacket onto a chair.

Dianna stood up. It was a reflex, a habit drilled into her over three years of trying to be the perfect wife. She reached out, her fingers grazing the fabric of his shirt.

"Hunt, I-"

He spun around. His eyes, usually a piercing blue, were bloodshot and dark. He looked at her not with anger, but with something worse. Disgust. He didn't touch her. Instead, his hand swept across the table in a blur of motion. Crystal glasses, silver cutlery, and the porcelain plates holding their anniversary dinner went flying, shattering against the marble floor with a deafening crash. Wine splashed across the white linen like a fresh wound. The violence of the act sucked the air from the room, and Dianna stumbled back, her hip bone colliding hard with the sharp edge of the dining chair.

Sharp pain radiated down her leg, but she didn't make a sound. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper.

Hunt loomed over her. He looked at the wreckage on the floor, then back at her.

"Don't touch me," he slurred, his voice low and dangerous.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled stack of photographs. He threw them at her. They fluttered down like dead leaves, landing on the floor between them.

Dianna looked down. It was a picture of her at the charity gala last week. She was shaking hands with a man-a donor. But the angle was suggestive, the lighting intimate. It was a lie captured on film, a masterfully crafted piece of slander he should have been able to see through. But he didn't. Or perhaps he didn't want to.

"Is the money not enough, Dianna?" Hunt stepped closer, backing her against the table. "I knew what I was buying when I paid your father's debts. But I expect my purchases to remain exclusive."

"It's not what it looks like," Dianna whispered. Her voice shook. "I was just being polite. You weren't there, Hunt. You left me alone."

"I have a company to run," he spat. "Something a parasite like you wouldn't understand."

He reached out and grabbed her chin. His fingers dug into her jaw, hard enough to bruise. He forced her to look at him.

"You are a gold digger, Dianna. That's all you are. That's all you'll ever be."

Tears pricked her eyes, hot and stinging. She tried to pull away, but his grip tightened.

"Let go," she gasped.

"Why? You signed the contract," Hunt sneered. He let go of her jaw and grabbed her wrist, dragging her toward the stairs. "You wanted to be Mrs. Brennan. You wanted the life. You deal with the husband."

He dragged her up the stairs. Dianna stumbled, her heels catching on the carpet, but he didn't slow down. He kicked open the door to the master suite and threw her onto the bed.

The silk sheets felt like ice against her skin.

He didn't kiss her. He didn't speak to her. It was an act of punishment, stripping away the last shreds of her dignity. Dianna stopped fighting. She lay still, staring up at the crystal chandelier, counting the teardrop crystals. One hundred and four. One hundred and five.

Somewhere in the haze of his intoxication, she heard him groan a name against her neck. It wasn't hers.

Chasity.

When he was done, he rolled off her and walked straight to the bathroom. The door slammed shut. The shower turned on. He was washing her off him.

Dianna curled into a ball, pulling the ruined duvet up to her chin. Her body shook, violent tremors that started in her chest and rattled her teeth. She looked at the nightstand. Their wedding photo sat there. Hunt looked bored. She looked hopeful.

She reached out and knocked the frame face down. The glass cracked.

The sound was small, but it felt final.

Dianna sat up. Her body ached, but her mind was suddenly, terrifyingly clear. She walked to the closet, past the rows of designer gowns Hunt had bought for his doll. She reached into the back, behind the furs and the silks, and pulled out a dusty, gray suitcase.

Sunlight hit Dianna's eyelids like a physical blow. She woke up on the floor of the walk-in closet, her cheek pressed against the rough carpet. Her neck was stiff, and her eyes felt swollen and gritty.

She heard movement in the bedroom.

Dianna stood up, smoothing the wrinkles in her dress-she hadn't changed. She walked out.

Hunt was standing in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting his cufflinks. He was wearing a charcoal gray suit, tailored to perfection. He looked like the king of Wall Street. He looked like nothing happened.

He saw her reflection in the mirror. His eyes narrowed slightly, then he looked away.

"There's a card on the dresser," he said, his voice flat. "Buy yourself something. Just... stop looking like a victim."

Dianna looked at the black Amex Centurion card sitting on the mahogany surface. It was heavy, made of titanium. It was his apology. It was his leash.

"Are you coming home tonight?" she asked. Her voice was raspy.

Hunt laughed, a short, humorless sound. "I have important guests coming to town. Try to be invisible, Dianna. Don't embarrass me."

He walked out. He didn't say goodbye.

Dianna waited until she heard the front door close and the engine of his Maybach fade into the distance. She walked over to the dresser and picked up her iPad.

The screen lit up with a breaking news alert.

"The Angel Returns! Chasity Hughes spotted at JFK after four years of recovery abroad. Is the Brennan family finally whole?"

The photo showed a delicate woman in a wheelchair, waving to paparazzi. In the background, blurry but unmistakable, was Jeffrey Banks-Hunt's personal assistant.

Dianna felt bile rise in her throat. That's why he was so angry last night. That's why he wanted her invisible. His real love was back.

The landline on the nightstand rang. Dianna stared at it. She knew who it was. She picked it up.

"Dianna," the voice of Eleanor Brennan, Hunt's mother, clipped across the line. "I assume you've seen the news."

"I have."

"Good. We need the master suite. Chasity needs the southern exposure for her recovery. Move your things to the guest wing by tonight."

Dianna gripped the phone. "This is my room, Eleanor."

"It is Hunt's room," Eleanor corrected sharply. "You are just a guest who overstayed her welcome. Do it, or I will have the staff do it for you."

The line went dead.

Dianna put the phone down. She looked around the room. She had chosen the curtains. She had picked the paint color. She had tried to make this a home.

She walked to the wall safe hidden behind a painting. Her fingers punched in the code-her birthday. Hunt probably didn't even know it was the combination.

Inside, underneath a stack of cash, was a copy of the Prenuptial Agreement.

She flipped to page forty. Dissolution of Marriage.

Clause 7: The Wife shall receive no alimony, no property, and no assets if she initiates divorce, unless in cases of proven infidelity or abuse.

She didn't want his money. She wanted her life back.

She pulled a burner phone from the bottom of the safe-a precaution she had taken years ago. She dialed a number she hadn't called in three years.

"Mr. Sterling," she said when the line connected.

"Miss Campbell?" The lawyer's voice was shocked. "Is everything alright? Your grandfather has been-"

"Draft the divorce papers," Dianna interrupted. "I want out. Total waiver of assets. I don't want a dime. I just want it signed. Today."

"But Miss Campbell, your trust-"

"Do it."

She hung up.

Dianna walked back to the dresser. She picked up the black card Hunt had left. She opened the drawer, took out a pair of scissors, and cut the titanium card in half. It took effort. It hurt her fingers.

She placed the two halves on the polished wood.

Then, she reached for her left hand. The diamond ring was heavy, a five-carat stone that felt like a shackle. She slid it off. Her finger felt strangely light, naked.

She placed the ring on top of the cut card. Clink.

Mary walked in with a basket of laundry. She stopped dead when she saw the suitcase on the bed.

"Ma'am? Are you... going on a trip?"

Dianna zipped the suitcase shut. "No, Mary. I'm going to a place where I don't have to act anymore."

Mary looked at the ring on the dresser, then back at Dianna. Her eyes softened with pity. "Do you need help with the bag?"

"No." Dianna put on her sunglasses to hide her red-rimmed eyes. "I've got it."

She grabbed the handle and walked out of the room. She forced herself not to look back at the gilded cage that had held her for three years, but as she stepped out the front door, her gaze involuntarily drifted up to the second-floor study window, Hunt's sanctuary.

"Goodbye, Hunt," she whispered.

She opened the door and stepped out into the world.

The sky over Long Island had turned a bruised purple by the time Hunt returned. He was early-rare for him. He wanted to make sure Dianna understood the rules for the upcoming week with Chasity back in town.

He pushed open the front door. "Dianna?"

Silence.

Usually, she would be in the foyer, waiting to take his coat, desperate for a crumb of affection. Today, the house felt tomb-like.

"Sir." The butler, Thomas, appeared from the hallway. He looked uncomfortable.

"Where is she?" Hunt demanded, stripping off his gloves.

"Mrs. Brennan... she left this afternoon, sir."

Hunt paused. A scoff escaped his lips. "Left? To the spa? Shopping?"

"She took a suitcase, sir."

Hunt's jaw tightened. "Another tantrum," he muttered. "She's trying to leverage more money."

He took the stairs two at a time, fueled by irritation. He shoved open the door to the master bedroom.

"Dianna, come out. I don't have time for games."

The room was pristine. Too pristine.

He walked to the dresser. The light from the lamp caught the sparkle of the diamond ring. It sat there, abandoned, on top of the severed pieces of the Centurion card.

Hunt stared at it. His heart did a strange, painful flip in his chest. A physiological reaction he didn't authorize.

He picked up the ring. It was cold. He squeezed it in his fist until the edges dug into his palm.

"You think this scares me?" he whispered to the empty room.

He pulled out his phone and dialed her number.

The subscriber you have dialed is currently switched off.

He threw the phone onto the bed. "Fine. Starve out there. You'll be back when the credit cards decline."

Outside, the sky opened up. Rain lashed against the windows, a sudden summer storm.

Dianna wasn't far. She was standing at the end of the mile-long driveway, soaked to the bone. Her Uber had canceled on her, and her phone battery had died ten minutes ago.

She shivered, her wet clothes clinging to her skin like a second, freezing skin.

Headlights cut through the darkness. A black SUV was coming down the driveway, leaving the estate. It was Hunt. He was going back to the city, probably to see Chasity.

Dianna stepped onto the grass, not wanting to block him, but hoping he would stop.

The car slowed. The window rolled down.

Hunt's face appeared. He looked dry, warm, and angry. He looked at her wet hair, her shivering form, and he didn't see a woman in distress. He saw a manipulator playing a scene.

"Get in," he barked. "If you think standing in the rain is going to make me feel guilty, you're delusional."

Dianna wiped water from her eyes. She couldn't see him clearly through the downpour.

"I'm not playing!" she shouted over the thunder. "Hunt, I signed the papers! Just let me go!"

The wind swallowed her words. Hunt only heard the noise.

"I said get in the car, Dianna!"

She shook her head, stepping back. "No! I'm leaving!"

Hunt's patience snapped. He hit the button. The window rolled up, sealing him back in his silent, temperature-controlled world.

"Drive," he told the driver. "She needs to learn a lesson."

The car accelerated. Mud water splashed up, coating Dianna's legs. She watched the taillights disappear around the bend.

She didn't cry. She started to laugh. It was a broken, jagged sound.

A pair of headlights approached from the opposite direction. A beat-up Volvo. Her new ride share.

The car stopped. The driver, an older man, rolled down the window. "Miss? You okay?"

Dianna opened the door and threw her suitcase in. She climbed into the back seat, dripping water onto the upholstery.

"Where to?" the driver asked, handing her a box of tissues.

Dianna wiped her face. Her expression hardened. The sadness was evaporating, replaced by a cold resolve.

"The Brennan Tower," she said. "Midtown."

She reached into her waterproof bag and pulled out the manila envelope. The edges were damp, but the contents were dry.

"I have a delivery to make."