Thirty Days To Marry: The Doctor's Escape

The pounding in Amira's head was a physical weight, a dull, rhythmic thud that seemed to push against the back of her eyes. She kept them closed, trying to bargain with her own physiology, but the sunlight slicing through the blinds was relentless. It wasn't the soft, filtered light of the master bedroom. It was the harsh, direct glare that hit the guest room on the east side of the penthouse.

She was in the guest room again.

The realization settled in her stomach like a stone, heavy and cold. She rolled over, the expensive sheets tangling around her legs, and fumbled blindly for her phone on the nightstand. She needed to check the time. She needed to know how much longer she had before the rest of the apartment woke up and demanded her existence.

Her fingers brushed the cold metal of the device. She brought it to her face, squinting as the screen illuminated.

10:15 AM.

Below the time, a single notification sat on the lock screen. It was from a messaging app she rarely used, encrypted and private. The sender's name was Carleton Schmitt.

Amira stared at the name. It felt foreign, like a word she had heard once in a dream and forgotten. Schmitt was a common enough name, the German equivalent of Smith, but this specific person was a complete blank. Her thumb hovered over the screen, trembling slightly. A sudden wave of nausea rolled through her, unrelated to the cheap wine she had consumed the night before.

She unlocked the phone.

I accept your proposal. Let's sign in a month.

The words blurred. Amira sat up, the room spinning slightly. She racked her brain, trying to pierce the fog of the hangover. Last night. Aunt Rosa's cramped apartment in Queens. The smell of garlic and old fabric softener. Rosa's voice, sharp and pitying.

He's been dragging you along for eight years, mija. You're thirty. No ring. No house in your name. Just a glorified roommate.

She remembered the wine. A lot of it. She remembered Rosa showing her a picture on an old tablet. My neighbor's grandson. Carleton. Good boy. Boring job, some kind of actuary with numbers, but he has insurance. He needs a wife to get his family off his back. You need a life.

And then, the memory hit her with the force of a physical blow. She remembered typing the message. She had been angry, her thumbs flying over the keypad with a vindictive speed, fueled by the image of Ethan smiling at a camera with Delisa Conrad on his arm.

If you need a wife and I need a life, let's just marry. I'm a doctor. I'm clean. I cook. I just need out.

She stared at the screen now. I accept.

Panic clawed at her throat. This was insanity. She didn't know this man. Carleton Schmitt. An actuary. A man who crunched numbers for a living while she stitched up patients at St. Augustine's. She couldn't marry a stranger. She couldn't just leave Ethan. Her entire life, her career, her reputation-it was all entangled with the Dejesus name.

Her fingers flew across the keyboard.

I'm so sorry. I was drunk. Please disregard-

Heavy footsteps thudded in the hallway outside. The sound was distinct-heavy heels striking the marble with an arrogance that belonged to only one person.

"Amira! Coffee!"

Ethan's voice boomed through the door, muffled but unmistakable. It wasn't a request. It wasn't a greeting. It was a command, shouted into the void with the absolute certainty that it would be obeyed.

Amira froze. Her thumb hovered over the backspace key.

"Amira!" The doorknob rattled. He didn't come in; he just rattled it to make sure she was awake, to make sure she knew he was waiting.

The sound of the rattle vibrated through the room. It was the sound of her last eight years. The waiting. The demanding. The dismissal.

She looked down at the phone. At the stranger's message. I accept.

If she sent the apology, she would walk out that door and make coffee. She would listen to Ethan talk about his portfolio, about the charity gala, about how Delisa was just a "friend" who needed support. She would go to the hospital and work a double shift, and come home to the guest room.

If she didn't send the apology...

She had thirty days. One month.

A strange sensation washed over her. It wasn't happiness. It was the cold, hard clarity of survival. She pressed the backspace key, deleting the apology. Every letter that vanished felt like a weight lifting off her chest.

She typed a new message.

Okay. One month.

She hit send before she could breathe.

The message marked as delivered instantly.

Amira swung her legs out of bed, her bare feet hitting the cold marble floor. The shock of the cold traveled up her legs, grounding her. She walked to the en-suite bathroom and splashed freezing water on her face. She looked at her reflection. Her eyes were tired, dark circles bruising the skin beneath them, but there was something else there too. A spark. A secret.

"Amira!" Ethan yelled again, his patience fraying.

She grabbed a towel and dried her face slowly. She didn't rush. For the first time in years, her heart wasn't racing with the fear of displeasing him.

She walked to the bedroom door, her hand hovering over the knob. She took a deep breath, inhaling the stale air of the guest room, and exhaled the woman she had been yesterday.

She opened the door.

The kitchen was a masterpiece of modern design-all stainless steel, black marble, and floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the Manhattan skyline. It was cold, sterile, and echoingly empty despite the clutter of Ethan's life spread across the counter.

Amira walked in, the soles of her feet silent against the floor. She went straight to the espresso machine, her hands moving through the muscle memory of the routine. Grind. Tamp. Lock. Brew.

Ethan walked in a moment later. He was wearing a silk robe that cost more than her car, his hair messy in a way that magazines called "effortlessly chic" but Amira knew was just bedhead. He didn't look at her. He went straight to the island, picking up his phone and scrolling.

Amira placed the porcelain cup on the counter in front of him. Beside it, she placed two aspirin.

Ethan picked up the pills and swallowed them dry, his eyes never leaving the screen. He took a sip of the coffee and grimaced.

"It's scalding, Amira. You trying to burn my tongue?"

"It's the same temperature as always, Ethan," she said, her voice steady.

He waved a hand dismissively. "Whatever. Delisa called me at three in the morning. Total crisis. Her PR team is incompetent."

Amira felt the familiar sting in her chest, but this time, it hit a wall. The wall she had built five minutes ago in the guest room. She leaned her hip against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Ethan, we need to talk."

He rolled his eyes, typing a reply to someone. "Not now. My head is splitting."

"I'm leaving," she said.

The words hung in the air, suspended between the hum of the refrigerator and the tapping of his fingers.

Ethan paused. He finally looked up, a smirk playing on his lips. "Leaving for work? Good. Pick up my dry cleaning on the way back. The blue suit needs to be ready for tonight."

"No," Amira said. She pushed off the counter, standing straighter. "I'm leaving you. I'm breaking up with you."

Ethan stared at her for a second, and then he laughed. It was a short, sharp sound, devoid of humor. He shook his head, walking around the island to stand in front of her. He was tall, looming over her, using his height as he always did.

He reached out and patted her cheek. His hand was warm, his palm smooth. It was a gesture one would use on a child, or a pet.

"Stop the drama, Amira. Is this about the necklace? The Cartier one I didn't get you for your birthday?"

"It's not about a necklace," she said, pulling her face away from his touch.

"Of course it is. It's always about money with you." He sighed, the sound of a martyr. He reached into his robe pocket, pulled out his wallet, and extracted a black credit card. He tossed it onto the counter. It slid across the polished marble, spinning before falling off the edge and clattering onto the floor between them.

"Go buy yourself something nice. Stop acting crazy. You're embarrassing yourself."

Amira looked down at the card. The black plastic glinted in the morning sun. It was the ultimate pass. It could buy cars, trips, diamonds. It was what he thought she was worth. A transaction. A fee to keep her quiet and compliant.

She looked up at him. His eyes were bored. He literally could not conceive of a world where she walked away. In his mind, she was a fixture, like the espresso machine.

She didn't bend down. She didn't pick it up.

"I don't want your money, Ethan."

His phone rang. A custom ringtone-Delisa's ringtone.

His face changed instantly. The boredom vanished, replaced by a soft, attentive concern that made Amira's stomach churn. He answered it before the second ring.

"Hey, baby. Yeah, I'm here. No, don't cry. I'll handle it."

He turned his back on Amira, walking out of the kitchen, the black card still lying on the floor like a discarded wrapper.

Amira stood alone in the silence. She looked at the card one last time. Then, she turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving it there. She felt lighter. The tether had snapped, not with a bang, but with the quiet sound of plastic hitting the floor.

St. Augustine's Private Hospital smelled of antiseptic and expensive lilies. The VIP wing was quieter than the rest of the hospital, the floors carpeted to muffle the sound of gurneys and footsteps. Amira stood at the nurses' station, her eyes scanning a patient chart, trying to drown out the noise in her head with medical data.

"Dr. Cortez."

The voice was clipped, sharp. Dr. Sterling, the hospital administrator, stood beside her. He was a small man who wore suits that were too large, as if trying to physically expand his presence.

"VIP patient in Suite 1. They requested you specifically."

Amira frowned. "I'm not on rotation for the VIP wing today. And I have rounds in the general ward."

"You have time for this," Sterling said, his eyes hard. "Go."

Amira felt a knot of dread tighten in her stomach. She closed the chart and walked down the hallway to Suite 1. She knocked once and pushed the door open.

The room was larger than her apartment. A plush seating area, a view of the park, and a state-of-the-art exam bed.

Delisa Conrad was reclining on the bed, looking like a tragic heroine from one of her movies. She wore a silk hospital gown that she must have brought herself. Ethan sat in the chair beside her, holding her hand, his thumb rubbing her knuckles soothingly.

Amira froze in the doorway. Her professional mask slipped for a fraction of a second, revealing the shock beneath.

"I'm not an OB-GYN," Amira stated, her voice stiff. She was an ER physician. This was not just outside her specialty; it was a flagrant breach of protocol.

Ethan looked up. His eyes were cold, daring her to make a scene. "But you are a doctor. Delisa trusts you. She's... fragile right now."

Delisa turned her head, her blonde hair cascading over the pillow. She smiled, a sweet, venomous expression. "I heard you're so thorough, Amira. I just want to make sure everything is... perfect."

Amira gripped the door handle. "I'll page Dr. Evans. He's the specialist."

She turned to leave, but Sterling was standing in the doorway, blocking her path. He wasn't looking at her; he was looking at Ethan with a sycophantic smile.

"Is everything alright, Mr. Dejesus?"

"Dr. Cortez seems reluctant to do her job," Ethan said smoothly.

Sterling turned to Amira, his smile vanishing. He leaned in close, his voice a low hiss. "The Dejesus family donates a wing to this hospital, Dr. Cortez. Their foundation pays your salary. Do this, or I'll make sure you're blacklisted from every reputable hospital in the tri-state area. You'll be practicing in a back-alley clinic by noon."

Amira looked at Sterling, then back at Ethan. It was a trap. A humiliation ritual.

She let go of the door handle. She walked to the sink and snapped on a pair of latex gloves. The sound was loud in the quiet room.

"Fine."

She approached the bed. Ethan didn't move. He stayed right there, watching. Amira began the basic checkup-blood pressure, heart rate, temperature. Her movements were precise, mechanical. She touched Delisa only where necessary, her skin crawling even through the gloves. This wasn't a medical exam; it was a performance for an audience of one. She knew it, and they knew she knew.

Ethan watched Amira's hands. He had a look of satisfaction on his face, enjoying the sight of his ex-girlfriend serving his current obsession.

Amira placed the stethoscope on Delisa's chest. She leaned in to listen to the heart rhythm.

Delisa lifted her head slightly, bringing her lips close to Amira's ear.

"He told me you're pathetic in bed, too," Delisa whispered. "Like a dead fish."

Amira's hand slipped. The stethoscope clamored against Delisa's collarbone. Amira pulled back, her breath hitching. She steadied herself, forcing her hand to stop shaking.

"Heart rate is normal," Amira announced, her voice sounding robotic to her own ears. "Blood pressure is slightly elevated."

Ethan frowned. "You sound bored. Show some respect. She's in distress."

"I am being professional," Amira countered, stripping off the gloves.

Ethan stood up, towering over her. He stepped into her personal space. "I'm filing a complaint for your attitude. You have zero bedside manner."

Sterling appeared in the doorway again, as if summoned by a silent alarm.

"Dr. Cortez, my office. Now."

Amira looked at Ethan one last time. He was smiling. She walked past him, head high, but inside, she was screaming.