Trapped By The President's Dangerous Secret

Ana stared at the medical chart in her hands.

The name printed at the top was Arthur Vance.

Below that, the entire medical history section was completely blank.

No previous surgeries. No current medications. Not even a listed primary care physician.

A heavy knot of annoyance formed in her stomach.

She pressed the button on the internal intercom sitting on her desk.

"Send the patient in."

Before she could even lift her finger from the plastic button, the heavy wooden door of the VIP consultation room was shoved open.

It hit the wall with a dull, violent thud.

Two massive men wearing dark suits and earpieces stepped into the room.

Their eyes darted to the corners of the ceiling, scanning the blind spots of the security cameras.

Ana's pulse spiked.

She pushed her chair back and stood up, her jaw tightening.

"Excuse me, you are violating HIPAA privacy laws. Get out of my clinic."

A tall man in a dark, custom-tailored trench coat walked right past the bodyguards.

Auguste stopped in the center of the room.

His cold, piercing gaze locked onto Ana's face.

The air in the room instantly felt thinner, pressing down on her chest and making it hard to breathe.

He walked over to the examination table but didn't sit down.

He just stood there, his eyes scanning the medical equipment with absolute disdain.

Ana forced her heart rate to slow down.

She picked up her stethoscope from the desk.

"Take off your coat and put on the hospital gown."

Auguste completely ignored her instruction.

"Which security firm handles this hospital's network? The perimeter feels remarkably porous for a private facility."

Ana froze, her fingers gripping the metal of the stethoscope until her knuckles turned white.

She felt a hot flush of anger crawl up her neck.

He was dodging the issue of his hidden illness.

"Avoiding medical treatment will only lead to permanent damage to your prostate function, Mr. Vance."

A dangerous, dark glint flashed in Auguste's eyes.

He took a slow step forward, his tall frame leaning slightly toward her.

The bodyguard on the left immediately stepped forward, his body angling slightly as he placed a flat hand against his suit lapel, physically inserting himself between Ana and Auguste in a clear, professional warning posture.

Auguste raised his right hand, making a tiny, sharp gesture with his fingers.

The bodyguard snapped back to his original position instantly.

Ana's stomach dropped at the sudden movement, but she refused to back down.

She grabbed a plastic urine collection cup from the counter and shoved it toward him.

Auguste looked down at the plastic cup.

The corner of his mouth twitched upward in a brutal, mocking smirk.

He reached out, took the cup from her hand, and dropped it straight into the biohazard waste bin.

Ana slammed her palm against the desk.

"If you refuse to cooperate, leave my clinic right now."

Auguste opened his mouth to speak, but a tiny red light suddenly flashed inside his right ear.

The color drained from his face.

His lazy arrogance vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, lethal alertness.

The two bodyguards lunged forward, using their massive bodies to form a tactical shield between Auguste and Ana.

Auguste turned around and strode toward the door.

He didn't offer a single word of explanation.

Ana ran around the desk, reaching out to grab the sleeve of his trench coat.

"You still have to pay the consultation fee!"

The bodyguard shoved her shoulder hard.

The force sent Ana stumbling backward, her heels catching on the linoleum floor.

Auguste disappeared down the hallway.

The heavy door slammed shut in her face.

Ana rubbed her aching shoulder, staring at the empty room.

A bitter taste of humiliation coated the back of her throat.

She grabbed the blank medical chart and hurled it into the trash can.

Her first independent VIP consultation was a complete failure.

Suddenly, a high-pitched alarm blared from the hospital's overhead PA system.

The sound vibrated in her teeth.

"Code Trauma. Level One. Emergency Department."

Ana pushed through the double doors of the Emergency Department.

The sharp, metallic smell of fresh blood mixed with bleach hit the back of her throat, making her gag.

A handful of sharp-eyed men in dark suits and earpieces had quietly secured the area. They didn't draw weapons, but their tactical positioning effectively isolated the entire emergency wing, denying entry to anyone without raising a public alarm.

Ana rushed toward Trauma Room One, but a thick arm slammed across her chest, stopping her in her tracks.

She held up her hospital ID badge, her voice shaking with adrenaline.

"I am a doctor! Let me through to assist!"

The agent didn't even blink, standing like a brick wall.

Through the gap between the agent's arm and torso, Ana saw inside the trauma room.

Auguste was standing there.

His expensive trench coat was gone, and his crisp white shirt was soaked in bright red blood.

He was screaming at the ER director.

Ana followed his gaze to the operating table.

A young boy, maybe seven years old, lay there covered in blood.

When Ana saw the boy's pale, lifeless face, a violent spasm ripped through her chest.

Her lungs seized.

It was a bizarre, physical ache of familiarity that made no sense.

The ER director ran out of the room, sweating through his scrubs, screaming into his radio for the blood bank.

A hematologist sprinted down the hall, his voice cracking in panic.

"The boy's blood type is Rh-null!"

Auguste grabbed the hematologist by the collar of his lab coat, lifting him onto his toes.

"Get it from the national registry! Now!"

The doctor choked out a sob.

"There are less than ten registered donors in the entire country! We don't have time!"

The heart monitor next to the boy's bed let out a rapid, terrifying beep.

His blood pressure was crashing.

The edges of Auguste's eyes turned a raw, weeping red.

The absolute despair of a powerful man breaking down was visceral.

Ana heard the words 'Rh-null', and a loud ringing erupted in her ears.

She remembered her own medical file.

She shoved her weight against the agent blocking her path, forcing her way into the perimeter.

Two agents instantly closed the distance, moving with terrifying speed. One grabbed her arm and wrenched it behind her back, while the other used his body weight to pin her shoulder hard against the wall. "Do not move another inch!"

Ana threw her hands in the air, her chest heaving.

"I have Rh-null blood!"

The entire trauma room went dead silent.

The only sound was the mechanical hiss of the ventilator.

Auguste's head snapped toward her.

The despair in his eyes hardened into sharp, cutting daggers.

The ER director lunged for the computer terminal, typing in Ana's employee ID number.

A green match icon flashed on the screen.

"She's telling the truth!" the director yelled.

Auguste closed the distance between them in three massive strides.

His shadow swallowed her completely.

"Get on the chair," he ordered, his voice a low, gravelly threat.

Ana looked at his demanding face, remembering the humiliation in her clinic just ten minutes ago.

She took one step back, avoiding his physical space.

She locked her eyes onto his.

"Blood donation is voluntary. I don't feel like cooperating with an arrogant jerk who disrespects doctors."

The nurses gasped.

The agents stepped closer, drawing their weapons and leveling them at her head.

Auguste's jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek.

"What do you want?"

Ana pointed a shaking finger at the blood soaking his shirt.

"You promise to come back to my clinic and finish the full urology exam."

The ER director hopped from foot to foot, his face pale.

"Dr. West, are you insane? Do not provoke him!"

The lead agent stepped forward, reaching out to physically drag Ana to the chair.

Auguste threw his arm out, blocking the agent's path.

He stared into Ana's eyes, his chest rising and falling heavily.

"Fine."

The word scraped out of his throat, heavy with dark authority.

Ana turned around and walked straight to the rapid blood-draw chair.

She rolled up her sleeve, exposing the pale skin of her inner arm.

A nurse rushed over, her hands trembling so badly she dropped the alcohol wipe.

She couldn't find the vein.

Ana snatched the rubber tourniquet from the nurse's hands.

She wrapped it tightly around her own bicep, tapping her skin to make the vein pop.

She grabbed the thick needle and shoved it into her own arm.

Dark red blood rushed through the clear plastic tube.

Auguste stood by the chair, watching the blood fill the bag.

The rigid tension in his shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch.

The first 400cc bag filled up quickly.

The nurse snatched it and hooked it directly into Leo's IV line.

Ana watched her own blood flow into the little boy's body.

A sharp, hollow ache bloomed behind her ribs, making her throat tight.

The frantic beeping of the monitor slowed down.

Leo's blood pressure started to climb.

The ER director wiped his forehead with a bloody glove.

"He's out of hypovolemic shock."

Ana let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

"He lost too much," the nurse whispered. "We need more."

"Change the bag," Ana ordered without hesitating. "Keep drawing."

Auguste frowned, his eyes dropping to Ana's lips.

They were turning a sickly shade of blue.

Halfway through the second bag, the room started to spin.

A loud buzzing noise filled Ana's head, drowning out the medical machines.

The lead agent stepped forward, pressing two fingers to his earpiece before leaning close to Auguste's ear. He whispered something completely inaudible, his face a mask of grim urgency. Ana's heart skipped a beat. The sheer intensity of their silent exchange, the absolute secrecy, echoed ominously in her dizzy brain.

The nurse saw Ana's eyes roll back and immediately yanked the needle out, pressing a cotton swab hard against the puncture wound.

Ana tried to stand up to check on Leo.

Her knees buckled.

She pitched forward, expecting her face to smash into the cold tile floor.

Two strong arms caught her mid-air.

Ana's cheek slammed against Auguste's hard chest.

Her nose filled with the sharp scent of cedarwood and fresh blood.

Auguste scooped her up into his arms.

His movements were stiff, but his grip was iron-clad.

"Put me down," Ana mumbled, her voice sounding like a weak whisper. "I need to go to the breakroom."

"Prep the VIP suite on the top floor," Auguste ordered the director, his tone absolute ice.

The agents moved forward, shoving doctors and nurses out of the way.

The world faded to black as Auguste carried her into the private elevator.