Contract Marriage With The Genius Heiress

The operating room was freezing.

The chill didn't come from the air conditioning, but from the clear liquid pushing through the IV line into the back of Alysia's hand.

She stared at the blinding surgical lights above.

The anesthesiologist tapped her vein, his voice a dull hum behind his mask.

"Count backward from ten, Miss Kent."

Ten.

Nine.

A violent, electric shock tore through the center of her brain.

The heart rate monitor beside her spiked, emitting a sharp, frantic beep.

Alysia's spine arched off the sterile table.

Her lungs seized.

A tsunami of memories crashed into her skull, heavy and suffocating.

She saw the damp, rotting walls of a Brooklyn basement.

She felt the phantom agony of a festering surgical wound, the exact spot where her kidney had been harvested.

She tasted her own blood from a thousand different deaths across a thousand different lifetimes.

The anesthesiologist cursed under his breath, his gloved hand reaching for the dial to increase the dosage.

Alysia's eyes snapped open.

The resignation that had clouded her pupils seconds ago was gone, replaced by the absolute, zero-degree cold of a glacier.

She lifted her right arm.

Her muscles were heavy, fighting the initial wave of the drug, but she forced them to obey.

She shoved the anesthesiologist's hand away from the dial.

"What are you doing?" the man stammered, stumbling back a half-step. "The procedure has started. You can't stop now."

Alysia didn't speak.

She reached for the medical tape securing the IV to her hand and ripped it off in one brutal motion.

She yanked the plastic catheter out of her vein.

Dark red blood splattered across the sterile blue surgical drapes.

The heavy doors swung open, and the lead surgeon marched in.

"What the hell is going on here?" he barked, glaring at Alysia. "Restrain her! This is a severe violation of protocol!"

Alysia sat up, her bare feet hitting the icy floor.

She looked at the surgeon, her chest rising and falling in a slow, calculated rhythm.

"Account ending in 8492," she said, her voice raspy but steady. "A wire transfer of five hundred thousand dollars from the Holloway family. Two weeks ago."

The surgeon's face drained of all color.

His jaw went slack, and his feet rooted to the floor.

He didn't dare take another step toward her.

Alysia ripped the thin hospital gown off her shoulders.

She grabbed a sterile surgical coat from a nearby tray and pulled it over her arms.

She took a step forward and her knee buckled slightly, the residual anesthesia messing with her equilibrium.

She nearly crashed into a metal instrument cart.

She closed her eyes, forcing her breathing into the precise, rhythmic pattern of a master martial artist she had been three lifetimes ago.

Her muscles tightened, aligning her spine perfectly.

She opened her eyes, completely steady, and walked to the automatic doors.

She slammed her palm against the release button.

The doors slid apart, and the blinding flash of camera bulbs hit