Immune To The Billionaire's Toxic Regret

The automatic sensor doors of Manhattan General Hospital's emergency room slid open with a violent mechanical hiss. A brutal gust of New York winter wind ripped into the sterile lobby.

Elmore Thomas strode through the entrance. He wore a black cashmere overcoat, but his usual calculated composure was gone. His large hands tightly gripped his seven-year-old son, Buddy, against his chest. The boy's face was flushed a dangerous, unnatural red. Buddy was unconscious, his small body burning with a high fever.

A triage nurse behind the front desk stood up, holding a clipboard. She pointed toward the waiting area, telling him to take a number and fill out the intake forms.

Elmore did not stop walking. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked visibly beneath his skin. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a solid black titanium credit card, and slammed it flat onto the linoleum counter. The sharp smack echoed over the low hum of the waiting room. He demanded an isolated cubicle immediately.

The nurse looked at the card, then up at the cold, murderous panic in Elmore's dark eyes. She swallowed hard, picked up her radio, and immediately called for the attending physician. She stepped out from behind the desk and quickly guided them down the chaotic hallway toward Cubicle Three.

Elmore laid Buddy down on the stiff hospital mattress. Buddy twisted uncomfortably on the crinkling paper sheet. His small, hot fingers blindly found the cuff of Elmore's overcoat and gripped the fabric in a white-knuckled hold. A weak, rattling cough tore through the boy's chest.

Elmore reached down and wrapped his large hand over his son's tiny one. His breathing was shallow and uneven. The sterile smell of iodine and bleach made his stomach churn. He reached up with his free hand and roughly yanked at his silk tie, loosening it around his neck to let air into his tightening lungs.

Outside the thin fabric of the privacy curtain, the steady, rhythmic clicking of flat-soled shoes approached. The sound was accompanied by the sharp rustle of paper as someone flipped through a medical chart.

A hand wearing a blue latex glove gripped the edge of the white curtain and pulled it back.

Kendal Butler stepped into the small space. She wore a standard white lab coat over a pair of dark-colored scrubs. A blue surgical mask covered the lower half of her face. Only her eyes were visible-eyes that looked exhausted, clinical, and entirely detached.

Elmore lifted his head.

His line of sight collided with hers in the harsh fluorescent light.

The air in Elmore's lungs vanished. His heart slammed against his ribs like a physical blow, so hard he felt the impact in his teeth. The blood drained from his face, leaving his skin ice-cold. His fingers went numb.

Kendal's fingers, which had been turning a page on the clipboard, stopped moving. Her gaze dropped to the faint, jagged scar near Elmore's jawline.

For a fraction of a second, her pupils dilated.