No Longer His Captive Surgeon Wife

The heavy mahogany double doors of the Chief of Surgery's office yielded to Amy Leach's push.

She stepped inside, the sharp, sterile scent of bleach clinging to her white coat, a stark contrast to the stale, conditioned air of the room. Her muscles ached from six hours bent over an operating table.

Blinding afternoon sunlight sliced through the gaps in the window blinds. Amy blinked, her vision temporarily whiting out.

As her eyes adjusted to the glare, the silhouette in the center of the Persian rug sharpened into focus. It was a custom-built, high-end wheelchair.

Sitting in it was Amira Hughes.

Amira's face was pale, but the arrogant tilt of her chin and the pristine cut of her designer hospital gown betrayed the fragility she tried to project.

Amy's stomach dropped. A violent, physical wave of nausea hit the back of her throat. Her lungs seized, trapping the oxygen in her chest. The phantom scent of blood from five years ago filled her nostrils.

Then, her eyes drifted past the wheelchair.

Standing by the floor-to-ceiling window was a tall figure in a tailored, pitch-black suit. The man slowly turned around.

Beckham Graham.

His face was a masterclass in cold geometry-sharp jawline, straight nose, and eyes as dark and unforgiving as a winter ocean.

Their gazes collided in the dead air of the room.

For a fraction of a second, a tremor of raw, suppressed shock cracked the ice in Beckham's eyes. Then, the frost returned, thicker and more impenetrable than before.

Julian, the Chief of Surgery, stood up from behind his desk. He cleared his throat, the sound loud in the suffocating silence.

"Dr. Leach, please come in. I believe you need to meet the sponsors of our new wing-"

Beckham raised a single, large hand. The gesture was slight, but it commanded absolute obedience. Julian snapped his mouth shut.

Beckham bypassed the desk and walked straight toward Amy.

His heavy leather shoes sank into the rug, each step a muffled, rhythmic thud that hammered against Amy's ribs.

He stopped exactly half a meter in front of her. His sheer size blocked out the sunlight, casting a dark shadow over her face. He looked down at her.

"You will take over Amira's cardiac repair surgery immediately," Beckham said.

His voice was a flat, emotionless command. It wasn't a request. It was an order from a king to a peasant.

Amy's fingers curled into the deep pockets of her white coat. She gripped the cold rubber tubing of her stethoscope until her knuckles turned a translucent white.

She tilted her chin up, meeting his dead stare. A cold, hollow laugh scraped its way out of her throat.

"No."

Behind Beckham, Amira let out a weak, pathetic cough. She slumped slightly in her wheelchair, her hand fluttering to her chest in a practiced display of vulnerability.

The temperature in Beckham's eyes plummeted. The muscle in his jaw ticked.

"Do not bring your petty, personal vendettas into medical practice, Amy," he warned, his