The Jilted Heiress Claims The Surgeon Brother

The black Maybach rolled to a smooth stop against the curb, the engine purring quietly before dying out. Through the tinted glass, Angelena Barlow stared at the wrought-iron gates of the estate. The metal swirls looked exactly the same, cold and imposing, but the weight that used to sit on her chest when she saw them was simply gone. It felt like looking at a photograph of someone else's life.

The driver's door clicked open. Artie Kowalski stepped out, his uniform crisp in the morning light. He walked around to her door, pulling it open with a respectful nod.

"Miss Barlow, we're here."

Angelena stepped out onto the pavement. The New York air hit her lungs-crisp, laced with the faint smell of cut grass and distant car exhaust. It was real. The tightness in her throat, a constant companion during her years of sickness and heartbreak, simply vanished. She was breathing air that belonged to the living.

Her gaze drifted past her own family's gates, sliding over the manicured hedge that separated the Barlow estate from the neighbors. And then, her lungs simply refused to work.

A tall figure stood on the driveway next door, his back to her. He wore a simple grey workout shirt, dark with sweat, clinging to the rigid muscles of his back. Black running shorts. Running shoes. Dalton Barron.

She would know that silhouette anywhere. In the dim, sterile rooms of her memory, that back had been the only thing standing between her and the abyss. He had blocked the harsh hospital lights, the disappointed faces, the cold reality of her own failing body.

Dalton finished his calf stretch and turned around. His deep blue eyes, usually sharp enough to cut glass, locked onto her. He froze. The water bottle slipped slightly in his grip.

Angelena didn't look away. She didn't drop her gaze to the ground or offer the polite, distant smile she had worn in her youth. Instead, she let the warmth explode in her chest and spread across her face. She smiled at him-a bright, unguarded, radiant smile that reached her eyes.

Dalton blinked. He looked slightly stunned, as if the sun had suddenly risen from the wrong direction.

For a moment, every instinct screamed at him to stay put, to analyze this new, unfamiliar variable. But a stronger, deeper impulse, one he had suppressed for years, took over. He moved. His long legs ate up the distance between the properties, his stride steady and purposeful. He stopped just a few feet away, his voice a low, rough rumble that vibrated in the air between them.

"Angie? You're back."

Her heart gave a violent, joyful thump against her ribs. She nodded, holding his gaze. "Yes, Dalton. I'm back."

Behind her, Artie grunted, struggling to haul a massive suitcase out of the trunk. The sound broke the spell. Dalton glanced over her shoulder. Without a word, he walked past her and grabbed the handle from Artie's grip.

"I'll take it."

His hand wrapped