The Surgeon's Secret: Hunted By My Ex

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed two times, the sound heavy and hollow in the silence of the Brennan estate. Dianna Campbell sat at the head of the long mahogany dining table. The wax from the tapered candles had long since melted onto the linen tablecloth, pooling like dried blood.

Dinner was cold. The Filet Mignon, the roasted asparagus, the truffle mash-it was all inedible now. Just like their marriage.

It was their third anniversary.

Mary, the head housekeeper, stepped out of the shadows of the kitchen doorway. She wrung her hands in her apron, her eyes darting between Dianna and the untouched food.

"Ma'am? Should I... should I clear the table?"

Dianna didn't look up. She just lifted her hand, a weak, dismissive wave. Her wrist felt heavy, weighed down by the diamond bracelet Hunt had given her the year before-not out of love, but because his publicist said it would look good in the society pages.

"Clear it, Mary. Please."

The heavy oak front door groaned open. The sound was followed by the sharp, uneven clatter of dress shoes on marble. Dianna's stomach tightened, a physical knot twisting behind her navel.

Hunt Brennan walked into the dining room. He brought the smell of cold rain and expensive scotch with him. He didn't look at the table. He didn't look at the decorations. He didn't look at her.

He loosened his tie as he walked past her, throwing his suit jacket onto a chair.

Dianna stood up. It was a reflex, a habit drilled into her over three years of trying to be the perfect wife. She reached out, her fingers grazing the fabric of his shirt.

"Hunt, I-"

He spun around. His eyes, usually a piercing blue, were bloodshot and dark. He looked at her not with anger, but with something worse. Disgust. He didn't touch her. Instead, his hand swept across the table in a blur of motion. Crystal glasses, silver cutlery, and the porcelain plates holding their anniversary dinner went flying, shattering against the marble floor with a deafening crash. Wine splashed across the white linen like a fresh wound. The violence of the act sucked the air from the room, and Dianna stumbled back, her hip bone colliding hard with the sharp edge of the dining chair.

Sharp pain radiated down her leg, but she didn't make a sound. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper.

Hunt loomed over her. He looked at the wreckage on the floor, then back at her.

"Don't touch me," he slurred, his voice low and dangerous.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled stack of photographs. He threw them at her. They fluttered down like dead leaves, landing on the floor between them.

Dianna looked down. It was a picture of her at the charity gala last week. She was shaking hands with a man-a donor. But the angle was suggestive, the lighting intimate. It was a lie captured on film,