The Surgeon's Vow: Healing My Billionaire Husband

The metal chair was bolted to the floor. Mia Sterling sat on it, her spine not touching the backrest, her hands clasped on the cold steel table. Her knuckles were white, the skin stretched tight over the bone. She focused on the sensation of her own pulse throbbing in her fingertips. It was the only thing proving she was still alive in this gray, airless room at the New York State Department of Corrections.

The heavy door groaned. It was a sound of friction, metal grinding against metal.

The Warden stepped in first, holding a file. He didn't look at her. He looked at the wall, at the floor, anywhere but her eyes.

"Parole denied," he said. The words were flat, rehearsed. "New evidence submitted by the victim's legal team. Sterling Group alleges further financial misconduct."

Mia didn't blink. She didn't scream. She felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach, a physical constriction of her diaphragm, but her face remained a mask of porcelain indifference. She had expected this. Her father, Howard Sterling, didn't leave loose ends. He tied them into nooses.

"However," the Warden said, stepping aside. "You have a visitor."

Howard walked in. The scent of expensive cologne-sandalwood and arrogance-hit Mia before he even sat down. It overpowered the smell of industrial bleach that permeated the prison. He waved a hand, dismissing the Warden.

The door clicked shut. Silence, heavy and suffocating, filled the space between them.

Howard didn't say hello. He tossed a black folder onto the table. It slid across the metal surface and stopped inches from Mia's hands.

A griffin crest was embossed on the leather. The Kensington family seal.

Mia stared at the mythical beast. The Kensingtons were royalty in New York, the kind of old money that made the Sterlings look like street peddlers.

"Sign it," Howard said. He adjusted his silk tie. "You sign, the charges disappear. The parole board reverses the decision. You walk out today."

Mia let out a short, dry laugh. It scraped her throat. "Has the stock price dropped that low, Howard? You're selling me to fix the quarterly report?"

Howard's jaw clenched. A vein pulsed in his temple. He slammed his palm on the table. The sound echoed like a gunshot.

"Don't be ungrateful. Do you know how many women would kill for this? Lucas Kensington is the most eligible bachelor on the East Coast."

"Lucas Kensington," Mia said, her voice dropping to a whisper, "is in a persistent vegetative state. He's been in the ICU for three months. The doctors declared his condition irreversible last week. You aren't selling me a husband. You're selling me as a nursemaid for a corpse so you can access their trust fund liquidity."

Howard leaned back. The anger in his eyes was replaced by something worse. Amusement.

He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. He pulled out a photograph and slid it over the black folder.

Mia's breath hitched. Her heart hammered against her ribs, hard