"The flight is at three o'clock. Get to the airport now and stay as far away from here as possible," Beckham Graham's voice was a flat, emotionless command. Amy Leach stood in the grand hallway, the layers of her custom white wedding dress heavy around her legs. She looked at him in disbelief. "But we are in the middle of our wedding..." "You brought this on yourself," Beckham cut her off, his eyes as cold and unforgiving as a winter ocean. "Who told you to drug my drink and tip off the reporters at the door? Your little stunt caused Amira to have a severe heart attack." "I didn't do it!" Amy argued, her voice trembling. "We already had an arranged marriage, Beckham. I had no reason to do something so desperate!" He didn't even blink. He raised a hand, signaling the two massive bodyguards behind him. "Get her out of my sight." The bodyguards grabbed her arms, dragging her away in her pristine wedding gown. Amy looked back at Beckham's retreating, resolute figure, her vision blurring with hot tears. She had loved this man for ten long years, yet he didn't have a single ounce of trust for her. Her trembling hand instinctively moved to rest on her flat stomach. Finally, the tears she had been fighting spilled over. Five years later. The heavy mahogany double doors of the Chief of Surgery's office yielded to Dr. Amy Leach's push. She was now the most renowned cardiothoracic surgeon in the country, one of the very few capable of performing a complex heart transplant. She stepped inside, the sharp, sterile scent of bleach clinging to her white coat. 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. 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 screamed of wealth and manipulation. Fragility? Please. This woman had weaponized weakness like a blade. 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. When his dark eyes landed on Amy, a flash of cold disgust crossed his face. "You disappeared for five years, and now you are back to stalk me again?" Julian, the Chief of Surgery, stood up from behind his desk. He cleared his throat, the sound loud in the suffocating silence. "Mr. Graham, please. This is Dr. Leach. She is the top surgeon I was telling you about for Ms. Hughes's case." 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. Amira leaned closer to Beckham, her hand possessively gripping his sleeve, offering Amy a sickly sweet, triumphant smile. 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 like a death knell. He stopped exactly half a meter in front of her. His sheer size blocked out the sunlight, casting a dark, suffocating shadow over her face. He looked down at her, like a king staring at a rebellious serf. "You will take over Amira's surgery immediately," Beckham said. His voice was a flat, emotionless command. Not a request. An order. Amy's fingers curled into the deep pockets of her white coat. She tilted her chin up, meeting his dead stare. A cold, hollow laugh scraped its way out of her throat. "No." "Name your price," Beckham said, his voice dropping to a lethal octave. "Whatever conditions you want. Just do the surgery." Amy sneered, her eyes locking onto his. "Are you not afraid that if I go into that operating room, she might never come out?" The temperature in Beckham's eyes plummeted. He leaned in, his breath brushing her ear, hot and menacing. "If she doesn't come out, you will not leave that room alive either." The air in the office grew so stiff and heavy that it was hard to breathe. They were locked in a silent, deadly war, neither willing to back down. The intense, suffocating tension between them left the other doctors in the room baffled and terrified. Julian, sensing the explosive atmosphere, quickly intervened to break the ice. He wiped the cold sweat from his forehead. "Actually, Mr. Graham... given Amira's current condition, Dr. Leach doesn't need to scrub in right now. Our most urgent priority is finding a suitable donor heart." Julian's words acted like a pressure valve. The freezing, deadly atmosphere in the room thawed slightly. Beckham's lethal focus shifted for a split second toward the Chief of Surgery. Amy seized that exact moment. Before Beckham could react or issue another command, she gave him and Amira a cold, detached look. She turned on her heel and marched briskly toward the heavy mahogany doors. Her hand grabbed the brass handle. Before stepping out, she paused, not bothering to look back, and threw a sentence over her shoulder. "When you have some free time, remember to sign the divorce papers." With a loud click, she shut the door behind her, leaving a stunned Beckham standing in the middle of the room.

Amy pushed off the cold wall of the corridor. Her legs felt like lead, but she forced them to move. She walked quickly down the long hallway, her sensible heels clicking against the linoleum floor, until she reached the door at the very end. Her private office. She pushed the door open, stepped inside, and walked straight to the water dispenser in the corner. Her hands were shaking so violently she could barely hold the paper cup. The tremor ran all the way up her arms, a physical echo of the rage boiling in her blood. She pressed the lever, letting the ice-cold water fill the cup, desperate to wash down the bile rising in her throat. She brought the rim to her lips. The office door was violently shoved open from the outside. It hit the wall with a deafening crack. Beckham walked in. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated control. But his eyes—his eyes were a storm barely leashed. He reached behind him, pushed the door shut, and turned the deadbolt. The sharp click of the lock echoed in the small room like a gunshot. Amy spun around like a cornered cat. The ice water sloshed over the rim, soaking the back of her hand. "Do you not understand the concept of personal space?" she yelled, her voice cracking. Beckham ignored her. He walked slowly, casually, across the room until he stood in front of her desk. Each step deliberate. Predatory. "Name your price, Amy," he demanded, his tone cold and laced with a businessman's calculation. "How much do you want on the divorce settlement to nod your head and walk into that operating room?" The sheer arrogance of his money hit her like a physical slap. The heat of anger flushed her cheeks. She slammed the paper cup onto the dispenser tray and marched behind her desk. She yanked open the bottom drawer. It stuck for a second, but she pulled with all her strength. She dug past medical journals and grabbed a slightly yellowed manila folder. She threw it onto the center of the desk. The loud smack made the pens in her cup rattle. "I don't want your money," Amy said, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. Sharp. Final. "I just want my freedom." Beckham's eyes dropped to the folder. He read the bold, capitalized letters printed across the top page. DIVORCE AGREEMENT. His eyes darkened instantly. The bored facade shattered, replaced by a dangerous, brewing storm. A cruel, mocking smile twisted the corner of his mouth. "Playing hard to get, Amy? A bit pathetic, don't you think? " Amy reached into her pen holder, pulled out a heavy Montblanc fountain pen, and held it out across the desk. "Sign it." Beckham didn't take the pen. He picked up the document. His eyes scanned the text with terrifying speed. He stopped at the middle of the first page. His gaze locked onto the clause stating she would waive all alimony and leave the marriage with absolutely nothing. The knuckles of the hand holding the paper turned white. The tendons in his wrist strained against his shirt cuff. Without breaking eye contact, Beckham gripped the top of the pages with both hands. With a sudden, violent jerk, he ripped the thick stack of papers straight down the middle. The sound of tearing paper was loud and violent. It sounded like her hope shredding. Amy's eyes went wide. The breath left her lungs. "What the hell is wrong with you?!" she screamed, lunging forward across the desk. She grabbed the lapels of his expensive suit jacket. Her knuckles pressed into his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath. Beckham didn't step back. He let go of the torn pages. The heavy paper scraps fluttered into the air, falling around them like dirty snow. He moved with terrifying speed. His large hand snaked around her waist, his fingers digging into her lower back. He yanked her forward. Her stomach slammed against the edge of the desk. His other hand planted firmly on the edge of the wood, trapping her completely between his hard body and the desk. He lowered his head. His face was inches from hers. She could feel the heat of his skin and the warm, mint-scented breath ghosting over her neck. "Here is the deal," Beckham whispered, his voice a low, vibrating threat that sent shivers down her spine. "You will only get my signature when Amira walks out of this hospital fully cured." Amy thrashed against him. She pushed her hands flat against his solid, unyielding chest, trying to shove him away. Beckham simply tightened his arm around her waist. The sheer difference in their physical strength was suffocating. He was an immovable wall; she was a bird beating against glass. She couldn't move an inch. Humiliation burned in her throat. She bit down hard on her lower lip to stop herself from crying out. The sharp, metallic taste of her own blood flooded her tongue. "Fine," she choked out, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "I'll think about it." Beckham stared at her bleeding lip for a long second. Something flickered in his eyes—regret? Hunger? She couldn't tell. Then, he slowly released her waist. He stepped back, his hands casually smoothing down the front of his perfectly pressed suit jacket. The king, reassembling his armor. "You have twenty-four hours to clear out of this office if you refuse," he stated. He turned and walked out, leaving the door wide open. Amy's knees buckled. She collapsed into her office chair, her legs completely giving out, staring at the torn pieces of her freedom scattered across the floor. Freedom. What a joke.

Amy sat paralyzed in her chair for ten long minutes. She finally reached for a tissue, wiped the smear of blood from her lower lip, and forced herself to stand. She needed caffeine. She needed to move. But she couldn't risk taking the main elevators and running into Beckham's security detail again. She walked to the side of her office and pushed open the heavy fire door. The concrete stairwell was cold and echoed with her every step, a hollow, lonely sound. She walked down one flight to the third floor. The pediatric VIP wing was here, and it had a vending machine that sold terrible, strong black coffee. She pushed open the third-floor fire door and stepped into the quiet, carpeted hallway. As she rounded the corner toward the vending machines, a sound stopped her in her tracks. It was a tiny, muffled sob. The kind that broke your heart before you even saw the face behind it. The instinct of a doctor overrode her exhaustion. Amy turned her head, scanning the empty corridor. Behind the shadow of a large, decorative Roman pillar at the end of the hall, she saw a small figure. It was a little boy, maybe five years old. He was wearing a custom-tailored miniature suit, but right now, the expensive fabric was covered in dust. He was crouched on the floor, hugging his knees. A tiny king fallen from his throne. Amy's eyes immediately locked onto his bare knee. A fresh, angry scrape was oozing bright red blood down his pale calf. She softened her footsteps and slowly approached him. The boy's head snapped up. Amy froze. When she saw his deep, striking blue eyes, her heart physically skipped a beat. A strange, heavy sensation settled in her chest. He looked so incredibly familiar, though she couldn't place why. Those eyes. She had seen those eyes before. In a dream. In a nightmare. She dropped to one knee, ignoring the dirt on the floor. "Hey there," she whispered in soft, gentle English. "Are you okay?" The boy bit his lower lip. He didn't say a word. He just stared at her with intense, defensive eyes, like a frightened animal ready to bolt. Or bite. Amy reached into the deep pocket of her white coat and pulled out her portable first aid kit. She unzipped it and pulled out an alcohol wipe. As she tore the foil packet open, the boy flinched, shrinking back until his small spine hit the wall. "It's okay," Amy cooed, holding her hands up, palms open, to show she meant no harm. No weapons. No tricks. "I am a doctor. I just want to clean that up so it doesn't hurt." She slowly reached out. Her fingers gently wrapped around his thin ankle. The boy's entire body gave a violent shudder, but he didn't kick her away. Amy moved with agonizing slowness. She dabbed the alcohol wipe around the edges of the wound, wiping away the sticky blood. As she cleaned, she leaned her head down and blew a soft, cool stream of air over the scrape to ease the stinging pain. She felt the rigid tension in the boy's small shoulders slowly melt away. The hard, defensive glare in his blue eyes softened into something vulnerable. Something that looked like hope. Amy peeled the backing off a bandage with little green dinosaurs on it and pressed it carefully over the cut. She looked up, offering him a warm, reassuring smile. "All done. Good as new." She placed her hands on her thighs, preparing to stand up and leave. Suddenly, a chubby little hand shot out. The boy grabbed the hem of her white coat. His tiny knuckles turned white from how hard he was gripping the fabric. Amy froze. When the boy grabbed her hem, an indescribable wave of sorrow and familiarity violently gripped her heart. Her throat tightened painfully, a suffocating knot forming instantly. Tears pricked the back of her eyes as if some deep, buried part of her soul was awakened by this tiny touch. Unbidden, the memory of the cold operating room five years ago, the blood, the monitor flatlining, the baby she never got to hold, crashed into her mind. Her hands moved on their own. She reached out and gently stroked the soft, messy curls on the boy's head. It was as if the boy had found a safe harbor. He suddenly lunged forward, throwing his small arms around Amy's neck, burying his face in her shoulder. Amy's body went rigid for half a second. Then, she closed her eyes, wrapped her arms around his small back, and hugged the strange child with a desperate, aching tightness. Like he was the only thing keeping her from drowning. Who was this boy, and why did holding him feel like holding a piece of her own shattered soul?