No Longer His Captive Surgeon Wife

"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.