Addicted To The Ruthless Surgeon Heiress

Silence hung heavy in the room, broken only by the rhythmic beeping of the monitor.

Dr. Vance slumped into a chair. He stared at the closed chest, his mouth open. His voice was a raw whisper. "You... have you studied medicine?"

Evie stripped off her bloody gloves and threw them into the biohazard bin. She walked to the sink and turned on the cold water, scrubbing the dried blood from under her fingernails without looking at him. "Learned a little from a quack doctor."

A little? Vance and the other specialists in the room exchanged glances, their faces burning with shame. What she had just performed was a micro-guidewire interventional therapy, a procedure so delicate they wouldn't have dared attempt it without weeks of preparation. And this woman called her teacher a quack? In that moment, they all lowered their heads, unable to meet her gaze.

Hartwell holstered his gun. He walked up behind her, watching her in the mirror. He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a black checkbook and a Montblanc pen.

He opened it, signed his name with a sharp flourish, and added seven zeros. He tore the check off and held it out to her.

"Ten million," he said, his tone dismissive, like he was tipping a valet. "Good work. This should buy you a nice retirement, or maybe half that trailer park you came from."

Evie turned off the water. She ripped a paper towel from the dispenser and dried her hands. She didn't even glance at the check.

She turned around, leaning back against the sink. She looked at him like he was an idiot.

"First," she said, her voice flat, "I'm not the idiot you hired. I'm not The Surgeon."

Hartwell’s hand froze, the check suspended in mid-air. A flicker of surprise crossed his features, followed by the ghost of a smile touching the corner of his mouth. "If you're not the miracle worker, then how did you know what to do?"

"I learned from a village doctor," she said, her expression unreadable. "Saw a similar case once. I just copied what he did."

Copied it? Hartwell's eyes narrowed. The fluid, precise movements he had witnessed... that wasn't mimicry. That was mastery.

"Second," Evie continued, "if I wanted money, I'd take it. I don't beg."

She reached out with one finger and pushed his hand away. The check fluttered to the floor.

Hartwell's face darkened. The temperature in the room dropped. He stepped forward, crowding her against the sink. "Then what do you want?"

Evie didn't back down. She tilted her chin up, her eyes boring into his. "I want a favor. From the Barron family."

A wicked smile touched her lips. "Consider it a marker. One I will collect."

The words hit him like a physical blow. His chest tightened. The sheer audacity felt like a spark of electricity straight to his gut.

While he was processing the shock, Evie ducked under his arm. She was too quick, too small. She was out the door before he could react.

In the hallway, Beatrice saw her and shrank back against the wall.

Evie ignored her. She walked down the hall to the guest room Arthur had pointed out earlier. She went inside, slammed the door, and threw the deadbolt. Click.

Hartwell stood in the ICU, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He looked slightly unhinged. He muttered a curse.

He picked up the crumpled check from the floor and threw it into the trash. He walked out into the hall and saw Mr. Slate, his intelligence chief.

"I want everything," Hartwell said, his voice low and dangerous. "By sunrise, I want to know her blood type, her kindergarten teacher, and every sin she's ever committed. Find out who this wolf belongs to."