Bound By Contract: The Surgeon's Secret Wife

Blake sat hunched over a computer in a forgotten corner of the nurses' station, the mountain of charts Dr. Hill had dumped on her threatening to avalanche onto the floor. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, the rhythmic clacking a weak defense against the roaring in her head.

I'll be right there.

The words echoed, his voice soft for her.

"You look like death warmed over. Here."

A steaming paper cup was thrust in front of her face. Hattie Case slid into the chair beside her, pushing her own identical cup of black coffee across the desk.

"Hill is a vindictive bitch," Hattie muttered, taking a sip. "She's been riding you since you got assigned to this service. What did you ever do to her?"

Blake forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. "Breathed, I think." She took a gulp of the scalding coffee, letting it burn a path down her throat, a physical pain to distract from the emotional one.

Hattie was about to say something else when her eyes widened, her gaze fixed on the entrance to the cardiac ward down the hall. "Oh my God. Don't look now, but it's royalty."

Blake's blood turned to ice. She didn't have to look. She could feel the shift in the atmosphere, the way the low hum of the hospital floor seemed to quiet in deference.

But she looked anyway.

Gwyneth Lang, heir to the Lang Biopharmaceuticals fortune, glided through the automatic doors as if she owned the place. Which, in a way, she did. Her family were major donors. She was dressed in a pale pink Chanel suit that probably cost more than Blake's entire student loan debt.

The real blow, the one that made Blake's stomach clench into a tight, painful knot, was the man at her side.

Barrett.

He walked beside Gwyneth, his hand resting lightly, possessively, on the small of her back. They looked perfect together. A power couple straight from the pages of a magazine. The brilliant surgeon and the beautiful heiress. Everyone in the hospital knew they were destined for each other.

Dr. Hill practically sprinted to greet them, her face arranged in a mask of fawning adoration.

"Gwyneth, you look stunning! It's so good to see you," Hill gushed.

Gwyneth smiled, a dazzling, practiced expression. "Janessa, darling. I brought you something." She handed over a small, elegant box of pastries. "Pierre Hermé. They just flew them in from Paris this morning."

Hill looked like she might actually weep with joy. She shot a triumphant look over her shoulder at Blake, as if to say, See? This is my world. Not yours.

Gwyneth's gaze followed Hill's, and her eyes, a cool, placid blue, landed on Blake. A flicker of something-amusement, or maybe just pure contempt-crossed her face. She raised her voice just enough to carry across the nurses' station.

"Barrett, darling," she said, her tone light and airy. "Your residents seem a bit... varied in quality."

Blake's hands froze over the keyboard.

Barrett's eyes met hers across the distance. For a split second, she saw something dark and unreadable in their depths, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual mask of indifference.

"Some people get in through the back door," he said, his voice carrying easily in the quiet hallway. "They're not always fit for the front lines."

The words were a physical blow. They hit her harder than his public rebuke in the conference room. This was personal. This was for Gwyneth's benefit.

Hattie made a choked, furious sound beside her and started to stand up. Blake's hand shot out, grabbing her friend's arm in a death grip.

"Don't," she whispered, her voice raw. "Please. I need this rotation."

Hattie sank back into her chair, her face a thundercloud of helpless rage.

Gwyneth, apparently satisfied, turned her attention back to Barrett. She looped her arm through his. "Come on, darling. I want to see that new research lab you were telling me about."

"Of course," Barrett said. He turned and walked away with her, not sparing Blake another glance.

Blake watched them go, her vision blurring. The perfect couple, disappearing down the hall. Her phone buzzed in the pocket of her scrubs. She pulled it out, her thumb swiping to unlock it.

Two new messages.

The first was a text alert from her bank.

A deposit of $10,000.00 has been made to your trust account ending in 4821.

The second message was from an unknown number-his burner phone.

My apartment tonight. Wear the black dress.

Blake's fingers turned white as she gripped the phone. The humiliation was a physical thing, a sour taste at the back of her throat. He shames me in public, pays me in private, and then summons me like a call girl.

Hattie was watching her, her expression full of concern. "Blake, are you okay?"

Blake blinked back the hot tears stinging her eyes. She took a deep, shuddering breath and forced her lips into a parody of a smile. "I'm fine."

She typed a single word back to the unknown number.

Okay.

Then she deleted the message thread, cleared the bank notification, and stood up. She picked up a stack of charts, her movements stiff and robotic.

"I have to finish these," she said, her voice hollow.

She walked away, her back straight, each step an act of will.

At the far end of the corridor, just around the corner, Barrett had stopped. He'd told Gwyneth to go on ahead. He stood in the shadows of an alcove, watching Blake's retreating form. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek.

The gentle facade he'd worn for Gwyneth was gone. He hadn't liked the words he'd said. But what he'd liked even less was the cowed, defeated look on Blake's face as she'd taken them. It stirred something ugly and irritable deep in his gut.

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