One Dollar For Pity: The Surgeon Returns

Elisa stood over Conrad's unconscious body.

She crouched down beside him. She grabbed the knot of his custom silk tie and yanked it hard, loosening it completely.

Her fingers moved to the collar of his expensive dress shirt. She ripped the top three buttons open, exposing the hard muscles of his chest.

She grabbed his shoulder and shoved him, rolling his heavy body until he was lying face-down on the carpet in a pathetic, sprawling position.

Elisa pulled her phone from her pocket. She opened the camera app. The shutter clicked rapidly as she took five photos of the billionaire looking like a discarded drunk.

She put the phone away and opened her leather handbag. She dug past her keys and pulled out a stack of cash. She separated a single, crumpled one-dollar bill.

She leaned down and shoved the dollar bill into the breast pocket of his half-open shirt.

Next, she pulled a pad of yellow sticky notes and a pen from her bag. She clicked the pen and wrote in bold, sharp letters:

Terrible technique. Worst service. One dollar for pity.

She peeled the note off the pad and slapped it forcefully onto the center of Conrad's forehead.

Elisa stood up. She walked to the corner of the room and grabbed the handle of her small black suitcase. She had packed it three days ago.

She walked out of the master bedroom. David Shaw was standing in the hallway. His eyes widened in horror as he looked past her at his boss lying on the floor.

Elisa ignored him. Her heels clicked sharply against the oak stairs as she descended to the first floor.

She pushed the heavy front doors open, stepped out into the afternoon air, and got into the yellow taxi waiting at the end of the driveway. The car sped away, leaving the estate behind.

The scene shifted. Morning sunlight pierced through the glass windows of the master bedroom, hitting Conrad directly in the eyes.

A blinding, agonizing pain ripped through his skull. He groaned, a low, guttural sound, and pushed his hands against the floor.

As he forced himself to sit up, a piece of paper fluttered from his forehead and landed on his lap.

He picked up the yellow sticky note. His eyes struggled to focus on the handwriting.

Terrible technique. Worst service. One dollar for pity.

His hand dropped to his chest. His fingers brushed against paper. He pulled the crumpled one-dollar bill from his shirt pocket.

The blood drained from his face. His pupils dilated. A wave of pure, suffocating rage exploded in his chest.

He lunged forward, grabbing the empty crystal wine glass from the coffee table. He hurled it across the room. It smashed against the wall, shattering into a hundred pieces.

David burst through the bedroom door, panting heavily.

"Lock down the city," Conrad roared, his voice tearing at his throat. "Check every airport, every hotel. Find her!"

Two hours later, the atmosphere in the top-floor conference room of the Whitney Group headquarters was suffocating.

Conrad kicked the double doors open. They slammed against the walls.

The executives sitting around the long mahogany table froze. The room went dead silent.

Conrad marched to the head of the table. He slammed a project proposal down so hard the wood groaned.

He pointed a long finger at the project director. "You're fired. Get out."

The director opened his mouth to beg, but one look at the murderous, bloodshot eyes of his boss made his throat close up. He grabbed his briefcase and ran.

David stepped up to Conrad's side, his voice barely above a whisper. "Sir. We can't find her. There are no credit card transactions. No hotel bookings. She completely vanished."

Conrad's hands gripped the edge of the table. His knuckles turned stark white. His jaw ticked violently. She was hiding. She was playing a game, waiting for him to lose his mind.