Reborn From Fire: The Ex-wife's Revenge

The blinding surgical lights snapped on, turning Operating Room 1 into a sterile, white hell. The air was thick with high-stakes tension.

Heidi stood at the head of the table. She wore dark blue scrubs and custom surgical loupes. She looked like a soldier stepping onto a battlefield.

Dr. Frye stood across from her as the first assistant. He was sweating, his eyes full of bitter doubt.

Behind the massive one-way observation glass, Christian stood perfectly still. His eyes were glued to Heidi's slender frame.

"Bypass machine engaged," the anesthesiologist announced. "Heart is stopped. Clock is running."

Heidi held out her right hand. Her voice was absolute ice. "Scalpel. Ten blade."

The scrub nurse slapped the handle into her palm. Heidi's wrist flicked. The blade sliced through the sternum in one flawless, continuous motion.

There was no hesitation. The cut was so perfectly straight that Dr. Frye actually gasped behind his mask.

For the next two hours, Heidi operated like a machine. Her hands moved with terrifying speed and precision, dissecting the diseased tissue.

In the observation room, the hospital executives stared at the magnified monitors in dead silence. They were witnessing a god at work.

Christian watched her calm, focused profile. His chest ached with that same, maddening familiarity.

The surgery entered the most critical phase: the aortic arch anastomosis. The margin for error was zero.

"Retractor," Heidi ordered Frye. "Hold the ventricular wall. Do not move."

Dr. Frye gripped the metal retractor. But his arms were tired. His nerves were shot. His wrist gave a microscopic twitch.

The sharp edge of the retractor slipped. It tore directly into the fragile aortic arch.

Bright red blood erupted from the tear like a geyser. It sprayed across the surgical field, instantly filling the chest cavity.

The monitors screamed. The alarms blared.

"Pressure is dropping!" the anesthesiologist yelled in panic. "He's crashing!"

Dr. Frye froze. His face went completely white. He couldn't even speak.

Behind the glass, Christian slammed his hands against the window. He stopped breathing.

Heidi didn't flinch. She didn't blink.

"Move," she barked at Frye.

She didn't hesitate. Shoving Frye's trembling hands aside, she plunged her own gloved hand deep into the chest cavity. Her fingers guided by years of experience, instantly found the source of the bleed and clamped down with precise, life-saving pressure.

The geyser stopped. But the surgical field was a lake of dark blood. The tear was completely invisible.

"I need suction!" Frye screamed. "You can't see the tissue!"

"Shut up," Heidi snapped. She held out her right hand. "Prolene suture. Now."

The nurse handed her the needle driver.

In front of a room full of terrified experts, Heidi closed her eyes.

She was going to blind-stitch the aorta. It was a myth. A surgical suicide move. One millimeter off, and Harold would bleed out instantly.

Her right hand moved. The needle dove into the blood. Her fingers guided the thread purely by the tactile feedback of the tissue. She pulled. She stitched. Her hands moved in a blur of blue thread.

Thirty seconds later, she opened her eyes. She pulled her left hand out.

"Suction," she ordered.

The tube cleared the blood. The entire room leaned in.

There, on the aortic arch, was a row of perfectly spaced, impossibly tight stitches. Not a single drop of blood leaked.

Dr. Frye's knees gave out. He collapsed onto a rolling stool, staring at Heidi like she was a deity.

The alarms stopped. The heart monitor returned to a steady rhythm.

Heidi dropped the needle driver onto the tray. She didn't even look at Frye.

"Surgery successful," she said coldly. "Close the chest."