The Coldhearted Surgeon's Billionaire Revenge

Anya stumbled out of the elevator and into the main lobby. The air here was cooler, circulating from the revolving doors.

She needed to get to her rental car. She needed a secure location to plan her next move.

Her phone buzzed in her clutch. It was an angry, persistent vibration against her palm.

She pulled it out. The screen lit up with a name: Bentley.

She stared at it. Her thumb hovered over the decline button, but old habits were hardwired into her neural pathways. She answered.

"Where are you?" Bentley's voice was barking orders. "Get to the hospital. Now."

"I left, Bentley," Anya said, walking toward the valet stand.

"You can't leave," he snapped. "The board is convening. They want to talk about the patent. You need to be here. To sign it over."

Anya stopped walking.

A wave of nausea rolled through her gut.

Sign it over.

The memory hit her with the force of a physical blow.

Eighteen years old. Her application for a research grant. The formal meeting in her grandfather's study. Belle, smirking, presenting a nearly identical proposal she had copied from Anya's laptop.

The slow-motion horror of Alistair choosing Belle's project over hers. The condescending lecture about how Anya's "ambition was unseemly."

Bentley had been there. He hadn't defended her. He had simply looked at his shoes and said it was for the best.

Anya closed her eyes. She could still smell the musty leather of the study. It made her want to retch.

"No," Anya said into the phone.

"What did you say?" Bentley asked, his voice dropping in disbelief.

"I said no," Anya said. "I'm not a prop. I'm not signing away my life's work for your board."

"If you don't cooperate, I'm calling the authorities," Bentley threatened. "I'll stand by Belle's story. I'll bury you in litigation until you're broke and begging, Anya."

Anya almost laughed. It was a hysterical bubble rising in her throat. He had no idea. He thought she was still the broke student he could bully into submission. He didn't know her backer. He didn't know about Julian Vance.

"Do it," Anya said. "Bury yourself."

"Anya-"

She ended the call.

She handed her ticket to the valet. Her hands were shaking. Not a tremor, but a coarse shake of pure rage.

"Are you okay, ma'am?" the valet asked, looking concerned.

"Fine," she clipped out. "Just get the car."

When the black Audi pulled up-a rental, practical and fast-she got in and threw the phone onto the passenger seat.

She opened her purse and took out a small orange bottle. Propranolol. A beta-blocker.

She dry-swallowed a pill. It scraped against her throat.

She needed to calm her sympathetic nervous system. She needed to lower the norepinephrine.

She started the engine. The hum of the German engineering was soothing.

She couldn't go back to the hotel. Bentley would find her there. He would have security drag her out.

She needed somewhere off the grid.

The Everett Trust owned a small guest estate on the edge of the Hamptons, near the cliffs. It was rarely used, mostly for storage or housing overflow staff during the summer. She still had the key on her old ring.

She punched the address into the GPS.

She drove fast. The road wound through the darkness, the trees forming a tunnel of shadows.

She watched the lights of the hotel fade in the rearview mirror. She thought she was escaping to a secure base.

She didn't know she was driving straight into the lion's den.