The Coldhearted Surgeon's Billionaire Revenge

Morning light was cruel. It exposed the dust motes dancing in the air and the water stains on the ceiling.

Anya hadn't slept. Her eyes felt gritty.

She was in the kitchen, wrestling with an ancient drip coffee maker that hissed and sputtered like a dying engine.

The table was covered in medical journals she had brought from the car. The Lancet. NEJM. Notebooks filled with her chicken-scratch handwriting.

She needed caffeine. Her brain was foggy.

Ding-Dong.

The doorbell was shrill.

Anya groaned. She tightened the ponytail on top of her head and marched to the door. She checked the peephole.

Grey sweatpants. Tight black t-shirt. Hair messy from sleep or sex or running.

Julian.

She ripped the door open. "What?"

He held up an empty mug. It had a picture of a cat on it. It looked absurd in his large hand.

"Morning, neighbor," he said. He looked annoyingly fresh. "My espresso machine is on the fritz. Need a refill."

"You drive a million-dollar car and you can't fix a coffee machine?" Anya asked, blocking the doorway.

"I'm a macro guy," Julian said, pushing past her. "I don't do micro-mechanics."

He smelled of rain and sweat. It was a potent combination.

Anya stumbled back as he invaded her space. He walked into the kitchen as if he owned it.

"Nice place," he lied, looking at the peeling wallpaper.

He set his mug on the counter and picked up one of the journals.

"Hey!" Anya lunged for it.

Julian held it out of reach. He scanned the open page.

"Tau protein aggregation," he read. "Blood-brain barrier permeability. Alzheimer's research."

His eyes narrowed. The playfulness vanished for a second.

"Still trying to save the world, Doctor?" he asked. "Or just trying to save the old man?"

"It's science," Anya snapped, snatching the journal back. "It has nothing to do with my grandfather."

"Everett doesn't deserve a cure," Julian said darkly. "He deserves to forget every sin he committed."

"Coffee," Anya said, pointing to the pot. "Take it and go."

She poured the black sludge into his mug.

Julian took a sip and grimaced. "Christ. That's bitter. Tastes like your personality."

"Get out," Anya said.

Julian didn't move. He leaned his hip against the counter, trapping her between him and the sink.

"So," he said, his eyes locking onto hers. "When are you going to tell Bentley you used my money to fund the patent?"

Anya froze. The coffee pot in her hand shook, splashing hot liquid onto her wrist. She didn't feel the burn.

"How..." Her voice failed.

"How do you think?" Julian stepped closer. He took the pot from her hand and set it down.

"I follow the money, Anya. I saw the grant applications. 'A. Blair Medical Solutions.' And I made sure the funding rounds for your lab at Hopkins were approved."

He leaned in, bracing his hands on the counter on either side of her.

"I'm the majority shareholder of the shell company that funded your research," Julian whispered.

Anya stopped breathing. She had known, on some level, that Ventech Capital was behind the anonymous grants. But to hear him say it, to realize he hadn't just given her a rope but had been holding the other end of it the entire time...

He owned her. Not just her debt. He owned her work. Her life's purpose. Her leverage.

"You..."

"I invested in you," Julian said. He reached out and wiped a drop of coffee from the counter with his thumb. "Because I knew you were the only one smart enough to build the weapon."

He wasn't threatening to expose her. He was gloating.

The air in the kitchen grew thick.