The Genius Doctor's Perfect Fake Death

The automatic glass doors of the VIP arrival hall at John F. Kennedy International Airport slid open.

A harsh gust of late autumn wind hit Alivia Clay the second she stepped onto the pavement. She shivered, her fingers immediately reaching up to pull the collar of her khaki trench coat tighter around her neck.

She pushed her black luggage cart forward. Her stomach churned. It was a violent, physical rolling of acid and bile that made her throat burn.

She was back on American soil.

Alivia stopped near the curb and pulled her phone from her pocket. She unlocked the screen. A text message from Augustine, the director of St. Jude Medical Center, sat in her inbox. It contained the license plate number of the car sent to pick her up.

The faint backlight of the phone screen reflected against the dark glass of the terminal window. Alivia caught her own reflection.

She stared at the face looking back at her. It was flawless. It was beautiful. It was completely foreign.

Thirty-seven reconstructive surgeries. That was what it took to erase Asha Lowery from existence. Thirty-seven times under the knife in a dusty, blood-soaked field hospital to rebuild her shattered bones and torn flesh into an exact replica of a dead woman.

Dr. Alivia Clay.

She repeated the name in her head. She forced the syllables down her throat, trying to swallow the suffocating panic that threatened to paralyze her legs.

Headlights flashed twice.

A massive, pitch-black Maybach glided smoothly to a halt right in front of the VIP lane.

The passenger door opened. A heavily built man in a sharp black suit stepped out. He didn’t look around. He walked in a straight, purposeful line directly toward her.

Alivia’s eyes dropped to his chest. Pinned to the left lapel of his suit was a dark gold crest. A falcon with its wings spread.

The Duncan family crest.

The air vanished from Alivia’s lungs. Her pupils dilated so fast her vision blurred at the edges. She remembered two cages: first, the beautiful third‑floor room with its bay windows—a gilded prison where he could watch her pace like a bird. Then, after she tried to run, the suffocating, windowless basement. The absolute isolation. The feeling of being a pet bird locked in a cage. It all rushed back in a tidal wave of physiological terror.

She stopped walking. Her hands gripped the plastic handle of the luggage cart. She squeezed until the joints in her fingers popped and her knuckles turned a stark, bone-white.

The bodyguard stopped two feet in front of her.

“Dr. Clay?” he asked. His voice was flat, entirely devoid of emotion. “Arriving from Zurich?”

Alivia forced her chest to expand. She dragged a breath of cold New York air into her burning lungs.

“Yes,” she said. Her voice was a monotone, icy flatline.

The bodyguard gave a single nod. He turned on his heel, walked to the rear of the Maybach, and pulled open the heavy, armored door.

Alivia commanded her legs to move. They felt like they were filled with wet cement. Every step was an agonizing effort against her body’s screaming instinct to turn and run.

As she approached the open door, her gaze was drawn through the half-lowered window into the dark interior of the car.

A man sat in the backseat. He wore a dark gray bespoke suit that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. His head was bowed as he scrolled through a tablet resting on his thighs.

Alivia saw the sharp, arrogant line of his jaw. She saw the faint, pale scar traversing the back of his right hand.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. It was a brutal, painful thud that echoed in her ears.

Collis Duncan.

The monster who had broken her wings. The psychopath who had driven her to fake her own death in a war zone just to escape his suffocating obsession.

Alivia’s brain short-circuited. The blood in her veins turned to ice. She stood frozen on the pavement, completely incapable of taking another step.

The silence stretched. The hesitation was too long.

Collis let out a harsh breath of annoyance. He lifted his head. His gaze snapped toward the open door.

His deep gray eyes—cold, predatory, and entirely unforgiving—collided with Alivia’s terrified stare.

Her heart rate skyrocketed. The monitor in her chest was flatlining into a continuous, high-pitched scream. She dug her fingernails so deeply into the palms of her hands that the sharp sting of breaking skin was the only thing keeping her from screaming out loud.

Collis stared at her. His eyes swept over her unfamiliar face. His dark eyebrows pulled together in a slight frown. It was a look of pure, clinical scrutiny.

Alivia stopped breathing. He knows. He sees right through the scars.

Two seconds passed. They felt like two decades.

Then, Collis blinked. The scrutiny vanished, replaced by utter indifference. He looked away, his attention returning to the glowing screen of his tablet.

“Hurry up,” Collis snapped. His voice was a low, arrogant rumble that vibrated right through Alivia’s chest. “My time is expensive.”

A cold sweat broke out across Alivia’s spine, instantly soaking the thin fabric of her blouse beneath the trench coat.

It worked.

The face had fooled him. He looked right at her and saw nothing but a stranger.

She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. The metallic taste of blood grounded her. She locked away the terrified girl named Asha and pulled the arrogant, untouchable persona of Dr. Alivia Clay over her like a suit of armor.

She let go of the cart, allowing the bodyguard to take her luggage. She ducked her head and slid into the backseat of the Maybach.

She sat on the opposite side, leaving exactly half an arm’s length of space between them.

The heavy door slammed shut behind her. The loud thud severed all connection to the outside world.

The air inside the cabin was thick. It smelled exactly like him. Crisp cedarwood mixed with a sharp, metallic undertone of cold authority. It made Alivia’s stomach twist into a violent knot.

Collis didn’t turn his head. He kept his eyes on the tablet.

“Dr. Clay,” he said, his tone entirely transactional. “Given the severe pulmonary infection complications my grandfather is experiencing, what is your immediate protocol for managing the pleural effusion without triggering cardiac arrest?”

Alivia turned her head slowly. She looked straight at the side of his face.

He was testing her. He didn’t care about pleasantries. He only cared if she was worth the money he was paying to save his grandfather.

This was a psychological war, and she could not afford to lose a single battle.