The Ghost Surgeon: My Ruthless Ex's Obsession

Bronwyn woke up on a slab of concrete.

That was the only explanation. The surface beneath her was brutally hard and cold. It smelled of bleach and regret. Her head felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to her frontal lobe.

She reached out blindly, her hand seeking the familiar chipped wood of her bedside table. Instead, her fingers brushed against gritty, cold metal.

Her eyes snapped open.

She wasn't in her apartment. She was in a holding cell, the fluorescent lights overhead humming a merciless, flat note. The walls were painted a sterile, calming grey that did nothing to calm the panic piercing through her hangover.

Memories flashed. The bar. The tequila. The suit. The vomit.

She sat up, a thin, scratchy blanket falling to her waist. She looked down. Her uniform-the stained polo and the grease-spattered apron-was gone. She was wearing a paper-thin, dark blue jumpsuit. It was huge on her, the fabric crinkling with every movement.

She checked underneath. She was wearing her own underwear. Thank God.

The sound of a key turning in a lock echoed down the hall. Bronwyn scrambled backward, pulling the blanket up to her chin, pressing her back against the cinderblock wall.

The man from the bar walked in, escorted by a uniformed officer.

He looked different under the harsh institutional lighting. Less like a shadow, more like a statue carved from marble. He was wearing a different, equally expensive suit, this one a sharp charcoal grey. He held a sleek leather folio.

He stopped just outside the bars, looking at her with that same detached, clinical expression.

"You're awake," he said. "Miss Brewer."

He knew her name.

"Who are you?" Her voice was a croak. "Where am I? What did you do to me?"

He didn't answer immediately. He gestured for the officer to open the cell door. The officer complied, then stood at a respectful distance. Jennings walked in, stopping a careful ten feet away from her, as if measuring a contamination zone.

"Is that how you usually speak to the person who had you scraped off a bar floor?" he asked.

Bronwyn swung her legs off the concrete slab. Her muscles felt like jelly. She gripped the edge of the slab to steady herself.

"My clothes," she demanded, trying to summon some dignity despite wearing nothing but a paper jumpsuit. "Where are my clothes?"

"Bagged as evidence," he said calmly.

Bronwyn blinked. "What?"

"They smelled like a distillery and failure," he said. "The arresting officer was kind enough to quarantine them. Assaulting a citizen tends to have consequences."

"You had me arrested?" Her voice rose. "For spilling a drink?"

He reached into his folio and pulled out a slip of paper. He placed it on the small metal table bolted to the floor.

"That check will cover a thousand of those polyester rags," he said. "Consider it a severance package for your dignity. And bail money. In return, you will sign a non-disclosure agreement and never speak of this again."

The arrogance radiated off him in waves. He wasn't just rich; he was the kind of rich that viewed other people as NPCs in his video game.

Bronwyn stood up. Her legs shook, but she forced them to hold her weight. She walked over to the table and picked up the check. She didn't look at the amount.

She ripped it in half. Then in quarters.

She let the pieces flutter onto the grimy concrete floor.

"I don't want your money," she said, her voice shaking with rage. "I want to know what happened last night. Did you... did we..."

She couldn't finish the sentence.

The man stood up. He moved with a predator's grace, closing the distance between them in two strides. He towered over her, forcing her to crane her neck to look him in the eye.

He leaned down, his face inches from hers. She could smell coffee and mint.

He stayed silent for a long moment, letting the tension stretch until it was almost unbearable. He saw the fear in her eyes, the way her pulse jumped in her throat.

"What do you think?" he whispered.

It wasn't an answer. It was a taunt. A punishment for tearing up his money.

Bronwyn's face drained of color. She stepped back, her heel catching on the edge of the cot.

He straightened up, looking bored again. He turned toward the door.

"The matron will return your personal effects upon your release. I suggest you accept the bail. The alternative is less comfortable." He paused at the door, turning his head slightly. "And one of my men retrieved your phone from the bar floor. He took the liberty of copying its contents before placing it in your property bag. Just in case you needed a reminder of who holds all the cards."

The cell door clanged shut behind him.

Bronwyn sank to the floor, her hands trembling. She had to get out. She had to get to a pharmacy. Plan B. She needed Plan B. Just in case.