The Surgeon's Revenge: No More Mrs. Montgomery

The biological clock of a surgeon is a cruel master. Alexa's eyes snapped open at 5:45 AM, despite having only drifted off three hours prior. Her body ached from the stiffness of the guest bed mattress, a stark reminder of her displacement. A wave of dizziness washed over her as she sat up, her body protesting the lack of sleep and sustenance.

She moved through the penthouse like a ghost, avoiding the creaky floorboards in the hallway. In the kitchen, the morning light was gray and unforgiving. She started the espresso machine, the grinding of beans sounding like a jackhammer in the quiet apartment.

Meow.

The sound was soft, insistent. Alexa looked down. The Calico cat had ventured out from under the sofa and was now winding itself around her ankles in figure eights.

"You're hungry, aren't you?" Alexa whispered. She crouched down, her knees popping. Her hands trembled slightly from sheer exhaustion as she found a saucer and poured a splash of lactose-free milk she kept for herself.

"What is that stench?"

The voice was a whip crack. Alexa jerked upright, nearly knocking the saucer over.

Fletcher stood in the kitchen doorway. He was wearing a silk dressing gown, dark navy, tied loosely at the waist. His hair was damp, combed back, but his face was pale. He looked at the cat with an expression of pure revulsion, as if she had brought a radioactive isotope into the kitchen.

The cat, sensing the hostility, arched its back and hissed.

"How did that thing get in here?" Fletcher demanded. He stepped into the kitchen, his bare feet slapping against the marble. "Martha!"

"Don't yell at her," Alexa said, stepping between Fletcher and the cat. "I let her in. It was freezing outside."

Fletcher stopped. He looked from the cat to Alexa, his lip curling. "A stray. Of course. You would bring a stray into a Montgomery home."

The emphasis on stray was deliberate. It wasn't about the cat. It was about the girl whose parents died in a 'car accident' leaving her with nothing but a trust fund managed by his grandmother.

"She's clean," Alexa said, her voice tight. "She doesn't bother anyone."

"It's breathing my air," Fletcher said. He moved closer, towering over her. "Get rid of it. By tonight."

He kicked the edge of the saucer. It spun across the floor, milk splattering onto the pristine white cabinetry. The cat scrambled, claws skittering on the stone, and bolted for the living room.

"Hey!" Alexa shouted, anger finally piercing through her fear. "You don't get to do that! You don't get to control everything!"

"I control what lives in my house," Fletcher hissed. He leaned down, his face inches from hers. "You want companionship, Alexa? Is that it? You're so lonely you need a rodent to keep you warm?"

His eyes dropped to her chest, then back to her eyes. The insinuation was crude, a slap in the face. "Or were you hoping I'd provide that service?"

Alexa's face burned hot. "You're disgusting."

"I'm realistic," he countered. He straightened up, dismissing her with a turn of his shoulder. He walked to the coffee machine where her cup was waiting.

He picked it up, sniffed it, and then poured the entire contents into the sink. The dark liquid swirled down the drain.

"Too weak," he muttered. He set the empty cup down on the counter with a loud clack. "Just like you. Bland. Flavorless."

He walked out of the kitchen without looking back. "Clean up that milk. It smells sour."

Alexa stood trembling in the kitchen. She looked at the white splatter on the floor, at the empty cup. Tears pricked her eyes, hot and stinging. She grabbed a paper towel and dropped to her knees.

As she scrubbed the milk, she whispered to the empty room, to the hiding cat, to herself. "I won't let him win."