The Unwanted Daughter's Secret Billionaire Identity

Yates scrambled to his feet, rubbing his wrist. He looked from the monitor to Ophelia, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and scientific curiosity.

"That drug," he stammered. "Is that... is that FDA approved? What is it?"

Ophelia adjusted her cap, shadowing her eyes. "It's a targeted beta-blocker with a custom peptide sequence. It's not on the market."

Yates froze. "Custom peptide... That's theoretical research. That's... impossible outside a billion-dollar lab."

"Ghosts are real," Ophelia said. She set the amber bottle on the bedside table. "One pill a day. Don't let the family see it. Do you understand?"

Yates looked at the bottle. He was a doctor. He should call security. He should have her arrested. But he looked at the monitor. The patient was stable. More than stable-she was improving by the second.

"You want to save lives, or do you want to follow the rules?" Ophelia asked, stepping closer. Her voice was low, challenging.

"Who are you?" Yates asked. He looked at her face, really looked at her. "You're just a kid."

Ophelia put a finger to her lips. "I'm a phantom."

She turned to leave.

Suddenly, the overhead speakers crackled. A siren wailed, sharp and piercing.

"Code Blue. VIP Suite 1. Code Blue. VIP Suite 1."

Yates's face went pale. "That's Sterling. I'm his resident."

He didn't wait. He grabbed his stethoscope and bolted out the door.

Ophelia stood there for a second. Silas Sterling. The man whose truck had nearly killed her. The enemy of her family.

But a Code Blue was a puzzle. And Ophelia couldn't resist a puzzle.

She followed Yates.

She merged into the stream of nurses running toward the elevators. She took the stairs, taking them two at a time.

The VIP floor was chaos. Men in black suits-Sterling security-lined the walls, hands near their holsters. Doctors were shouting.

Ophelia pushed to the back of the crowd gathered around the glass-walled suite.

Inside, a man lay on the bed. Silas Sterling. Even dying, he looked dangerous. His chest was bare, heaving.

Dr. Sloan, the Chief of Cardiology, was holding the defibrillator paddles. "Charging to 200! Clear!"

THUMP.

Silas's body arched off the bed.

The monitor screamed a flatline.

"Again!" Sloan yelled. "Epinephrine 1mg! Charge to 300!"

Ophelia squinted through the glass. She saw the veins in Silas's neck bulging like ropes. She saw the tiny, pinprick hemorrhages on his chest.

Beck's Triad. Distant heart sounds. Distended neck veins. Hypotension.

It wasn't a heart attack.

"Stop!" Ophelia yelled.

She shoved a security guard aside. He was big, but she caught him off balance. She slammed her hand against the glass door.

"Stop! You're killing him!"

Dr. Sloan looked up, sweat dripping down his forehead. "Get that girl out of here!"

"It's cardiac tamponade!" Ophelia screamed, her voice cutting through the panic. "Look at the JVD! If you shock him again, you'll rupture the ventricle!"

Dr. Zayne, the older attending physician, paused. He looked at the monitor. Then he looked at Silas's neck.

"She's crazy!" Sloan shouted. "Clear!"

Ophelia didn't wait. She kicked the door. The magnetic lock disengaged with a heavy thud. She burst into the room.

"Put the paddles down," she commanded.