He Found My Secret Revenge

The water was freezing. It bit into Faith's skin, turning her knuckles a raw, translucent red, but she didn't pull her hands back. She needed the cold. She needed the shock to travel up her nerve endings and slap her brain awake.

Twelve hours. She had been on her feet for twelve hours, stitching up bar fight losers and reassuring parents that their toddler's fever wasn't meningitis. It was a far cry from the boardroom strategy meetings and high-stakes venture capital negotiations she had commanded two years ago, but anonymity required sacrifice. Her lower back throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache that matched the flickering fluorescent light above the scrub sink.

She pressed the pedal with her foot, cutting off the stream. Silence rushed back into the small alcove, heavy and smelling of antiseptic.

The door behind her banged open.

Faith didn't flinch. She just reached for a paper towel. "If that's the drunk from Bed 4 vomiting again, Betty, you're on your own. I'm technically off the clock in three minutes."

"Not the drunk," Betty said. Her voice was tight. Breathless.

Faith turned. Betty was a veteran nurse who had seen drive-by shootings and pile-ups without blinking. She wasn't blinking now, but her lips were pressed into a thin, white line.

"Trauma 3," Betty said. "He refused the resident. Said he needs a female attending. Specifically."

Faith frowned, tossing the crumpled paper towel into the bin. "A preference for female doctors usually means a rash in a place they don't want another man looking at. Send Dr. Liu. He's persistent."

"He asked for you, Dr. Neal."

Faith paused. Her heart gave a single, uncomfortable thump against her ribs. She used her maiden name here, a name that hadn't appeared on a Forbes list in a decade. "Me?"

"He knows your name. Well, he asked for 'Faith', not Dr. Neal." Betty lowered her voice, glancing down the hallway. "And... honestly? I don't think you want to say no to this guy. He walked in with a hole in his leg, bleeding through his custom-tailored suit trousers, and he hasn't made a sound. It's... unnerving. He looks like he owns the building."

Faith sighed, the exhaustion settling back onto her shoulders like a lead vest. "Fine. Give me the chart."

"No chart. He wouldn't give his insurance info until he saw you. Said his legal department would handle the billing directly."

Faith grabbed a fresh pair of gloves and marched down the corridor. She shoved the fatigue into a box in the back of her mind and locked it. It was a survival mechanism she'd perfected during the hostile takeover of '19, long before she started playing doctor.

She pushed open the curtain to Trauma 3.

The smell hit her first. It wasn't just the sharp sting of Betadine. It was something earthier. Iron. Expensive scotch. And the distinct, acrid scent of spent gunpowder.

Then she saw him.

The room felt suddenly too small. The air seemed to thin out, leaving her lungs grasping for oxygen.

He was sitting on the edge of the gurney, his white dress shirt unbuttoned to reveal a torso that looked carved from marble. Under the harsh glare of the surgical lights, his skin looked like bronze stretched over steel. Every muscle in his torso was defined, a map of disciplined power that she had traced with her fingertips the night the contract was signed.

Faith's grip on the doorframe tightened until her fingernails dug into the wood.

Earl.

He looked up.

His eyes were the same. Dark. Bottomless. A calm, terrifying blue that didn't reflect the light-it absorbed it. The eyes of a CEO who could liquidate a company without checking the stock price.

"Miss Neal," he said.

His voice was a low rumble, a vibration that she felt in the soles of her feet. It scraped against the memory of that night-the ink on the NDA, the silk sheets of the penthouse, the way he had whispered her name against her neck.

Faith's stomach dropped. She stepped into the room and let the curtain snap shut behind her, sealing them in.

"You," she breathed. It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.

Earl Hampton didn't smile. He watched her with the intensity of a predator waiting for the prey to stop thrashing. "Me."

Faith forced herself to inhale. Professional. Be professional. She walked to the counter, snapping her latex gloves on with a sharp thwack that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.

"You can't be here," she hissed, keeping her back to him as she arranged the tray. "I told you. When I left the estate. No contact. The contract is void."

"I remember," he said. "You left a note on the pillow. 'Resignation accepted' was all it said."

Faith turned around, her face burning. "It was a business arrangement. A mistake to let it get personal."

"Was it?"

"Why are you here, Earl?"

He didn't answer. He just looked down at his left leg.

Faith followed his gaze. His charcoal suit trousers-Italian wool, likely bespoke-were cut open at the thigh. A crude bandage, soaked through with dark, oxidized blood, was wrapped around the muscle.

The doctor in her took over. The anger didn't vanish, but it was pushed aside by the immediate need to stop the bleeding. Or perhaps it was the Crisis Manager in her-assess the damage, contain the spill.

She stepped between his spread knees. It was a necessary position, purely clinical, but the heat radiating from his body mocked her. He was burning up.

"What happened?" she asked, her voice clipped. She reached for the scissors.

"Boardroom negotiations got aggressive," he said.

She slid the cold metal of the shears under the bandage. His thigh muscle jumped-a reflex-but his face remained stone. She cut the fabric away.

Faith sucked in a breath.

"Jesus."

It was a puncture wound. Deep. The edges were jagged and angry. Embedded deep in the meat of his inner thigh, just two inches from the femoral artery, was a piece of twisted metal.

"Shrapnel?" She looked up at him, incredulous. "You walked in here with shrapnel in your leg? This looks like a car bomb fragment."

"Drove, actually. My driver was incapacitated."

"This is inches from your femoral. If this had shifted while you were driving, you would have bled out in three minutes. Hampton Holdings stock would have plummeted before the market opened."

"I know." He watched her eyes. Not the wound. Her eyes. "That's why I came to the best. You always were good at damage control, Faith."

Faith ignored the compliment. Her hands were steady now. This was mechanics. This was repair. "I need to remove it. I have to clean the tract. It's going to hurt. A lot. I can give you a local, but-"

"No drugs," he said instantly. "Just get it out. I have a conference call with Tokyo in an hour. I need a clear head."

"Earl, this is deep. You're going to need-"

"No drugs, Faith. I need to be clear."

She stared at him. His jaw was set, a hard line of tension. He looked exhausted, too. There were shadows under his eyes that hadn't been there two years ago. Running an empire while dealing with the supply chain sabotage she had secretly orchestrated must be taking its toll.

"Fine," she said. "But don't move. If you flinch, I nick the artery."

She poured saline over the wound. He didn't make a sound, but his abdominal muscles contracted sharply.

Faith picked up the forceps. She had to lean in close. Her cheek was inches from his hip bone. The scent of him-rain, expensive soap, and that metallic blood smell-filled her nose. It was dizzying.

"Relax," she murmured, the command automatic. "Relax the muscle, Mr. Hampton."

He let out a breath, a ragged sound that ghosted over her hair. "Hard to do," he gritted out. "Given the view."

Faith's hand faltered for a fraction of a second. A flush crept up her neck. She focused on the metal. Clamp. Twist. Pull.

She felt the resistance of the flesh. The metal scraped against bone.

Earl's hand gripped the edge of the mattress. His knuckles turned white. A low, guttural groan vibrated in his chest. It was a sound of pain, but it sounded so much like the noises he'd made in that penthouse that Faith's knees went weak.

Focus.

With a wet suction sound, the metal slid free.

Faith dropped the bloody shard into the metal kidney dish. Clang.

"Done," she exhaled, grabbing a piece of gauze to pack the wound. "Pressure. Hold this."

She grabbed his hand and pressed it over the gauze. His skin was rough, calloused from polo reins and competitive sailing. Her fingers brushed against his palm, and the contact sent a jolt of electricity straight up her arm.

She tried to pull away.

He didn't let go.

His fingers curled around her wrist. It wasn't a painful grip, but it was absolute. An iron shackle.

Faith froze. She looked up.

Earl was leaning forward. The pain had put a sheen of sweat on his forehead, but his eyes were clear. Focused. Dangerous.

"Let go," she whispered. Her pulse was hammering against his thumb. She knew he could feel it. She knew he could count every erratic beat.

"You ran," he said. His voice was rough, stripped of any pretense.

"I resigned," she lied.

"You ran," he repeated. He slid his thumb over the sensitive skin of her inner wrist. "You didn't leave a forwarding address. You blocked the lawyers from giving out your info. You breached Section 9 of the partnership agreement."

"Because I didn't want to be found! And Section 9 was void the moment you..." Faith stopped herself. She tried to yank her hand back. He held fast. "This is a hospital, Mr. Hampton. Let go of me."

"I looked for you, Faith. For two years."

"Why?" she demanded, her voice rising. "It was business. It was a mutually beneficial PR stunt. But that's all it was."

Earl leaned closer. His face was inches from hers. She could see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes. She could feel the heat of his breath on her lips.

"It wasn't just business," he said. "And you know it."

"I don't know anything about you," she said, panic rising in her throat. "You're just a... a CEO with a death wish."

"I'm the man who's going to reclaim his assets."

Faith laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. "I don't need managing. I'm a doctor now. I save people. I don't need saving."

"Everyone needs saving, Faith." His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes. "Especially the ones who think they can do it all alone."

Faith shook her head. "I have to stitch this. If I don't, you'll bleed out in the parking lot and I'll be buried in malpractice suits from your legal team."

Earl stared at her for a long moment, then slowly released her wrist. "Proceed."

Faith worked quickly, her hands moving with the precision of a woman used to untangling complex knots. She injected the local anesthetic now-he didn't protest-and began to suture the wound. Five neat, black silk knots. A perfect closure for an ugly situation.

"Keep it dry," she said, taping the gauze down. "Stitches out in ten days. Go to your private physician. Do not come back here."

The curtain rattled.

"Dr. Neal?" Betty's voice from outside. "Trauma 1 needs you. Code Blue."

The spell broke.

Faith grabbed the tray of instruments, her chest heaving.

"I have to go," she said, her voice shaking.

"Faith," he said.

She paused at the curtain, not looking back.

"I'm not leaving," he said. It was a promise. Or a threat. "I found you. I'm not losing you again."

Faith fled. She walked out into the hallway, the bright lights blinding her, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

I found you.

She rubbed her wrist where his fingers had been. The skin still burned.