Amy pushed off the cold wall of the corridor. Her legs felt like lead, but she forced them to move.

She walked quickly down the long hallway, her sensible heels clicking against the linoleum floor, until she reached the door at the very end. It was her private office.

She pushed the door open, stepped inside, and walked straight to the water dispenser in the corner.

Her hands were shaking so violently she could barely hold the paper cup. She pressed the lever, letting the ice-cold water fill the cup, desperate to wash down the bile rising in her throat.

She brought the rim to her lips.

The office door was violently shoved open from the outside. It hit the wall with a deafening crack.

Beckham walked in. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated control.

He reached behind him, pushed the door shut, and turned the deadbolt. The sharp click of the lock echoed in the small room like a gunshot.

Amy spun around like a cornered cat. The ice water sloshed over the rim, soaking the back of her hand.

"Do you not understand the concept of personal space?" she yelled, her voice cracking.

Beckham ignored her. He walked slowly, casually, across the room until he stood in front of her desk.

"Name your price, Amy," he demanded, his tone cold and laced with a businessman's calculation. "How much do you want on the divorce settlement to nod your head and walk into that operating room?"

The sheer arrogance of his money hit her like a physical slap. The heat of anger flushed her cheeks.

She slammed the paper cup onto the dispenser tray and marched behind her desk.

She yanked open the bottom drawer. It stuck for a second, but she pulled with all her strength. She dug past medical journals and grabbed a slightly yellowed manila folder.

She threw it onto the center of the desk. The loud smack made the pens in her cup rattle.

"I don't want your money," Amy said, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "I just want my freedom."

Beckham's eyes dropped to the folder. He read the bold, capitalized letters printed across the top page.

DIVORCE AGREEMENT.

His eyes darkened instantly. The bored facade shattered, replaced by a dangerous, brewing storm.

A cruel, mocking smile twisted the corner of his mouth. "Playing hard to get, Amy? It's a bit pathetic."

Amy reached into her pen holder, pulled out a heavy Montblanc fountain pen, and held it out across the desk.

"Sign it."

Beckham didn't take the pen. He picked up the document. His eyes scanned the text with terrifying speed.

He stopped at the middle of the first page. His gaze locked onto the clause stating she would waive all alimony and leave the marriage with absolutely nothing.

The knuckles of the hand holding the paper turned white. The tendons in his wrist strained against his shirt cuff.

Without breaking eye contact, Beckham gripped the top of the pages with both hands.

With a sudden, violent jerk, he ripped the thick stack of papers straight down the middle.

The sound of tearing paper was loud and violent.

Amy's eyes went wide. The breath left her lungs.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" she screamed, lunging forward across the desk. She grabbed the lapels of his expensive suit jacket.

Beckham didn't step back. He let go of the torn pages. The heavy paper scraps fluttered into the air, falling around them like dirty snow.

He moved with terrifying speed. His large hand snaked around her waist, his fingers digging into her lower back.

He yanked her forward. Her stomach slammed against the edge of the desk.

His other hand planted firmly on the edge of the wood, trapping her completely between his hard body and the desk.

He lowered his head. His face was inches from hers. She could feel the heat of his skin and the warm, mint-scented breath ghosting over her neck.

"Here is the deal," Beckham whispered, his voice a low, vibrating threat that sent shivers down her spine. "You will only get my signature when Amira walks out of this hospital fully cured."

Amy thrashed against him. She pushed her hands flat against his solid, unyielding chest, trying to shove him away.

Beckham simply tightened his arm around her waist. The sheer difference in their physical strength was suffocating. She couldn't move an inch.

Humiliation burned in her throat. She bit down hard on her lower lip to stop herself from crying out. The sharp, metallic taste of her own blood flooded her tongue.

"Fine," she choked out, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "I'll think about it."

Beckham stared at her bleeding lip for a long second. Then, he slowly released her waist.

He stepped back, his hands casually smoothing down the front of his perfectly pressed suit jacket.

"You have twenty-four hours to clear out of this office if you refuse," he stated.

He turned and walked out, leaving the door wide open.

Amy's knees buckled. She collapsed into her office chair, her legs completely giving out, staring at the torn pieces of her freedom scattered across the floor.

Amy sat paralyzed in her chair for ten long minutes.

She finally reached for a tissue, wiped the smear of blood from her lower lip, and forced herself to stand.

She needed caffeine. She needed to move. But she couldn't risk taking the main elevators and running into Beckham's security detail again.

She walked to the side of her office and pushed open the heavy fire door. The concrete stairwell was cold and echoed with her every step.

She walked down one flight to the third floor. The pediatric VIP wing was here, and it had a vending machine that sold terrible, strong black coffee.

She pushed open the third-floor fire door and stepped into the quiet, carpeted hallway.

As she rounded the corner toward the vending machines, a sound stopped her in her tracks.

It was a tiny, muffled sob.

The instinct of a doctor overrode her exhaustion. Amy turned her head, scanning the empty corridor.

Behind the shadow of a large, decorative Roman pillar at the end of the hall, she saw a small figure.

It was a little boy, maybe five years old. He was wearing a custom-tailored miniature suit, but right now, the expensive fabric was covered in dust. He was crouched on the floor, hugging his knees.

Amy's eyes immediately locked onto his bare knee. A fresh, angry scrape was oozing bright red blood down his pale calf.

She softened her footsteps and slowly approached him.

The boy's head snapped up.

Amy froze. When she saw his deep, striking blue eyes, her heart physically skipped a beat. A strange, heavy sensation settled in her chest. He looked so incredibly familiar, though she couldn't place why.

She dropped to one knee, ignoring the dirt on the floor.

"Hey there," she whispered in soft, gentle English. "Are you okay?"

The boy bit his lower lip. He didn't say a word. He just stared at her with intense, defensive eyes, like a frightened animal ready to bolt.

Amy reached into the deep pocket of her white coat and pulled out her portable first aid kit.

She unzipped it and pulled out an alcohol wipe.

As she tore the foil packet open, the boy flinched, shrinking back until his small spine hit the wall.

"It's okay," Amy cooed, holding her hands up, palms open, to show she meant no harm. "I'm a doctor. I just want to clean that up so it doesn't hurt."

She slowly reached out. Her fingers gently wrapped around his thin ankle.

The boy's entire body gave a violent shudder, but he didn't kick her away.

Amy moved with agonizing slowness. She dabbed the alcohol wipe around the edges of the wound, wiping away the sticky blood.

As she cleaned, she leaned her head down and blew a soft, cool stream of air over the scrape to ease the stinging pain.

She felt the rigid tension in the boy's small shoulders slowly melt away. The hard, defensive glare in his blue eyes softened into something vulnerable.

Amy peeled the backing off a bandage with little green dinosaurs on it and pressed it carefully over the cut.

She looked up, offering him a warm, reassuring smile. "All done. Good as new."

She placed her hands on her thighs, preparing to stand up and leave.

Suddenly, a chubby little hand shot out.

The boy grabbed the hem of her white coat. His tiny knuckles turned white from how hard he was gripping the fabric.

Amy froze. When the boy grabbed her hem, an indescribable wave of sorrow and familiarity violently gripped her heart. Her throat tightened painfully, a suffocating knot forming instantly. Tears pricked the back of her eyes as if some deep, buried part of her soul was awakened by this tiny touch. Unbidden, the memory of the cold operating room five years ago-the blood, the monitor flatlining, the baby she never got to hold-crashed into her mind.

Her hands moved on their own. She reached out and gently stroked the soft, messy curls on the boy's head.

It was as if the boy had found a safe harbor. He suddenly lunged forward, throwing his small arms around Amy's neck, burying his face in her shoulder.

Amy's body went rigid for half a second. Then, she closed her eyes, wrapped her arms around his small back, and hugged the strange child with a desperate, aching tightness.

The quiet intimacy of the hallway was shattered by the sound of heavy, frantic footsteps.

"The young master is over here!" a deep, panicked voice echoed off the walls.

Amy pulled back slightly, her brow furrowing in confusion. She looked down the long corridor.

Beckham was storming toward them. He looked like the god of death, his face a mask of terrifying, murderous rage. A team of bodyguards trailed closely behind him.

Beckham's eyes locked onto Amy holding the boy. His pupils contracted to tiny pinpricks.

He closed the distance in seconds, bringing a rush of cold, aggressive air with him.

Without a word, Beckham reached down and grabbed the boy's arm. He yanked the child out of Amy's embrace with brutal, unforgiving force.

The boy let out a sharp scream of terror. He kicked his legs wildly in the air, trying to fight Beckham off.

"What are you doing?!" Amy gasped, her maternal instinct flaring. She reached out, trying to grab the boy back.

Beckham shifted his weight. He brought his free hand up and shoved Amy hard in the chest.

Beckham shoved her away. Amy stumbled backward a few erratic steps, her sensible heels skidding on the polished floor. Her back hit the cold stone pillar hard enough to make her gasp in pain, a sharp ache radiating across her shoulder blade.

Beckham pulled the boy behind his legs, shielding him. He glared down at Amy.

"What the hell were you trying to do to Kevin?" Beckham roared, his voice vibrating with raw panic and fury.

Amy stopped breathing.

Kevin.

The name hit her like a physical blow to the head. She stayed frozen against the pillar, her eyes darting frantically between Beckham's furious face and the boy crying behind his legs.

Her brain went into overdrive. She calculated the boy's age. Five years old. The exact same year she had bled out on a table, losing her child.

A sickening, twisted realization clawed its way up her throat.

This was the child Beckham and Amira had bought. The product of a commercial surrogacy contract.

The warm, maternal glow she had felt seconds ago turned to absolute ash. A wave of profound disgust and betrayal washed over her. She felt physically sick that she had hugged the offspring of the woman who destroyed her life.

Her eyes turned bloodshot. She pushed herself off the pillar, her fingernails digging into her palms.

"Were you planning this surrogate freak five years ago while I was bleeding out?" she screamed, her voice tearing at her throat.

Beckham's face drained of color. The panic in his eyes instantly morphed into pure, lethal hatred.

He thought she was losing her mind out of jealousy over Amira.

"Keep your sick, twisted thoughts to yourself," Beckham snarled, stepping closer to her, his chest heaving. "Stay the hell away from my son."

Behind him, Kevin was sobbing hysterically. He reached his small hands out from behind Beckham's legs, making grabbing motions toward Amy.

Amy looked at those tiny, pleading hands. Her heart felt like it was being shredded by broken glass. But she forced her jaw to lock. She turned her head away, staring blankly at the wall, refusing to look at the boy.

Seeing her cold rejection, Beckham reached back and clamped his large hand over Kevin's eyes, hiding Amy from his view.

Two massive bodyguards immediately stepped forward, forming a solid wall of muscle between Amy and the father and son.

Beckham scooped the thrashing, crying boy into his arms. He shot Amy one final, warning glare.

He turned and walked away. The heavy thud of his shoes grew fainter and fainter until the hallway was completely silent again.

Amy stood alone.

Her legs gave out. She slid down the cold marble pillar until she hit the floor.

She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around her legs, and buried her face. Her shoulders shook violently as silent, agonizing tears soaked the fabric of her pants.