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.

It was eleven o'clock at night.

Amy sat on the cheap, sagging sofa in her Brooklyn apartment. She was wearing a faded cotton t-shirt, aggressively rubbing a towel through her wet hair, trying to scrub the hospital smell off her skin.

On the scratched coffee table, her phone suddenly vibrated violently. The screen flashed with an unknown number.

She picked it up and swiped accept.

"Dr. Leach," the cold, mechanical voice of Beckham's executive assistant filled her ear. "Mr. Graham requires your presence downstairs immediately."

Amy stood up, walked to the window, and pulled back the cheap plastic blinds.

Parked on the dark, narrow street below was a massive, gleaming black Lincoln Navigator. It looked like a spaceship dropped into a slum.

"Tell him to go to hell," Amy said flatly, preparing to hang up.

"Kevin has refused to eat or drink for the entire day," the assistant said quickly, dropping the bomb. "He is showing signs of severe dehydration."

Amy's hand tightened around the phone. The plastic casing creaked under her grip.

An image flashed in her mind-the little boy with the bleeding knee, looking at her with those desperate blue eyes.

She cursed under her breath. She threw the towel onto the sofa, grabbed her trench coat from the hook, and snatched her keys.

She marched downstairs and slid into the suffocating, leather-scented back seat of the SUV.

The car glided silently over the Brooklyn Bridge, leaving the gritty streets behind and entering the pristine, hyper-wealthy enclave of the Upper East Side.

The private elevator opened directly into the penthouse. The space was a monument to cold, hard wealth-acres of marble, steel, and glass.

Reginald, the elderly butler with perfectly combed white hair, rushed forward. His face was lined with genuine distress. He placed a pair of sanitized slippers at her feet.

"Madam," Reginald said, his voice trembling slightly. "The young master has locked himself in his room. He won't let anyone near him."

The title Madam felt like a needle sliding under Amy's skin. It was a brutal reminder that she was still legally chained to this family.

She stepped into the slippers, her face a mask of professional indifference. "I am a cardiac surgeon, Reginald. Not a pediatric psychologist."

Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Beckham walked down from the second floor. He looked wrecked. His usually perfect dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His eyes were bloodshot, ringed with dark shadows of exhaustion.

He walked straight up to Amy, his broad shoulders tense with a father's raw anxiety. "Go up there and look at him," Beckham said, his voice hoarse and desperate, stripping away his usual CEO arrogance. "He only reacts to you. Just calm him down. Please."

Amy stared at him, her eyes narrowed in deep suspicion at this sudden display of vulnerability.

Beckham took a step closer. The heavy scent of tobacco and male sweat radiated off his skin.

"What's the matter?" he pleaded, a rare crack in his iron facade. "Are you going to let a five-year-old boy suffer because of us?"

The desperate plea hit its mark. Driven by the hope of finding a crack in his armor to negotiate her freedom, Amy marched past him, her slippers slapping against the hard oak stairs as she climbed to the second floor. She followed the long, carpeted hallway to the door at the very end.

She could hear the sharp, plastic cracking sound of toys being smashed against a wall.

Beckham reached around her and turned the brass doorknob. He pushed the door open.

The room was a disaster zone. Torn pages of expensive picture books and shattered Lego pieces covered every inch of the floor.

In the far corner of the massive bed, Kevin was curled into a tight ball, holding a pillow over his head like a shield.

Beckham took one step into the room.

Kevin shrieked. He grabbed a heavy plastic Transformer and hurled it directly at Beckham's head.

Beckham tilted his head, the toy missing his temple by an inch and shattering against the doorframe. His face turned a dangerous shade of purple. He opened his mouth to yell.

Amy took a deep breath. She reached out, placed her hand flat against Beckham's hard chest, and shoved him backward into the hallway.

"Get out," she ordered, her voice low and absolute. "Do not agitate the patient."

Beckham's jaw clenched so hard she thought his teeth would crack. But he looked past her at the trembling boy on the bed. He swallowed his rage and took a step back.

Amy stepped into the ruined room. She reached behind her back, grabbed the doorknob, and pulled the door shut right in Beckham's face.

She twisted the lock. The loud click echoed in the room, sealing her inside with the boy, and locking the father out.