The black Lincoln Continental merged onto the Van Wyck Expressway. The air inside the cabin was suffocatingly thick.

Christian pressed a button on the armrest. The dark privacy glass rolled up, completely sealing the back seat off from the driver.

He yanked at his silk tie, loosening it. He couldn't get the image of that woman in the airport out of his head. The slope of her shoulders. The way she stood. It made his skin crawl with a ghost he had been trying to bury for four years.

Brigette picked up a crystal flute from the mini-bar. She poured champagne and leaned toward him, her voice dripping with honey. "Drink, darling?"

Christian didn't even look at her. He backhanded the glass.

The crystal shattered against the door panel. Amber liquid splashed all over Brigette's expensive Chanel skirt and the plush floor mats.

Brigette gasped, jumping back. She grabbed a napkin, her face flushing with anger and humiliation.

"Why did you do that in front of the reporters?" she snapped, her voice losing its sweet edge. "You made me look like a fool!"

Christian slowly turned his head. His eyes were dead. They sliced over her face like scalpels.

"Do not forget what you are," Christian said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "You are a PR tool. Nothing more."

Brigette bit her lip. Her hands shook. "I am the mother of your children! Everyone knows I gave birth to Leo and Luna. I am the future Mrs. Page!"

Christian's eyes darkened into something terrifying. He lunged forward and grabbed her wrist. His fingers dug into her bones like a vice.

"If those children didn't need a mother on paper," Christian hissed, his face inches from hers, "you would have been thrown out of New York four years ago."

Brigette winced in pain. Panic flared in her chest. She knew he had been secretly investigating the hospital records from that night.

She forced tears into her eyes. "I almost died saving your life! I gave you your heirs!"

Christian's face twisted with absolute revulsion. He violently shoved her hand away. He leaned back against the leather seat, looking exhausted.

"I haven't touched a single hair on your head in four years, Brigette," he said, his voice hollow. "Don't push your luck."

The words slapped her across the face. The illusion she sold to the world was a lie. He had never slept with her. Not once since the fire.

"If you ever call the paparazzi to stage another wedding stunt," Christian warned, staring out the window, "I will cut off your trust fund by morning."

Brigette went pale. She swallowed her pride and nodded quickly.

The car fell into a dead silence.

Christian reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. His thumb rubbed against a small, silver ring. The edges were charred black from fire. It was the only thing they recovered from the warehouse. Heidi's ring.

Every time he closed his eyes, he heard her screaming his name on the phone. The guilt ate his stomach alive.

Brigette watched him stare at the ring. Pure venom flashed in her eyes.

She pulled out her encrypted phone. She typed a quick message to her biological father, Bobbie Weeks. Accelerate the plan. The old man needs to die now.

The Lincoln pulled up to the Wall Street headquarters. The bodyguard opened the door.

Christian stepped out, instantly transforming back into the ruthless CEO. He walked into the lobby without looking back.

Brigette sat alone in the back seat. She crushed the napkin in her fist and threw it at the floor.

Inside the elevator, Christian's assistant held an iPad. "Sir, the underground surgeon you hired has arrived in New York."

Christian's eyes sharpened. "Book the consultation at the hospital for tomorrow morning. Whatever the cost."

The underground parking garage of the Manhattan hotel was dim. Only a few fluorescent tubes flickered overhead, casting long, cold shadows.

Heidi popped the trunk of her black Range Rover. She wore a tailored black trench coat. She lifted her heavy medical bag and set it inside.

A strand of dark hair fell across her face. Without thinking, she reached up with her right hand and tucked it behind her ear. It was a lazy, absentminded gesture.

Less than thirty feet away, Christian stepped out of the back seat of his Maybach.

His eyes swept across the garage and froze.

He saw the back of the woman at the Range Rover. He saw the exact angle of her neck. He saw the way her fingers tucked the hair behind her ear.

His brain short-circuited. Logic screamed that Heidi was dead. Logic screamed she burned to ashes four years ago. But his body moved on its own.

Christian shoved his bodyguard out of the way. He broke into a dead sprint.

His dress shoes slapped loudly against the concrete.

Heidi heard the rushing footsteps. She turned halfway around.

Before she could react, a massive hand clamped down on her wrist like an iron trap. The sheer force of his momentum spun her around. Her back slammed hard against the cold metal of the Range Rover.

Christian pinned her against the car. His chest heaved. His eyes were bloodshot, wide with a desperate, manic panic.

"Heidi," he breathed, his voice cracking.

Inside the tinted windows of the Range Rover, Seraphina looked up from her iPad. Her empathetic abilities flared instantly. She felt a tsunami of grief, regret, and brokenness crashing against the glass.

Heidi stared into Christian's face. He was inches away. She could smell his expensive cologne.

For a fraction of a second, her heart hammered against her ribs. Then, the memory of his voice on the phone echoed in her skull. Let her die.

The warmth drained from Heidi's body. Her eyes turned into chips of ice.

She didn't struggle. She looked at him with absolute, clinical boredom.

"You have the wrong person, sir," Heidi said. Her voice was smooth, carrying a flawless, upper-class British accent.

Christian froze. He stared at her face in the dim light. It was beautiful, sharp, and completely unfamiliar. There was no trace of his wife's soft features.

But the scent. The feeling. He gripped her wrist tighter, refusing to let go. He searched her eyes for a lie.

Heidi frowned slightly. "You are compressing my median nerve. If you don't release my wrist in the next three seconds, you will cause localized ischemia."

Christian blinked. The cold, highly technical medical vocabulary hit him like a bucket of ice water. His Heidi was terrified of needles. She barely knew how to use a band-aid.

The manic light in his eyes died. His shoulders slumped. The absolute devastation that washed over his face was physical.

He slowly opened his fingers. He took a step back, looking like a man who had just been gutted.

"I'm... sorry," Christian whispered, staring at the concrete.

Heidi rubbed her red wrist. She didn't show a single ounce of pity. She opened the door and slid into the driver's seat.

The engine roared to life. The Range Rover backed out and sped toward the exit, the red taillights washing over Christian's pale face.

In the back seat, Seraphina tugged on Heidi's sleeve. "Mommy. That bad man has a thunderstorm in his chest. He's breaking."

Heidi's grip on the steering wheel tightened until her knuckles ached. "Good. He deserves it."

In the garage, Christian leaned against the hood of his Maybach. He buried his face in his hands.

He took a deep, shuddering breath and dropped his hands. His eyes were hard again.

He looked at his assistant. "Run the plates on that Range Rover. Find out exactly who that woman is."

The atmosphere inside the penthouse VIP suite at NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital was suffocating.

The heart monitor beeped with a weak, irregular rhythm. Harold Page lay on the bed, his skin a sickly gray. He was dying.

Dr. Thaddeus Frye, the head of cardiothoracic surgery, wiped sweat from his forehead. He looked at Christian, who stood by the window like a dark storm cloud.

"His heart is failing, Mr. Page," Dr. Frye stammered. "We can't operate. It's too risky."

Christian turned around. His hands were shoved deep into his suit pockets. "Are you telling me the best doctors in New York are just going to stand here and watch him die?"

"Unless you can get the underground legend, The Surgeon," Dr. Frye said defensively. "No one else can pull this off."

A sharp, rhythmic clicking echoed in the hallway. High heels on marble.

The heavy double doors swung open. Two men in black suits stepped aside.

Heidi walked in. She wore a pristine, custom-tailored white coat over a black silk blouse. Her presence instantly sucked the oxygen out of the room. The medical experts instinctively stepped back, parting like the Red Sea.

Christian turned his head. His eyes locked onto her face.

His pupils dilated violently. His breath hitched. It was her. The woman from the parking garage.

The hospital director rushed forward, bowing slightly. "Mr. Page, this is the specialist we flew in. This is 'The Surgeon'."

Christian's jaw locked. He stared at her, trying to dissect her every movement. Heidi didn't even look at him.

She walked straight to the bed. She snapped on a pair of sterile gloves. She peeled back Harold's eyelids, checking his pupil response.

Dr. Frye tried to hand her a thick medical file. "Doctor, here are the charts-"

Heidi shoved the clipboard away without looking. "I memorized his scans on the helicopter."

On the bed, Harold Page slowly opened his cloudy eyes. His vision focused on Heidi's reconstructed face.

He didn't recognize her features. But he looked into her cold, resilient eyes. The heart monitor spiked slightly.

Harold's frail hand twitched. His dry lips parted. A tiny, raspy breath escaped his mouth. "You're... back."

Heidi's fingers paused on his wrist. Her stomach tightened. Four years ago, this old man was the only person in the Page family who treated her with an ounce of dignity. It was the only reason she took this job.

She squeezed his hand. "You are not going to die today," she said firmly.

Christian stepped up to the opposite side of the bed. He loomed over her, his presence demanding answers. "What are the odds of success?"

Heidi finally looked up. Her icy gaze met his dark eyes. She didn't flinch.

"Thirty percent," she said flatly.

The room erupted in gasps. Dr. Frye threw his hands up. "Thirty percent is murder! You can't authorize that!"

Heidi sneered. She leaned over the bed, planting both hands on the mattress. She stared Christian down, asserting total dominance over the room.

"Under his conservative plan, your grandfather is dead by midnight," Heidi said, her voice dripping with arrogance. "Sign the waiver and let me cut him open, or start picking out a casket right now."

Christian stared at the fierce, commanding woman in front of him. The contrast was mind-breaking. His Heidi would have cried at the sight of blood. This woman was the grim reaper in a white coat.

His instincts as a CEO told him to trust the arrogance.

Christian pulled his Montblanc pen from his pocket. He didn't break eye contact with her as he held his hand out to his assistant. "Give me the waiver."

He signed his name.