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.

The blinding surgical lights snapped on, turning Operating Room 1 into a sterile, white hell. The air was thick with high-stakes tension.

Heidi stood at the head of the table. She wore dark blue scrubs and custom surgical loupes. She looked like a soldier stepping onto a battlefield.

Dr. Frye stood across from her as the first assistant. He was sweating, his eyes full of bitter doubt.

Behind the massive one-way observation glass, Christian stood perfectly still. His eyes were glued to Heidi's slender frame.

"Bypass machine engaged," the anesthesiologist announced. "Heart is stopped. Clock is running."

Heidi held out her right hand. Her voice was absolute ice. "Scalpel. Ten blade."

The scrub nurse slapped the handle into her palm. Heidi's wrist flicked. The blade sliced through the sternum in one flawless, continuous motion.

There was no hesitation. The cut was so perfectly straight that Dr. Frye actually gasped behind his mask.

For the next two hours, Heidi operated like a machine. Her hands moved with terrifying speed and precision, dissecting the diseased tissue.

In the observation room, the hospital executives stared at the magnified monitors in dead silence. They were witnessing a god at work.

Christian watched her calm, focused profile. His chest ached with that same, maddening familiarity.

The surgery entered the most critical phase: the aortic arch anastomosis. The margin for error was zero.

"Retractor," Heidi ordered Frye. "Hold the ventricular wall. Do not move."

Dr. Frye gripped the metal retractor. But his arms were tired. His nerves were shot. His wrist gave a microscopic twitch.

The sharp edge of the retractor slipped. It tore directly into the fragile aortic arch.

Bright red blood erupted from the tear like a geyser. It sprayed across the surgical field, instantly filling the chest cavity.

The monitors screamed. The alarms blared.

"Pressure is dropping!" the anesthesiologist yelled in panic. "He's crashing!"

Dr. Frye froze. His face went completely white. He couldn't even speak.

Behind the glass, Christian slammed his hands against the window. He stopped breathing.

Heidi didn't flinch. She didn't blink.

"Move," she barked at Frye.

She didn't hesitate. Shoving Frye's trembling hands aside, she plunged her own gloved hand deep into the chest cavity. Her fingers guided by years of experience, instantly found the source of the bleed and clamped down with precise, life-saving pressure.

The geyser stopped. But the surgical field was a lake of dark blood. The tear was completely invisible.

"I need suction!" Frye screamed. "You can't see the tissue!"

"Shut up," Heidi snapped. She held out her right hand. "Prolene suture. Now."

The nurse handed her the needle driver.

In front of a room full of terrified experts, Heidi closed her eyes.

She was going to blind-stitch the aorta. It was a myth. A surgical suicide move. One millimeter off, and Harold would bleed out instantly.

Her right hand moved. The needle dove into the blood. Her fingers guided the thread purely by the tactile feedback of the tissue. She pulled. She stitched. Her hands moved in a blur of blue thread.

Thirty seconds later, she opened her eyes. She pulled her left hand out.

"Suction," she ordered.

The tube cleared the blood. The entire room leaned in.

There, on the aortic arch, was a row of perfectly spaced, impossibly tight stitches. Not a single drop of blood leaked.

Dr. Frye's knees gave out. He collapsed onto a rolling stool, staring at Heidi like she was a deity.

The alarms stopped. The heart monitor returned to a steady rhythm.

Heidi dropped the needle driver onto the tray. She didn't even look at Frye.

"Surgery successful," she said coldly. "Close the chest."

The red warning light above the operating room finally clicked off. The heavy automatic doors slid open.

Heidi walked into the hallway. She pulled off her blood-spattered surgical mask, revealing her pale, exhausted face.

Christian immediately stepped forward. The Page family executives behind him held their breath.

Heidi looked at Christian's tense jawline. "The surgery was a complete success. He is stable."

A collective sigh of relief echoed down the corridor. Executives hugged each other.

The hard lines around Christian's eyes softened. He looked at Heidi with a complex mix of deep gratitude and intense awe.

He stepped closer and held out his right hand. "The Page family owes you a debt we cannot repay, Doctor."

Heidi looked down at his large, calloused hand. Her mind flashed to the hospital room four years ago. The hand that signed her death away.

She kept her hands shoved deep inside her white coat pockets.

"It's a transaction, Mr. Page," she said coldly. "Pay my invoice."

Christian's hand hung in the air. He slowly lowered it. He wasn't angry. He was completely captivated by her ice-cold demeanor.

At that exact moment, a strange vibration buzzed against Heidi's thigh.

It wasn't a normal phone call. It was coming from the encrypted device in her right pocket.

Buzz-buzz-buzz. Buuuzz-buuuzz-buuuzz. Buzz-buzz-buzz.

Three short. Three long. Three short. SOS.

Heidi's heart stopped dead in her chest. It was the emergency beacon she had built for Caleb.

She immediately turned her back to Christian. She pulled the device out. The screen flashed a string of code. Her brain translated it in half a second.

WE ARE TAKEN.

A violent chill shot up Heidi's spine. Her pupils contracted to pinpricks. Her fingernails dug so hard into the metal casing of the phone that her skin tore.

Christian's eyes narrowed. He saw the muscles in her back instantly lock up. He saw the sudden, ragged shift in her breathing.

He took a step toward her. "Doctor? Is there a problem? I have resources-"

Heidi sucked in a sharp breath. She violently shoved the terror of a mother deep down into her gut. When she turned around, her face was a blank wall of ice.

"No," she lied smoothly. "Just an emergency consult at another hospital."

Before Christian could say another word, Heidi ripped off her white coat. She threw it at a passing nurse and broke into a run toward the elevators.

The second the elevator doors closed, her legs shook. She pulled out her phone and dialed her brother Iain's encrypted line.

"Activate the Sky Eye system," Heidi hissed, her voice trembling with pure murder. "Track Caleb's signal. Now."

Ten seconds later, Iain's voice came through. "Queens. Abandoned industrial park."

Heidi sprinted out of the hospital lobby. She ripped open the door to her Range Rover and slammed her foot on the gas. The heavy SUV roared down the Manhattan streets, blowing through three red lights.

Back in the hospital corridor, Christian stared at the closed elevator doors. His eyes were dark and calculating.

She was lying. The look in her eyes wasn't about a medical consult. It was the look of a cornered, violent animal.

Christian turned to his assistant. "Pull the hospital security feeds. Track her car. I want to know exactly where she is going."

The chase was on.