The Emergency Room corridor was a war zone of noise. Monitors beeped in frantic, irregular rhythms. Nurses shouted codes.

"Get out of my way!" Hunt shoved a resident aside, trying to get into the trauma bay where Clare lay pale and gasping. "She's crashing! Do something!"

The elevator doors opened, and the blue-clad phalanx moved in.

"Status?" The lead doctor's voice cut through the noise. It was low, calm, and icy.

"BP is sixty over forty. Tachycardic. We're losing her," a nurse yelled.

Dianna didn't break stride. "Prep for bypass. 1mg Epinephrine, push. Get the OR ready. Now."

Hunt froze. That voice.

It was sharper, deeper, stripped of all the softness he remembered, but the timbre... it hit him in the chest like a sledgehammer.

He spun around, staring at the doctor. As she turned to give another order, her eyes-the only part of her face visible between the cap and mask-met his across the chaotic room. They weren't the pleading, hopeful eyes he remembered. They were cold, hard flint. In that single, silent moment of recognition, Hunt's world tilted on its axis.

"Dianna?" The name slipped out, a raw whisper of disbelief.

Dianna felt his gaze burn into her. Her heart slammed against her ribs-a traitorous, physiological reaction she couldn't control. But her hands didn't shake. She was a surgeon first.

She reached the gurney and checked Clare's pupils. Dilated.

Hunt lunged forward. "Dianna! Is that you?"

A young male intern stepped in front of Hunt, blocking him. "Sir! Step back! You cannot touch Dr. Campbell!"

"Dr. Campbell?" Hunt repeated, the words tasting like ash. "That's impossible."

Dianna looked up from the patient, her expression unreadable above the blue surgical mask.

"Security," she said. She didn't address him. She addressed the room. "Remove this man. He is obstructing patient care."

"Dianna, wait-" Hunt reached out.

"Get him out!" she snapped, her voice cracking like a whip. "I have a life to save."

Two burly security guards grabbed Hunt by the arms. He was too shocked to fight them. He stared at her, his mouth slightly open, his brain unable to process the data. Dianna? A surgeon? The woman who cried when she broke a nail?

Dianna turned back to Clare. "Let's move."

She pushed the gurney, running alongside it. The double doors of the Operating Room swung open. She disappeared into the sterile white light. The doors slammed shut, the "DO NOT ENTER" sign blazing red.

Hunt stood there, his chest heaving. The smell of antiseptic and fear filled his nose.

Jeffrey ran up to him, panting. "Boss? How is Clare?"

Hunt leaned against the wall, sliding down until he was crouching. He put his head in his hands.

"I saw her, Jeffrey."

"Who?"

"Dianna." Hunt looked up, his eyes wild. "She's the surgeon. She's Dr. Campbell."

Jeffrey blinked. "Sir... with all due respect, Mrs. Brennan faints at the sight of blood. Are you sure it wasn't just... a resemblance?"

Hunt closed his eyes. He replayed the moment. The authority. The command. The eyes.

"Go find out," Hunt whispered. "Find out everything about Dr. Campbell. Where she studied. When she started. Everything. Now."

Inside the OR, Dianna held her hands up while a nurse gloved her. She looked down at Clare's unconscious face.

"Don't worry, Clare," she whispered into her mask. "I'm back."

She held out her hand, palm open.

"Scalpel."

The steel instrument slapped into her palm. It felt like an extension of her soul.

Six hours.

Hunt had been standing in the waiting room for six hours. The ashtray near the emergency exit was overflowing with his cigarettes. He hadn't eaten. He hadn't drunk water. He just stared at the OR doors.

Jeffrey walked up, holding a tablet. He looked pale.

"Boss," Jeffrey said quietly. "I got the dossier."

Hunt snatched the tablet.

Dr. Dianna Campbell.

Board Certified Cardiothoracic Surgeon.

M.D., Johns Hopkins School of Medicine.

Residency and Fellowship, University of Zurich.

Heir to the Campbell Medical Group.

Hunt felt the blood drain from his face. The Campbell Medical Group? One of the largest pharmaceutical conglomerates in the world? He remembered her talking about medical school before they were married, but he'd dismissed it as a silly hobby. He had encouraged her to drop out.

"She's not a gold digger," Hunt whispered. The realization was a physical blow to his gut. "She's richer than I am."

The red light above the OR doors turned off.

Hunt dropped the tablet on a chair and straightened his jacket.

The doors opened. Dianna walked out. She had removed the surgical cap, and her honey-blonde hair fell loose around her shoulders. She looked exhausted. There were lines from the mask pressed into her cheeks.

She saw him. She didn't flinch.

Hunt walked toward her, stopping three feet away. The air between them crackled with four years of silence.

"Dianna." His voice was rough, like gravel.

"Mr. Brennan," she replied. Her tone was professional, distant. "The surgery was successful. We repaired the valve. She's stable."

She tried to walk past him.

Hunt stepped in her path. "Mr. Brennan? Is that what you call your husband now?"

Dianna looked at him, really looked at him. "My husband died four years ago, the night he threw me out into the rain."

Hunt flinched. "I didn't throw you out. You left. You disappeared." He reached for her arm. "Where have you been? Why did you hide this?" He gestured to her scrubs.

Dianna side-stepped his touch, jamming her hands into the deep pockets of her white coat. It was a barrier.

"You never asked," she said simply. "You assumed. You decided I was a trophy, so I played the trophy. It was easier than trying to convince you I had a brain."

"We need to talk," Hunt demanded. "Come home."

Dianna laughed. It was a dry, brittle sound. "I have a home. It's not with you."

"We are still married," Hunt hissed, leaning in. "I shredded the papers, Dianna. I never signed them."

Dianna's eyes widened slightly, then narrowed. "The law says otherwise. Abandonment. Separation. I'll have my lawyers send you a copy."

"I don't care about the law!" Hunt's voice rose, turning heads in the waiting room. "You are my wife!"

"Lower your voice," she commanded. "This is a hospital."

She stepped around him. "I have rounds to finish. Goodbye, Mr. Brennan."

She walked away. Her back was straight, her head high.

Hunt watched her go. He wanted to chase her, to tackle her, to drag her back to his reality. But the Chief of Staff intercepted him to discuss Clare's recovery.

Dianna made it to the locker room before her knees gave out. She sat on the bench, putting her head between her knees, breathing deeply.

He shredded the papers.

Her phone buzzed. She pulled it out. A video message from the nanny.

It was Leo. He was wearing Spiderman pajamas, holding a book. "Mommy, come home! You promised to read the dragon story!"

Dianna smiled, the ice in her chest melting instantly. She kissed the screen.

"I'm coming, baby," she whispered.

She quickly changed into a beige trench coat and oversized sunglasses. She checked the hallway. Hunt was gone.

She slipped out the side exit, ducking into a waiting black sedan.

"Grandfather," she nodded to the old man in the back seat.

"Did he see you?" Arthur asked.

"He knows," Dianna said, looking out the window as the city lights blurred by. "He knows who I am."

"And?"

"And he thinks he still owns me." Dianna's hand curled into a fist. "He's wrong."

The scent of roses hit Dianna the moment she opened her office door the next morning. It was suffocating.

Her entire office-the desk, the chairs, the floor-was covered in red roses. Thousands of them.

A card sat on top of the pile on her desk.

For Mrs. Brennan. Come home. - Hunt.

Dianna felt a wave of nausea. It wasn't romantic. It was a territory marking.

She opened the door and flagged down a passing janitor. "Excuse me? Please get rid of all of this."

The janitor's eyes popped. "All of it, Dr. Campbell?"

"Every petal. Trash. Now."

"That's a waste of good money."

Dianna spun around. Hunt was leaning against the doorframe. He was wearing a navy suit, looking fresh and arrogant.

"I don't want your money," Dianna said, walking to her desk and sweeping the card into the trash bin. "If you're here for a medical consult, make an appointment. If not, get out."

Hunt walked in and closed the door. The lock clicked.

"You can't get rid of me that easily," Hunt said. He walked to her desk, placing his hands on the surface, leaning over her. "I spoke to my lawyers. The prenup."

Dianna opened her drawer and pulled out a photocopy. She slammed it on the desk.

"Clause 14," she recited. "Automatic dissolution after two years of separation with no marital relations."

Hunt smirked. It was a wolfish grin. "Keep reading. 'Unless there is continued financial dependence.'"

Dianna frowned. "I haven't taken a dime from you."

"The Brennan Marital Trust," Hunt said softly. "The one my father's lawyers set up for 'the security of the family line'? I've been depositing a million dollars a month into it for four years. And the bank records show the account is not only active, but someone has been making regular withdrawals. Your father, I presume?"

Dianna felt the blood drain from her face. That trust. She'd told her father to have it dissolved, to refuse all payments. He must have lied, forging her signature to access the funds.

"You... you trapped me," she whispered.

"I kept you," Hunt corrected. "As long as that money flowed, legally, we are financially entangled. The separation clause is void."

Dianna stood up, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. "I will pay you back. Every cent."

"I don't want the money." Hunt walked around the desk. He crowded her space. He smelled of sandalwood and power. "I want my wife."

He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers grazed her neck. Dianna's breath hitched-fear, anger, and something else she hated herself for feeling.

"I am not your wife," she said, her voice shaking. "I am Dr. Campbell."

"You can be both," Hunt murmured. He leaned down, his lips inches from hers. "Clare needs you. Move back into the Manor. Just until she recovers."

"No."

"I'll make your life hell if you don't," he threatened softly. "I'll drag this divorce out for a decade. I'll subpoena your medical records. I'll audit your hospital."

Dianna shoved his chest. "You are a monster."

"I'm a man who wants what's his."

Ring. Ring.

Dianna's cell phone buzzed on the desk. The screen lit up: Sunshine Preschool.

Panic spiked in her chest. She snatched the phone before Hunt could see the ID.

"Hello?" she answered, turning her back to him.

"Dr. Campbell? This is Mrs. Gable from the school. Leo fell on the playground. He's bleeding. He's asking for you."

Dianna's grip on the phone tightened until her knuckles turned white. "Is it bad? I'm coming. Tell him... tell him to be brave, baby. I'm coming right now."

Behind her, Hunt went still.

Baby?

He stared at her back. The tension in her shoulders. The desperation in her voice. The word wasn't 'Mommy', but the intimacy was unmistakable. It shot a spike of pure, unadulterated jealousy through him. Who was this child? And who was the father?

Dianna hung up and grabbed her bag. She spun around, her face pale.

"I have to go. Emergency."

"Who was that?" Hunt asked, his eyes narrowing. "Who were you talking to?"

"None of your business," Dianna snapped. She pushed past him, running for the door.

Hunt watched her go. A dark suspicion began to form in his gut. He followed her.