The Ghost Surgeon's Revenge: Rising From Ashes

I was the trophy wife of Wall Street’s golden boy, Spencer Elliott. For three years, I played the part of the perfect, silent spouse, enduring his coldness and his mother’s venom. I did it all because Spencer was the only person paying for the experimental medical care keeping my dying mother alive. But during a high-society gala, the gilded cage finally broke. I overheard Spencer laughing with his mistress about the "custom cocktail" he was feeding my mother. He wasn't paying for her cure; he was paying a doctor to systematically poison her with sedatives to keep me dependent and compliant until his forty-million-dollar inheritance vested. When I tried to confront him, the mask of the perfect husband shattered. He dragged me by my hair into our bedroom and slammed me against the wall, his eyes cold and murderous. "If you ever try to leave, your mother gets an overdose. Accidentally, of course." He told me I was nothing more than a pawn for his payout. I realized then that my entire marriage was a calculated swindle, and the man I thought was my savior was actually my mother's executioner. The betrayal was so deep it turned my blood to ice. Every sacrifice I had made and every humiliation I had swallowed was built on a monstrous lie. I felt a cold, sharp rage replacing my despair, a surgeon’s focus shifting from healing to a much more dangerous kind of excision. That’s when Julian Sterling, the most feared man in the city, stepped out of the shadows to burn my world down. He rescued me from Spencer’s violence and promised me a life of freedom, but as I finally exhaled in his arms, my secret burner phone buzzed with an encrypted message. The man who originally ruined my family was back, and the last time he was seen, he was standing right next to Julian. Is my new protector my greatest ally, or the target I've been hunting all along?

Chapters

Chapter 5

The wind whipped Ayla's hair across her face, stinging her eyes, but she didn't care. The top was down on Julian's convertible. They were tearing down the Montauk Highway, the ocean a black void to their right.

Ayla had stopped crying miles ago. Now, she just felt hollow.

Julian pulled the car into a secluded overlook, the gravel crunching under the tires. He killed the engine. The silence of the ocean rushed in to fill the space.

He lit a cigarette, the flame illuminating the sharp planes of his face for a brief second. He didn't offer her one. He just smoked, staring out at the water.

"You need a lawyer," he said.

"I have no money," Ayla replied. "Spencer controls the accounts."

"I have lawyers," Julian said. "Sharks. They eat men like Spencer for breakfast."

"Why?" Ayla turned to look at him. "Why are you doing this? You don't even like me. You think I'm a whore who sold herself."

Julian turned slowly. He exhaled a plume of smoke. "I never said I didn't like you, Ayla. I said I didn't like your choices."

He reached across the console, his hand cupping the back of her neck. His fingers were warm, rough. "And I hate seeing something valuable being treated like trash."

The touch ignited something in Ayla. A desperate need for connection. For proof that she was still alive.

She leaned across the gear shift and kissed him.

It wasn't gentle. It was a collision. She poured all her rage, her fear, her hatred into that kiss. Julian froze for a split second, then he groaned, flicking the cigarette out the window and grabbing her.

He hauled her over the console into his lap. The steering wheel dug into her back, but she didn't care. She needed the pressure. She needed the pain to know she was real.

His hands were everywhere-in her hair, gripping her waist, sliding up her thigh. He kissed her like he wanted to devour her.

"Ayla," he growled against her mouth. "If we do this... you're mine. You understand? No more Spencer. No more playing the victim."

"I'm not a victim," she panted. "Make me forget him."

And he did.

He drove her back just before dawn. The sky was bleeding gray and pink. He stopped the car a quarter mile from the gates, hidden by a line of trees.

"Go back in through the servants' entrance," he instructed. "Act normal. Gather evidence. Record everything."

Ayla nodded, reaching for the door handle.

"Ayla."

She looked back.

He leaned over and bit her lower lip, hard enough to sting. "Remember who you belong to."

Ayla touched her lip, her heart racing. "I remember."

She slipped back into the house unseen. She showered, washing away the sand and the scent of him, though his mark on her lip remained.

At breakfast, Spencer was reading the Wall Street Journal. Chloe was gone.

"Coffee," he ordered without looking up.

Ayla poured him a cup. Her hand didn't shake. She looked at the back of his neck and imagined wrapping a wire around it.

Her phone buzzed on the table.

Spencer glanced at it. "Who is texting you at seven a.m.?"

Ayla picked it up.

Sender: Julian Sterling

Image attached.

It was a photo of her, asleep in his car, her head resting on his shoulder. She looked peaceful.

Caption: Good morning, my girl.

A second text popped up immediately.

Change my name in your contacts to 'Owner'.

Ayla's face flushed hot. She quickly placed the phone face down.

"It's... a spam message," she said. "Car warranty."

Spencer snorted. "Idiot." He turned the page of his newspaper.

Under the table, Ayla unlocked her phone. She didn't change it to 'Owner'. That was too dangerous.

She changed it to Creditor.

Because she owed him. And he was going to help her collect what was owed to her.

She looked at the text again. My girl.

A small, dangerous smile touched her lips.

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