Addicted To The Ruthless Surgeon Heiress

The doors slid apart. Evie walked in, bringing the smell of rain and ozone into the sterile environment.

Dr. Vance stepped in her path, his face red with fury. "This is a sterile field! Security!"

Hartwell stepped in right behind her. He reached back and hit the lock button on the inside panel. The doors sealed shut, locking the guards and Beatrice out.

"She's in charge now," Hartwell said to the room.

The nurses exchanged terrified glances. Dr. Vance sputtered, "I will not be part of this!"

Evie didn't waste a breath. She walked to the scrub sink. She used her foot to pump the disinfectant, lathering her hands up to her elbows in seconds. "Open thoracotomy tray. Bypass machine. Now."

The head nurse looked at Dr. Vance. Vance crossed his arms. "Absolutely not."

Hartwell moved. He pulled a black SIG Sauer from his waistband. He placed it on the stainless steel tray with a loud clatter. The metal rang out in the silent room.

"Assist her," Hartwell said, his voice terrifyingly calm, "or leave the medical profession forever."

The nurse went white. She turned and ripped open a sterile pack.

Evie dried her hands. She grabbed a surgical gown, snapping it on, then pulled on gloves. The entire process took less than ten seconds.

She walked to the bedside. The old woman was gray. Evie picked up a number 10 scalpel.

Dr. Vance leaned in, his voice a venomous hiss. "If you cut her, the pressure will blow the heart apart. It's basic physiology."

Evie ignored him. Her wrist flicked. The blade sliced through the skin and sternum at an angle that looked wrong, almost impossible.

Blood did not spray. The scalpel had missed every torn vessel wall by millimeters.

Dr. Vance gasped, his eyes wide. "That's... that's not possible."

Evie plunged her left hand into the open chest. Her fingers found the back of the heart. She pressed down firmly on the exact point of the rupture.

The monitor above them, which had been racing toward a flatline, began to slow. The erratic peaks smoothed out. The blood pressure ticked up.

Hartwell stood three feet away. His eyes were glued to Evie's face. She was sweating, a bead of it rolling down her temple, but her hands were absolute stone. No tremor. No hesitation.

"Suture," Evie barked. "I'm repairing it on the beat."

Dr. Vance shook his head, backing away. "You can't suture a beating heart. It's suicide."

"Update your textbooks," Evie snapped. Her right hand took the needle driver. The curved needle flashed in the light, moving so fast it left afterimages. Stitch. Tie. Stitch. Tie. Every knot was perfect, microscopic precision under immense pressure.

Hartwell watched the blood on her gloves. Something dark and possessive uncurled in his chest. He had never seen anything like this. She was a machine of pure skill.

Fifteen minutes later, Evie snipped the final thread. She slowly lifted her finger away from the heart.

The organ thumped. A strong, steady rhythm filled the room. The monitor beeped a normal, healthy pace.

Evie stepped back. She tossed the bloody scalpel onto the tray. Clatter. She ripped off her mask, taking a deep breath. She turned her head and looked right at Hartwell, a challenge in her dark eyes.