The Surgeon's Vow: Healing My Billionaire Husband

The iron gates of the Kensington estate were two stories high. They swung open silently, admitting the Rolls-Royce into a driveway lined with ancient oak trees that blocked out the sky.

Thunder rumbled overhead. The sky bruised purple and black.

By the time the car stopped in front of the main house-a sprawling limestone mansion that looked more like a museum than a home-the rain was coming down in sheets.

The butler, whose name she learned was Alfred, got out. He didn't offer her an umbrella. He simply opened her door and stood back, watching the rain soak the leather interior.

Mia stepped out.

The water hit her instantly, plastering the white dress Howard had provided to her skin. Her hair flattened against her skull. She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself, and ran up the marble steps to the portico.

She stood in the grand foyer, dripping water onto the priceless checkered marble.

A group of people stood near the fireplace. A young man in a velvet blazer held a glass of champagne. He looked her up and down and snorted.

"Look at that," Julian Kensington said, his voice carrying easily. "Sterling really is desperate. Sent us a drowned rat."

An older woman with too much jewelry laughed. "Bad omen, if you ask me. Bringing all that wet filth into the house."

Mia wiped the water from her eyelashes. She looked at Julian. She didn't look down. She didn't look away. Her gaze was direct, clinical.

Julian blinked, unsettled by the lack of shame in her eyes.

A sharp clicking sound echoed from the staircase. Katherine Kensington descended. She was beautiful in a brittle, terrifying way. She didn't look at Mia's face. She looked at her hips, her stomach, her wrists. Assessing the livestock.

"Why is she wet?" Katherine snapped at Alfred. "Do you want her to bring pneumonia into the ICU? Lucas's immune system is compromised enough!"

"Apologies, Madam," Alfred said, sounding bored.

"Get her changed," Katherine ordered. "Not the white one. It's too... festive. Get the gray silk from the storage."

Ten minutes later, Mia was shoved into a side room by a rough-handed maid. She was given a gray dress that smelled of mothballs. It was shapeless, high-necked, and dreary. It looked like a shroud. As Mia changed, she carefully transferred the six silver wires from her wet dress to the thick hem of the gray one, sliding them into the seam with practiced dexterity.

When she emerged, Julian was waiting near the hallway entrance. As she walked past, he stuck his foot out.

Mia saw it. Her peripheral vision was excellent.

Instead of avoiding it, she pretended to stumble. As she lurched forward, she brought her heel down hard.

It connected squarely with the arch of Julian's Italian leather loafer.

"Arggh!" Julian doubled over, dropping his champagne glass. It shattered.

Mia gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. "Oh my god! I'm so sorry! I'm so clumsy when I'm nervous!"

She looked terrified. Her eyes were wide and watery.

Julian glared at her, face red with pain, but Katherine was already marching down the hall. "Stop playing games, Julian! Mia, come with me. Now!"

They walked through a long corridor that connected the main house to the East Wing. The air temperature dropped. The smell of potpourri was replaced by the stinging scent of antiseptic and ozone.

They stopped before a set of double doors. Two private security guards stood like statues, hands resting on their holsters.

A doctor in a white coat, Dr. Hamilton, stepped out. He looked grave.

"Mrs. Kensington," he said softly. "His vitals are dropping. The bradycardia is severe. He has slipped from a vegetative state into active failure. I don't think he'll make it through the night."

Katherine let out a strangled sob. She grabbed Mia by the shoulders, her nails digging into Mia's flesh.

"Go in there," Katherine hissed. Her eyes were wild. "The psychic said you were the one. The horoscope matches. If he dies, you have no purpose here. Do you understand? You go in there and you bring him luck, or you go back to prison!"

She shoved Mia forward.

Mia stumbled into the room. The heavy soundproof door slammed shut behind her. The lock clicked.

Silence.

The only sound was the rhythmic, mechanical beep... beep... beep... of the cardiac monitor.

The room was dim, lit only by the glowing screens of the life support machines. In the center lay a bed.

Mia didn't cry. She didn't pray. She turned around and engaged the deadbolt on the door.

She walked to the bed.

Lucas Kensington lay there. He was pale, his skin possessing a translucent, waxy quality. But beneath the pallor, the bone structure was striking-a strong jaw, high cheekbones, dark lashes resting against his cheeks.

Mia placed her fingers on his carotid artery.

Cold.

The pulse was thready, fluttering like a dying moth.

She looked at the monitor. Heart rate: 45. Oxygen saturation: 88%.

She narrowed her eyes. She moved her hands to his neck, her fingers probing the vertebrae with the precision of a pianist. She stopped at the third cervical vertebra. The muscle was rock hard.

"It's not irreversible damage," she whispered to herself. "It's a neurogenic block. Vagus nerve compression causing pseudo-shock."

Suddenly, the monitor let out a high-pitched, continuous whine.

RED ALERT.

Heart rate: 30. 28.

The door handle rattled violently. Katherine was screaming on the other side. "Open the door! Let the doctors in!"

Mia looked at the door, then back at Lucas. If she let Dr. Hamilton in, he would start chest compressions. On a patient with this specific nerve block, CPR would shatter his ribs and likely sever the spinal cord completely. He would die.

She had sixty seconds.

Mia reached into the hem of her gray dress. She found the small tear she had made earlier. She pulled out the six silver wires she had transferred.

The "clumsy ex-con" vanished. The Saint had arrived.