The rhythmic beep-beep-beep of the vitals monitor was the only sound in the operating room, a steady pulse that kept me grounded. For the last six hours, I hadn't been Chloe Reed, the woman trapped in a mafia fortress. I hadn't been the runaway wife or the mother with a secret.
I was simply Dr. C.
The weight of the scalpel was familiar, a comfort that the mahogany tables and cold marble of Asher's mansion could never provide. In here, I was the one who decided who lived and who died. In here, I was the god.
"Final stitch," I murmured, my voice muffled by the surgical mask. My hands, the same hands that had coolly inspected Asher's wounds only hours before, were rock steady. I felt the eyes on me from the observation gallery above. I didn't need to look up to know who it was. I could feel the predatory heat of Asher's gaze burning through the glass, a shadow in the darkness, watching the woman who had told him he was no longer entitled to her.
