Chapter 3 - THE PRIVATE SURGERY
The vessel belonging to Dr. Julian Evans was not a yacht; it was a fifty-foot, high-speed medical response craft equipped with a state-of-the-art mobile operating theater.
Within seven minutes of docking at Blackwater Point, Raymond Carter was transferred onto a carbon-fiber stretcher and wheeled down the gangway into the sterile, brightly lit surgical suite below deck.
Dr. Evans, a sharp-featured man in his mid-fifties with graying hair and intense, focused eyes, washed his hands at the scrub sink while two surgical technicians prepared the field.
“Massive hemoperitoneum,” Dr. Evans said, looking at the portable ultrasound monitor Emily had helped position beside the table. “Fluid in the Morrison’s pouch. He’s bleeding from a grade-three splenic laceration.”
Emily was already scrubbed, wearing a blue surgical gown, mask, and sterile gloves. She stood on the opposite side of the table from Dr. Evans, her eyes glued to the vitals monitor.
Dr. Evans looked up at her over his surgical mask. “Nicolas told me you were an ER nurse.”
“Mass General Trauma,” Emily said, adjusting the suction tubing. “Eight years.”
“Good,” Evans said crisp. “Then stop watching me and handle the retraction. We have about twelve minutes before his pressure drops again.”
For the next ninety minutes, the world contracted to the circle of bright overhead lights, the rhythmic beep of the cardiac monitor, and the metallic clatter of surgical instruments.
Emily worked with seamless, instinctual efficiency. She anticipated Dr. Evans’s requests before he voiced them, passing clamps, suctioning blood from the abdominal cavity, and helping ligate the damaged blood vessels surrounding the spleen.
Nicolas stood outside the operating room’s glass viewing window, his hands shoved deep into his trousers pockets, watching the woman who had spent eight months vacuuming his rugs command an operating room with absolute, terrifying precision.
By 1:30 AM, the bleeding was controlled. Raymond’s damaged spleen had been successfully repaired, his chest tube was draining properly, and three units of packed red blood cells were running through his IV. His vitals were stable.
Dr. Evans pulled off his surgical mask, letting out a long breath. “He’s going to make it, Emily. He’s tough.”
Emily leaned over her father, gently brushing a stray lock of gray hair from his forehead. “Thank you, Doctor.”
“Don't thank me,” Evans said, nodding toward the glass window where Nicolas stood waiting. “Thank the man who pays for this boat. And thank yourself. That needle decompression in the ballroom saved his life long before I got here.”
Ten minutes later, Emily stepped out onto the breezy deck of the vessel. The cold Atlantic wind slapped her face, bringing the smell of salt and wet pine from the shore.
Nicolas was standing by the railing, smoking a dark cigar, the tip glowing red against the midnight sea. He turned as her footsteps approached.
“He's stable,” Emily said, leaning against the wooden railing beside him. She wrapped her arms around herself against the cold.
Nicolas took off his heavy wool overcoat and placed it gently around her shoulders. The coat was warm and smelled faintly of expensive sandalwood and sea air.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“You don't need to thank me for fixing a mess that happened under my roof,” Nicolas said, staring out at the dark horizon. “Victor used my name, my reputation, and my resources to terrorize your family. That makes it my debt.”
“He framed me three years ago,” Emily said, her voice shaking as the reality finally began to sink in. “He was the chairman of the hospital’s ethics committee. He told me if I didn't sign the confession, he would have my father indicted for federal conspiracy.”
“Because Victor was running a stolen prescription drug ring through the hospital pharmacy,” Nicolas explained coldly. “He was using the narcotics to bribe city officials and judges. When the inventory control system flagged the missing hydromorphone, he needed a scapegoat immediately. Someone vulnerable. Someone whose father was already swimming in debt.”
Emily squeezed her eyes shut, hot tears escaping down her cheeks. “I gave up everything. My career. My self-respect. My whole life. I thought I was saving my dad.”
“You were saving him,” Nicolas said, turning to face her fully. He reached out, his large, rough hand gently grasping her shoulder. “You sacrificed your life for a man you loved. There is no shame in that, Emily. The only shame belongs to the parasites who took advantage of your goodness.”
Emily looked up into his dark eyes. For months, she had feared this man. She had walked quietly past his office door, terrified of making a sound. Now, standing on the deck of a medical ship in the middle of the night, she saw him clearly for the first time.
“What are you going to do to Victor?” she asked softly.
Nicolas’s expression turned to carved stone. “Victor thought he was smart enough to destroy my empire from the inside while using an innocent woman as collateral damage. Tomorrow morning, I am going to show him how wrong he was.”
He looked down at her. “But first, you are going to get some rest.”
“I can't leave my father,” she protested.
“Your father is being moved to the private recovery suite in the main house,” Nicolas said firmly. “He will have two private nurses watching him twenty-four hours a day. And you... you are done sleeping in the staff quarters.”
May you like
Emily blinked. “Mr. Bellano—”
“Nicolas,” he corrected her gently. “My name is Nicolas. And from this moment on, you are no longer a employee in this house, Emily. You are a guest.”
