Chapter 1I was thirteen when I finally got a heart that could save my life.
Ten minutes before surgery, they took it away. "Emergency requisition," they said.
The recipient? A billionaire heiress. The precious only daughter of the nation's most powerful family.
My parents collapsed to their knees, begging.
"She'll die without that heart!"
"Please! We'll do ANYTHING!"
I'll never forget the way they looked at us.
"Some worthless TRASH, compared to my daughter?"
"If she dies, she dies. Stop making a SCENE!"
I survived three more months on medication alone, barely clinging to life until another heart became available.
Twenty years later, I became the nation's top cardiac transplant surgeon.
That day, the hospital director personally delivered an emergency consent form to my office.
When I saw the familiar name on the signature line, I smiled.
I tossed it onto my desk.
"This surgery. I'm not taking it."
...
The director's smile froze.
"Dr. Summers, this is urgent! You're the only one in the country who can do this secondary transplant repair."
I flipped open my schedule and cut him off:
"I'm fully booked. If they want me, they can wait in line."
I meant it as a polite refusal. But he heard hesitation.
He immediately leaned in, tone shifting to accommodating:
"We can move your later surgery to someone else!"
I looked up.
"Move it to who, exactly?"
He choked.
Because everyone knew.
My later case was ALSO a surgery ONLY I could perform.
The difference? That one was pro bono.
A child with end-stage heart failure.
After two years of waiting, he'd finally been matched.
But his father died in a construction accident. His mom was working herself to the bone just to cover the bills.
I'd personally helped the child get emergency care approval.
How typical.
Twenty years. Same game.
Poor people's lives were still worthless to them.
The director's face darkened. He was past caring now.
"You have NO IDEA who the patient is!"
"The Whitmore family's only daughter! Her mother's people have controlled this city for THREE GENERATIONS!"
"Her father runs the biggest medical empire on the planet! You know those research grants keeping this hospital afloat? ALL Whitmore money!"
I laughed out loud.
"So? Rich people's lives are worth MORE?"
His expression shifted.
"That's not—"
"So what's your point, then?"
I locked eyes with him.
"There's a kid who's been waiting two years. And there's a billionaire's daughter."
"You didn't even think twice before telling me to kick that kid off the table."
"Director, how much did they pay you?"
"Summers!"
His face went dark.
"Watch yourself!"
I smirked and looked back down at my files, ignoring him.
Silence.
Finally, he softened his tone.
"Dr. Summers. Be smart about this."
"If the surgery succeeds, the Whitmore will fully fund next year's cardiac center expansion."
"Plus, you'll personally receive five million!"
He held up five fingers.
"And the International Medical Association—they can pull strings for you."
"Haven't you been trying for the Global Transplant Medicine Lifetime Achievement Award?"
"One word from the Whitmore beats ten years of your work!"
I listened.
Then wanted to laugh.
Twenty years ago—power got them my heart.
Today—they think money will get them my scalpel. My soul.
I didn't move an inch.
"My answer's still no."
"Director. You should leave. Don't mess with my schedule."
His chest heaved violently. He pointed at me, finger shaking, too furious to speak.
Finally slammed the door and stormed out.
His apologetic voice drifted back from the hallway.
Then, less than five minutes later—
The door burst open again.
The director rushed in, sweating, practically shoving his phone in my face.
"Dr. Summers, Mr. Whitmore himself wants to talk to you."
A slow smile spread across my face.
I took the phone.
A man's voice came through:
"Dr. Summers, I know this is last-minute, but my daughter's condition is critical. Please—"
A shrill female voice cut him off.
"Why waste time on HER?!"
"She's just a DOCTOR! A nobody with a scalpel! Does she actually think she MATTERS?!"
Chapter 2
I recognized it immediately. Victoria Ashford.
Her voice was sharp, venomous, dripping with contempt.
Twenty years, and she sounded exactly like her mother.
I heard rustling. She'd snatched the phone from her husband.
"I'm ORDERING you to operate on my daughter immediately!"
"We're GIVING you this opportunity! Don't push your luck!"
I laughed.
Typical. Even when begging, this is how the rich operate.
How did my parents beg back then?
They KNELT. Gave up every shred of dignity.
Slammed their heads into the ground until they bled.
I still remember—after they stole my heart, my parents went insane.
They begged everyone. Doctors. Department heads. The director himself.
Finally, one doctor cracked. Told us the truth.
A VIP patient had taken my donor. The hospital couldn't say no to people that powerful. There was nothing they could do.
My parents threw themselves at the OR doors, blocking the entrance with their bodies.
"That girl can WAIT! She's STABLE!"
"But our daughter is DYING! Right NOW!"
"Please! We'll do ANYTHING! Work for you! Pay you back! Just PLEASE—!"
Again and again.
Their foreheads split open. Blood pooling on the white tile floor.
Victoria's mother jerked back in disgust, yanking her designer skirt away from my mother's grasp.
"Get your FILTHY hands off me!"
"Your kind are VERMIN. Stop this pathetic SCENE!"
Mr. Ashford beside her sneered down at them.
"Blame yourselves."
"Your daughter was born to inherit your poverty. Your insignificance. That's just how the world works."
He pulled out a check and let it fall at my father's feet.
"Fifty thousand. More than generous for a life like hers. Take it and leave."
My parents, shaking with rage, tore it to pieces.
I refused to accept it. Why should I just roll over and DIE?!
I fought death every single day.
A month later, my heart gave out again. Emergency.
Tubes everywhere. Couldn't even speak.
That's when I saw HER.
At my hospital room door—Victoria Whitmore, rosy-cheeked and radiant, already wearing a princess dress.
Before discharge, they'd walked across half the floor just to watch me suffer.
Victoria's parents pointed at me.
"Victoria, see that? Society's lowest. The DREGS."
"You were born a princess. Never acknowledge people like this. They're INSECTS."
Victoria tilted her head, staring at me with cold curiosity.
"Daddy, why is she still alive? When will she die?"
I carved that memory into my brain with a knife.
Hatred for the Whitmore family kept me breathing through every relapse. Every time my heart tried to quit.
Every. Single. Night.
"HELLO?! Are you LISTENING to me?!"
"God, dealing with you people is exhausting! No manners! No CLASS!"
Victoria's shrieking snapped me back to the present.
I laughed coldly.
"Miss Whitmore."
"Is THIS how you ask for help?"
She sounded like I'd told the world's funniest joke.
"Ask for help?"
"You really think you're IMPORTANT, don't you?"
"You're a glorified BUTCHER with a medical degree! The Whitmore family is giving you a PRIVILEGE!"
"Know your place. We don't NEED you."
I grinned wider.
"Since Miss Whitmore is so capable, then find someone else."
I hung up.
And physically shoved the director out of my office.
Victoria's daughter's surgery—I'm the ONLY surgeon in the country who can perform it.
And given her condition, she can't survive a transatlantic flight for surgery abroad.
Flying in a foreign surgeon? Months of red tape. Visa approvals. Facility certifications.
How many months can her daughter wait?
Twenty years. I've spent twenty years fantasizing about destroying the Whitmore family.
Never thought Victoria would just walk right into my hands.
If I weren't at work, I'd be laughing my ass off.
Chapter 3
Three days later, they came crawling back.
I'd just finished rounds when I found them waiting in my office—Victoria Ashford and her husband.
Mr. Whitmore stepped forward first.
"Dr. Summers, my wife spoke out of turn the other day. She was... emotional."
"We'd like to apologize. And discuss whether there's still hope for our daughter's surgery."
Then right on cue, Victoria's face crumpled. Tears started streaming.
"Dr. Summers... I was wrong. I know that now. I was desperate, I—"
"My daughter is only eight years old! She's... she's everything to us! The Whitmore and Ashford families—we waited so long for her! Please—don't punish her for MY mistakes! Please save her..."
Her shoulders shook. Tears poured down her cheeks.
To anyone watching, she'd look like a desperate mother on her knees, begging for her child's life.
But I saw it.
When she ducked her head to wipe her eyes—the cold, venomous HATRED burning underneath.
I let her finish her performance.
Then I said calmly:
"Mrs. Whitmore."
"The hospital has procedures. All patients wait their turn."
Her face went rigid.
"But my daughter CAN'T wait!"
"Her condition is critical!"
I nodded, my tone professionally airtight.
"I understand. ALL my patients are critical. Every single one."
"If your daughter needs me to operate, follow proper channels. Make an appointment. I'll schedule her according to the queue."
Something dark flickered across Victoria's face.
Then she suddenly raised her voice:
"Dr. Summers, you're refusing to save a dying child?! Where are your ETHICS?!"
A crowd formed outside my office door.
Phones out. Whispering. Filming.
Ah. So this is the play.
I didn't flinch. Looked straight into the nearest camera.
"Your daughter is precious. I get it."
"But so is every other child waiting for surgery."
"You want me to break hospital rules. Jump her to the front of the line."
"What happens to the kid whose surgery slot gets stolen? Should they just wait to DIE?"
"Or do you think—"
I locked eyes with Victoria.
"Because your daughter comes from the Whitmore and Ashford dynasties—"
"Her life is worth MORE than a dozen ordinary children's?"
"Everyone else should just get out of the way and DIE so YOUR child can live first?"
The atmosphere turned deadly.
The families standing in the hallway—watching, listening—their expressions changed.
This was cardiac surgery.
Everyone here had someone fighting for their life.
Why the hell should money buy you a place at the front?
Mr. Whitmore's smile finally cracked.
He understood exactly what I'd done.
If Victoria kept pushing, it would look like the Whitmore and Ashford families publicly believed ordinary people's lives were worthless.
Whether or not that's what they actually thought—
That kind of PR disaster could NOT be allowed.
Whitmore snapped his fingers at the bodyguards.
"Clear the hall. Nothing that happened here leaves this floor."
Several bodyguards moved in, shooing people away, confiscating phones.
My office went quiet again.
Whitmore took a slow, controlled breath.
When he turned back to me, the warm mask had slipped back into place.
"Dr. Summers. You've misunderstood us."
"We would NEVER belittle other patients."
"Since the hospital has... procedures, we'll respect that."
He paused.
"For now."
"As for the surgery—we'll explore other options. We won't trouble you further."
But beside him, Victoria was about to explode.
Whitmore grabbed her arm and forcibly dragged her toward the door.
She whipped around at the threshold.
Eyes full of pure, murderous HATRED.
"You'll REGRET this!" she spat. "I'll make you PAY!"
"This isn't OVER!"
