Chapter 2 - The Surgeon’s Secret Monitor
Dr. Priyanka Oay pulled a thin tablet from her lab coat pocket, tapping the screen to illuminate a high-definition medical imaging feed. “Good,” the doctor said, her voice sharp with professional satisfaction. “Because your husband just walked out of this hospital believing he pulled off the con of the decade. And when he realizes what is actually waiting for him upstairs in the VIP surgical suite, he is going to lose his mind.” I swung my legs over the side of the hospital bed, wincing only slightly as my core muscles engaged. Just forty-eight hours ago, Thad and Marisol had wept crocodile tears in the family consultation lounge, begging me to undergo immediate pre-screening because my rare blood type matched their ailing mother, Eleanor Bromel. They had promised me the moon—eternal security, love, and a permanent place in the Bromel dynasty. The moment I woke up from surgery, my kidney successfully filtering life into Eleanor, Thad had dropped the divorce papers like a used tissue.
“Let’s review the ledger before we make our grand entrance,” Dr. Oay said, turning the tablet toward me. On the screen was a detailed genetic sequencing report and a legal trust document bearing my maiden name: Coraly Ashworth. What the Bromels never bothered to check—blinded by their own arrogant belief that anyone marrying into their mortuary fortune must be financially destitute—was my true lineage. I wasn't just an orphan art teacher from a modest background. My grandfather was Arthur Ashworth, the legendary industrialist and biomedical billionaire who had endowed this entire hospital wing and secretly held the primary commercial mortgages on every single piece of real estate the Bromel family owned, including their historic funeral home and sprawling ancestral estate.
“Thad thinks he’s cutting off a penniless dependent,” I whispered, sliding my feet into my slippers. “He thinks he’s secured his mother’s organ while casting me aside with zero alimony or property rights.” Dr. Oay grinned, tapping a secondary folder on her tablet. “He didn't read the fine print on the organ donation consent rider you signed with my private legal counsel last week, did he?” I shook my head, feeling a cold, thrilling rush of adrenaline clear away the lingering surgical fog. “No. He was too busy rehearsing his cold divorce speech.” Dr. Oay walked over to the door, unlocked the deadbolt, and pulled it open a crack. “Your attorney, Talia Brennan, is waiting in the corridor with the bailiff and the federal auditors. Shall we go remind the Bromels who actually owns the ground they walk on?” I straightened the hospital gown over my shoulders, stood tall, and walked out of the recovery room ready to collect my pound of flesh.
