My ex-husband was on the phone, begging me to save his son. His opening line was a thirty-million-dollar offer.

Even after fifteen years, I recognized David’s voice instantly.

"You’re just a academic," he said, his tone as insufferably arrogant as ever. "Could you make thirty million in a lifetime?"

Fifteen years ago, David decided I wasn't pretty enough or rich enough. Worse, he couldn't stand our chronically ill daughter, viewing her medical bills as an anchor dragging him down. So he walked out and married into old money.

Then, when his new wife's child needed a heart, David took our daughter’s.

I spent the next decade and a half buried in research, driven by a quiet, burning obsession. I finally conquered the hereditary degenerative gene disease that had rendered me helpless as a young mother. I published my findings, offering full technical protocols to any patient in need, free of charge.

Until the boy who stole my daughter’s heart was diagnosed with the exact same condition.

When David submitted a request for my treatment protocols, I tore the paperwork to shreds and rejected him on the spot.

On the phone, his voice bristled with entitlement. "Name your price. We don’t need your charity. As long as my son recovers, no amount is too much."

I let out a cold laugh, staring at the framed photograph of my late daughter resting on my desk.

"Anyone else," I whispered. "Never him."

…

The second I hung up, I submitted my resignation.

And I demanded to take the proprietary gene-recombination protocols with me.

Mark, the head of the research facility, sat behind his mahogany desk, his mouth slightly agape.

"Dr. Sullivan, that boy meets every single criteria for your free technical support program," Mark said, his voice laced with disbelief. "Why are you refusing him? And why walk away with the technology now?"

I kept my face entirely impassive.

"Mark, my only condition when I partnered with this institute was that I retained one hundred percent authority over the gene-recombination technology. I know my refusal puts the institute in a difficult position with high-profile donors. That’s why I’m leaving."

I laid my formal resignation letter on the blotter and turned to walk out.

Behind me, Mark’s voice rose in frustration. "You’ve approved every single patient without hesitation. Why is this boy any different?"

I didn't turn around.

"Because it’s him," I answered silently. "Only him."

My mind drifted back to the formal medical request David had submitted—the desperate, blood-soaked entreaties typed onto heavy cardstock. A wave of nausea hit me so hard I rushed into the executive restroom and dry-heaved over a porcelain sink.

David Vaughn calling himself a father who would give everything for his child?

It was laughable. It was sickening.

Years ago, when he abandoned me for lack of money, I didn't hold a grudge. When he resented our sick daughter, I told myself that prolonged illness wears down even the strongest bonds. I didn't curse him then.

But he sacrificed my little girl to save another woman's child.

Back then, he had looked me in the eye and said, "Joy was going to die anyway. Giving up her heart means saving a life."

I splashed ice-cold water over my face. Turning off the faucet, I looked into the mirror, but the cold water did nothing to extinguish the rage burning inside my chest.

In this world, I would save anyone.

Except them.

Holding a box of my personal belongings, I walked out through the main gates of the institute.

Engine roaring, a crimson sports car suddenly slammed its accelerator, barreling straight toward me.

I couldn't dodge in time. My foot caught on the curb, and I tumbled hard onto the asphalt.

The car screeched to a halt less than two feet from my legs.

The driver’s side window slid down, revealing a face etched with cruel amusement. "I told you on the phone, Dr. Sullivan. Refusing to save my son won't end well for you."

I would know that voice anywhere.

David.

Seeing him again after fifteen years made my fingers clench into tight, trembling fists.

He didn't even bother getting out of the car. He sat behind the leather wheel, dripping with arrogance.

"The board just ousted you," he sneered. "I wrote the institute a check for thirty million. My son will be receiving the gene-recombination therapy tomorrow."

He leaned closer to the window, his eyes narrowing. "As for a heartless doctor like you who lets a child suffer—I’ve made sure no medical institution in Seattle will ever employ you again. You’ll be driven out of this city like a stray dog."

I let out a low, dry laugh as I pulled myself up off the pavement.

"Is that so? Then I wish your son a speedy recovery."

Hearing my voice, David paused. He stared at me intently, his eyes tracing the contours of my face. But in the end, he didn't recognize me.

A severe chemical exposure in the lab years ago had severely burned my face, leaving it swollen for nearly a year. By the time the skin healed, my features had completely altered.

And my name had changed, too.

David stroked his chin, confused by the unfamiliar face, before trying a different angle.

"Dr. Sullivan, I hear you’ve been looking to buy a specific burial plot overlooking the ocean, but the current owners refuse to sell."

He paused, a smug smile touching his lips. "I also hear your late daughter wished to rest near the water. We bought that plot for you. Save my son, and you can finally fulfill your daughter's dying wish."

A bitter laugh escaped my throat. He had actually dug into my past.

If it hadn't been for him, I would have taken Joy to see the ocean while she was still breathing. What use was an empty piece of land now?

"Mr. Vaughn," I said, my voice dripping with disdain. "You certainly go to great lengths for an adopted son."

"I have always considered him my flesh and blood," David snapped, his voice tight. "Try to understand a father's heart, Dr. Sullivan. I would tear the world apart for him."

"Tear the world apart?"

It was sickening.

Watching David’s eyes turn slightly bloodshot with dramatic emotion, I felt the thin thread of my sanity fraying. If I stayed here a second longer, I would strangle him with my bare hands.

"Never," I spat out, turning on my heel and walking away.