Chapter 4

Four days after I hung up that phone call, my life was as still as stagnant water.

Clock in, clock out, review charts, perform surgeries.

My routine was so regular it bordered on boring.

But for the first time, this monotony brought me an unprecedented sense of peace.

I stopped deliberately asking about Jonathan.

But a hospital was never truly isolated. It had walls, corridors, and endless whispers that traveled faster than any official announcement.

I heard that he still hadn't regained consciousness.

I heard that Sophie had been sitting by his bedside day and night, refusing to leave, moving the entire Grant family to tears with her devotion.

I heard that Grant Group's stock had started to plummet after news of its heir's critical condition spread.

None of that had anything to do with me anymore.

That afternoon, I had just finished a six-hour nerve repair surgery.

When I stepped out of the operating room and removed my mask, every bone in my body felt like it was about to collapse from exhaustion.

My assistant, Emily Bennett, handed me a cup of water.

"Excellent work, Dr. Evans," she said.

I nodded, accepting the cup. "How's the patient?"

"Stable. They've been moved to the ICU for monitoring."

"Good."

I leaned against the hallway wall and took slow sips of water, letting myself recover for a moment.

That was when an impeccably dressed woman approached from the other end of the corridor, surrounded by several bodyguards in black suits.

It was Jonathan's mother, Margaret Grant.

My former mother-in-law.

She stopped in front of me and waved her security team away.

Within seconds, the hallway was empty except for the two of us.

Her expression was unreadable. There was scrutiny in her eyes, along with a trace of anxiety, but not a hint of warmth.

She'd never liked me.

In her eyes, I was nothing more than an ordinary doctor from an ordinary background who had used the opportunity of saving her son's life to climb into the Grant family.

"Claire," she said, her voice icy and distant, just like always.

I said nothing. I simply looked at her and waited.

I expected her to blame me the way Alex had. I expected accusations, guilt trips, maybe even tears.

But Margaret Grant was not that kind of woman.

She reached into her Hermès Birkin, pulled out a document folder, and held it toward me.

"This is the divorce agreement," she said.

I raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised.

She continued in a purely businesslike tone, "Half of the properties under Jonathan's name will be transferred to you.

"His five percent stake in Grant Corporation will also be transferred into your name.

"In addition, you will receive 300 million dollars in cash as compensation."

She stared directly into my eyes. "The condition is simple. You save his life."

I laughed softly.

Of course. This was Margaret. The woman who had helped control the Grant family empire for years.

A woman who never lost her composure, never acted on impulse, and never made a move without calculating the outcome.

She knew emotional appeals would never work on me.

So she offered me a deal.

I didn't reach for the documents.

Instead, I finished my water, tossed the empty cup into the trash, and said calmly, "Not enough."

Margaret's face darkened. "Claire, don't mistake my patience for weakness."

I met her gaze without flinching. "I don't want your money."

My eyes dropped briefly to the agreement in her hand. "First, we sign the divorce papers today. I want my freedom immediately.

"Second, Jonathan needs to issue a public apology to the media. For the humiliation that night, and for the hell he put me through these past three years.

"Third, after the surgery, I am completely done with him and the Grant family. We cut all ties forever. None of you will ever disrupt my life again."

Watching her expression sour instantly, I delivered my final ultimatum. "Those are my terms. This isn't a negotiation, Margaret.

"Agree to them, and I scrub in. Refuse, and you can start planning his funeral."

Margaret's chest heaved with barely contained rage.

She had probably never been spoken to like this in her entire life.

She glared at me, her eyes practically shooting flames.

We stood there in a tense standoff.

The draft in the hallway made the hem of my white coat flutter.

After a long beat, she squeezed out one word through gritted teeth. "Deal."