Chapter 2

I spent eight long years in prison, taking the fall for my ex-husband's mistress.

The day I was released, he cornered me in a local pharmacy with a swarm of media cameras behind him. His eyes were red, and he dropped to his knees right in front of the flashing lenses, looking deeply devoted.

"Amara, I have waited eight years for you. Let's get remarried."

Dozens of blinding camera flashes went off in my face, nearly blinding me.

Reporters aggressively shoved microphones right into my face.

"Miss Sterling. Dr. Julian Vance has remained single for eight years just for you. He even wore your wedding ring to the International Medical Summit. You have been dodging him. Doesn't your conscience hurt?"

"As the felon who killed a patient back then, shouldn't you be on your knees thanking Dr. Vance for his deep devotion now that you are out?"

I stared at the man in front of me, dressed in his expensive, custom-tailored suit. My stomach churned with pure disgust.

Eight years ago, I was the youngest chief trauma surgeon in New York.

But just three days before Julian and I were supposed to register our marriage.

His little assistant, Chloe Miller, made a fatal mistake during an operation. She accidentally severed a major artery, causing a VIP patient to bleed to death on the table.

To protect Chloe, who was already pregnant with his child, Julian personally fabricated the surgical logs. He used my sick parents' lives to blackmail me into taking the plea deal.

Then, he played the righteous hero in court. Tears in his eyes, he personally testified against me and sent me to a maximum-security prison.

He climbed to the top over my shattered bones. Now, he was the powerful Chief of Medicine at New York Grace Hospital.

Meanwhile, my right hand had been brutally broken in prison by inmates he hired. The nerves were completely ruined.

Now, my hand shook so badly I couldn't even hold a medicine bottle steady.

Julian remained on one knee on the dirty, muddy tile floor, holding a bouquet of bright red roses.

The roses were dripping wet, their deep red color looking exactly like the blood that wouldn't stop gushing from the patient's artery on the operating table eight years ago.

"Amara, come home with me. Whenever you're ready, you can always come back to the hospital." His voice cracked, his eyes brimming with tears.

But as he leaned forward under the pretense of handing me the flowers.

He whispered in my ear, his voice dropping to a freezing, ruthless murmur that only I could hear.

"Amara, the hospital is up for the national prestigious ranking this week. If you dare reject me in front of these cameras, believe me, I'll pull the plug on your father's ventilator tomorrow."

My body went completely numb. Staring at this monster, my teeth rattled with pure rage.

This was his so-called "deep devotion."

The reporters were still swooning over his greatness, some even tearing up at the scene.

I clenched my crippled right hand, preparing to tear his hypocritical mask off even if it cost me my life.

But a sudden cry broke the silence.