The Masked Surgeon: My Husband's Ultimate Regret

The slender plastic stick clattered against the marble bottom of the wastebasket, the sound echoing in the cavernous, silent bathroom. Two pink lines stared up at Ellie, stark and unforgiving. She gripped the edge of the cold marble vanity, her knuckles white, and took a deep, shuddering breath. There was only one path forward.

She had known this day might come. But every time before, she had been meticulous. This slip‑up could only mean one thing: her body and her mind had been worn down by this marriage to their breaking point.

The pregnancy had to be terminated, and this marriage had to end.

Not because she didn't want it—quite the opposite. Deep in some long‑buried corner of her heart, she had even secretly wished for a child of her own flesh and blood. But that child could never be born inside this gilded cage, could never become her vulnerability.

Three years. Three years of playing the gentle, compliant wife from rural Montana, enduring her husband's cold indifference, his family's contempt, and a lethal risk that could expose her secret at any moment. Julian Hayes didn't need her—he needed a vase to display in his home. And she had never been a vase.

Ellie turned on the faucet, the chrome handle cool beneath her trembling fingers. Ice-cold water rushed over her hands, a temporary shock to a system already overloaded. She splashed her face, the chill doing little to calm the frantic hummingbird wings of her heart.

Lifting her head, Ellie met her own eyes in the mirror. Her face was pale, a stark contrast to the luxurious silk of the nightgown that draped her frame-a gift from her husband-Julian, like everything else in this gilded cage. The confusion that had clouded her eyes for months was gone, replaced by a sheet of ice. A cold, hard certainty.

Ellie's fingers went to her neck, to the delicate diamond necklace that was the symbol of her status as Mrs. Hayes. The clasp bit into the skin of her nape as she tore it off. She tossed it onto the vanity, where it lay glittering and obscene next to a porcelain soap dish.

Barefoot, she walked out of the bathroom, the plush Persian rug silencing her steps. The master bedroom was vast, a monument to wealth and emptiness. She crossed it without a glance at the king-sized bed she no longer shared with Julian, heading straight for the walk-in closet.

It was a room in itself, lined with racks of haute couture gowns and designer shoes, all arranged by color and season. She ignored them all. Reaching up to the highest shelf, hidden behind a row of hat boxes, she pulled down a dusty, worn canvas duffel bag. It still smelled faintly of Montana dust and pine. The zipper snagged. She yanked it hard, the harsh, tearing sound ripping through the quiet.

She grabbed a few soft cotton t-shirts and a pair of worn jeans, stuffing them into the bag. Her hands deliberately bypassed the silks and cashmeres that filled the space. A strange sense of lightness filled her chest, the first real breath she'd taken in three years.

A soft, distinct ding echoed from the hallway. The private elevator. Her spine went rigid. He wasn't supposed to be home for hours.

Shoving the duffel bag back into its hiding place, she smoothed down her nightgown and walked out of the closet, through the long bedroom, and toward the main living area.

She reached the edge of the enormous living room just as the ornate double doors to the foyer swung open. Julian Hayes strode in, his presence sucking the air from the room. He shrugged off his custom-tailored Tom Ford suit jacket, tossing it to the waiting butler without a word, his movements sharp with irritation.

His gaze swept the room and landed on her. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, held no warmth. They assessed her the way he would a stock that was underperforming, an asset about to be liquidated. The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

He crossed the marble floor, the sharp click-clack of his leather shoes the only sound. He didn't stop until he was standing over the glass coffee table that separated them.

From his leather briefcase, he pulled a thick manila envelope. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it skidding across the glass. It stopped inches from her bare feet. The embossed logo of a top Manhattan law firm seemed to burn into her retinas. She took an involuntary step back.

Julian shoved his hands in his pockets, looking down at her. "I want this marriage to be over," he said. His voice was flat, devoid of any emotion, as if he were discussing a quarterly report.

Ellie looked down at the envelope. She had expected this, dreamed of it even, but she had always imagined a searing pain in her chest. Instead, there was only a dull ache in her lower abdomen, a secret reminder of the new life that made this ending not just necessary, but urgent.

She bent down, her fingers closing around the stiff paper. The edges were sharp. She pulled out the document inside. Fifty pages. A divorce agreement.

Sitting on the edge of the cream-colored sofa, she scanned the first page, the clauses detailing the division of assets-or rather, the lack thereof for her. A bitter, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips.

Julian watched her, a slight frown creasing his brow. This wasn't the reaction he'd anticipated. Her silence was unsettling.

Ellie reached for the Montblanc pen resting in a holder on the table. She uncapped it, the metal nib catching the light from the chandelier above.

She flipped to the final page, to the line designated for her signature. There was no hesitation. The pen met the paper with a soft, scratching sound. Ellie Hayes.

Julian took a step forward, trying to see what she was doing, his view obscured by the curtain of her long, dark hair. A strange flicker of annoyance went through him.

Finally, a voice said, dripping with relief and contempt. "I can finally get away from this arrogant bastard."

Julian froze. His head snapped up, his eyes darting around the massive, empty room. The butler was a silent statue by the far wall. There was no one else.

His breath hitched. He stared hard at Ellie, his gaze intense enough to burn.

She finished signing and closed the folder. Lifting her head, she met his wild, confused stare with a look of perfect, placid innocence. "Is there a problem?"

He swallowed, the sound loud in the silence. "Did you just say something?" His voice was tight, strained.

Ellie shook her head slowly, a picture of demure confusion.

Not only is he blind to who I really am, now he's hearing things, too, the voice sneered in his head, clear as a bell. Pathetic.

The words hit him like a physical blow. And they were coming from inside his own skull. He felt a dizzying wave of vertigo, the carefully constructed walls of his reality beginning to crack.