Ex-Wife Ruined My Career, Then Begged for Help

I hung up on Blaire Sutton.

The living room was pitch black, save for a single cigarette burning on the coffee table, its ember glowing faintly in the dark, then dimming again.

A moment later, my phone lit up once more, Blaire's name flashing frantically across the screen.

I picked it up and switched it off entirely.

Pulling an old spare phone from the drawer, I swapped in a SIM card known only to my department's staff.

Five minutes later, a frantic pounding shook the front door, followed by a series of violent kicks.

"Asher Whitlock! Get your ass out here!"

Blaire's furious shrieking echoed through the door, mixed with another woman's desperate wailing in a chaotic din.

I stubbed out the cigarette, stood up, walked to the entryway, and pulled the door open.

Four or five people stood out in the hallway.

Blaire was utterly drenched, her expensive silk trench coat plastered to her body, leaving her looking a mess. Beside her stood Malcolm Pierce's mother, Margaret Holloway, being held up by two burly men.

"Asher, you think you're a big shot now, huh? How dare you hang up on me!"

Blaire threw her hand up and swung it toward my face.

I raised my arm, blocking her wrist, and used her momentum to give her a firm shove. Her high heel slipped, sending her crashing onto the puddled floor of the hallway.

"Are you out of your mind, Asher?" a distant relative of the Pierces barked, taking a step forward and jabbing a finger at my face. "Keep it up, and I swear to God I'll tear this dump apart!"

All of a sudden, Margaret lunged forward, grabbing me by the collar. "Dr. Whitlock, I'm begging you! Malcolm is dying. Have some mercy, please. Come to the hospital and save him!"

I stared down at the wrinkled hands gripping my shirt.

Just five days ago, in the emergency room, these same hands had locked onto my arm while I was holding the defibrillator paddles.

"My son is bleeding! Are you blind?" she'd shrieked.

Now, I simply peeled her hands off my collar. "Mrs. Pierce, you have the wrong guy."

Blaire pushed herself up from the floor, her face smeared with muddy water. She reached into her limited-edition handbag, pulled out a bank card, and threw it at my chest.

It smacked against me and dropped to the floor.

"There's 500,000 dollars on that card," Blaire said, her eyes bloodshot as she glared at me. "Asher, I know you're angry, but that money is more than enough for you to buy a decent place.

"You're performing the surgery today, whether you like it or not. Just save Malcolm, and we'll call it even on everything from the past."

I looked down at the mud-streaked card.

500,000 dollars.

Two years ago, as the hospital's administrative supervisor, Blaire had taken it upon herself to redirect the last two bags of blood that were meant for my sister.

She gave them to Malcolm instead, who had a minor stomach bleed after a night of heavy drinking.

At the time, she told me, "Don't be so petty, Asher. It's just bad luck your sister ended up in a multi-car pileup."

My sister, Adriana Whitlock, was only 19 years old when she bled out on the operating table.

Her entire life was dismissed in Blaire's eyes as nothing more than bad luck.

And now, Malcolm's life was worth 500,000 dollars.

I stepped on the card, grinding it hard into the dirt.

"Take your money back," I said, looking Blaire dead in the eye. "I don't have a medical license anymore."