Chapter 3

Five Years Later

Five years had passed since the night Isabella Moreau’s world shattered into pieces.

Five years of struggle, sleepless nights, scraped-together survival, and relentless determination.

Five years of raising her son Ethan alone.

Now, Dr. Isabella Moreau stood in Operating Room 3 at St. Catherine Medical Center, her hands steady inside a patient’s open chest. The trauma bay had been absolute chaos thirty minutes earlier, a motorcyclist who lost control on the rain-slicked streets of Valmont City. Multiple fractures. Massive internal bleeding. The kind of case that made lesser surgeons hesitate.

But Dr. Isabella Moreau didn’t hesitate.

“Clamp,” she said, her voice calm and precise, cutting through the tension in the room.

The surgical resident beside her moved quickly, eyes wide with a mix of awe and nerves. Blood pulsed beneath her gloved fingers as she located the source of the hemorrhage. Her movements were efficient, almost elegant, the result of years spent honing her skills in the unforgiving world of trauma surgery.

“Dr. Moreau, pressure’s dropping,” the anesthesiologist warned.

“I see it.” She didn’t look up. “Suction. More light.”

The room fell into that focused silence she had come to love. The steady beeps of monitors, the quiet commands, the metallic clink of instruments. This was where she felt most in control. Here, in the eye of someone else’s storm, she could save lives even when her own had once felt beyond saving.

Minutes stretched into a delicate dance between life and death. Sweat beaded on her forehead beneath her surgical cap, but her hands never wavered. She worked with the quiet confidence of someone who had fought her way through rock bottom and emerged stronger. No longer the broken young woman who had been disowned and abandoned. She was Dr. Isabella Moreau now, one of St. Catherine’s youngest and most respected trauma surgeons.

Finally, she tied off the last vessel and stepped back slightly.

“Pressure stabilizing,” the anesthesiologist announced, audible relief in his voice.

Isabella allowed herself one slow, controlled breath. “Close him up. Nice work, everyone.”

The team exhaled collectively. A few quiet congratulations rippled through the room as she stripped off her bloody gloves and gown. Another life pulled back from the brink. It never got old.

She had barely stepped into the scrub room when the overhead intercom crackled to life.

“Dr. Moreau to Trauma Bay One. Stat. Multiple gunshot wounds incoming. High priority.”

Isabella froze for half a second, then moved. She grabbed a fresh gown and headed straight for the bay, her sneakers squeaking against the polished floors.

The hospital corridors were already erupting into controlled panic. Nurses rushed past pushing crash carts. Security guards flooded the halls in unusual numbers, their faces tense and alert. Something big was happening, bigger than a typical gang-related shooting.

“What’s going on?” Isabella asked a passing resident as she tied her gown.

The young doctor’s voice dropped to a hush. “Black SUVs just pulled up outside. Security’s on full lockdown. Someone whispered that… the Devil is here.”

Isabella frowned. “The Devil?”

No one elaborated. The name hung in the air like smoke, feared, whispered, never fully explained. Valmont City had plenty of shadows, but this one felt different. Heavier. More dangerous.

She pushed through the double doors into the trauma bay just as the first wave of chaos hit. Paramedics burst in with a gurney, shouting vitals. Blood soaked through white sheets. Alarms blared. Orders flew in every direction.

“Gunshot to the chest! Possible cardiac involvement!”

“BP crashing!”

Isabella moved on instinct, stepping up to the main table. “Let’s get him stabilized. I need—”

The operating room doors at the far end of the bay swung open with a heavy whoosh.

Another gurney was rushed in, this one surrounded by men in dark suits who moved with military precision. The patient was massive, broad-shouldered, powerfully built. Blood stained his expensive shirt. An oxygen mask covered half his face. IV lines snaked across his body.

Isabella looked up.

Time stopped.

Her hands froze mid-motion, still reaching for fresh gloves.

It was him.

The stranger from that rain-soaked night five years ago. The man whose face she had only seen in fragments, dark hair, intense eyes, the ghost of strong arms catching her. The father of her son.

Even pale and bleeding, he radiated danger. The kind of presence that commanded rooms without a single word.

The Devil.

Around her, the hospital staff moved faster, voices rising in urgency. But Isabella couldn’t look away. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Memories crashed over her, the taste of rain and desperation, the heat of unfamiliar hands, the silver cufflink she still kept hidden in her jewelry box at home.

Ethan’s eyes.

Ethan’s stubborn chin.

This man had given her son those features.

And now he was dying on her table.

The room spun with shouts and beeping monitors, but all Isabella could hear was the roar of blood in her own ears. She stood frozen, hands hovering, as the truth settled over her like ice water.

He was here.

Their eyes met for one electrifying second. Recognition flashed across both faces, raw, undeniable.

Before either of them could speak, he lost consciousness.

The monitors began screaming.