Hot Doctor

Two years ago in jonanesburg prison.

I was on the ground coughing blood, my legs cut and bones fractured, but the pain in my legs was nothing compared to the cold terror squeezing my throat.

There were three of them.

Three women whose faces had been hardened by years behind the concrete walls of Johannesburg prison cell.

They didn’t see me as a person, to them I was just another toy to break, a piece of soft, rich flesh to tear apart.

"Look at the little princess," one of them sneered.

"I'm sure you think you're better than the rest of us, you think being pretty and rich makes you any better than the rest of us," The biggest of them spat at me, "Don't worry princess, we'll make sure to teach you the way the world really works."

A boot slammed into my ribs making me gasp for air. I fell flat into my side, curling into a ball, trying to shield my face as the blows rained down.

Hands, rough and calloused, latched into the collar of my faded prison jumpsuit.

"No. Please, no." I begged sobbing heavily.

With a violent rip, the fabric tore down the middle.

They dragged it off my shoulders, stripping me bare right there in the center of the yard, under the harsh, blinding sun.

Dozens of inmates gathered in a circle, watching, laughing, or simply staring with dead eyes. The humiliation suffocated me, stripping away the last remaining shred of the girl who had once walked the halls of Qunnix Innovations.

I was entirely exposed.

Entirely helpless.

Broken in the dirt and the only thing that kept me going was the thought of seeing my son and the man I loved again.

For them, I would gladly walk through the fiery depths of hell in hopes of day reuniting with them.

"Amelia."

The voice was faint, drifting through the dark.

"Amelia, come back, You’re safe open your eyes."

My eyes snapped open.

I let out a sharp, panicked gasp, my hands instantly flying up to clutch at my chest, checking for the torn jumpsuit, checking for the dirt.

But my fingers met the soft, premium cotton of a clean button up shirt.

"Whoa, hey, easy, Breathe You’re okay," a gentle voice said.

I blinked wildly, trying to clear the fog from my brain.

I was lying in a massive, plush bed inside a room filled with high tech medical equipment.

Sitting on the edge of the mattress was a man. He looked to be right around my age, mid twenties, with a messy mop of sun kissed blonde hair and striking hazel eyes that crinkled at the corners with genuine concern.

He wore a crisp white lab coat over a casual sweater, a stethoscope draped around his neck.

He was undeniably beautiful, but unlike Jared’s sharp, dangerous beauty, this man looked... warm.

"Where... where am I?" I croaked, my throat feeling like it was lined with sandpaper.

I reached up to touch the side of my head, wincing as my fingers brushed against a thick, padded bandage just above my temple.

"You're in the medical wing of the Donovan estate," the man said, offering a small, reassuring smile.

He reached over, picked up a glass of water from the nightstand, and held it out to me. "I'm Logan. I'm the house doctor around here and, unfortunately for my sanity, I'm also Jared's cousin."

I hesitated before taking the glass, my hands still trembling slightly.

I swallowed the water greedily, letting the cool liquid soothe my burning throat. "Logan," I muttered, setting the glass down. "How did I get here? What happened?"

"You took a pretty nasty spill down the grand staircase," Logan said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs as he studied me with a professional yet highly attentive gaze.

"You’ve got a moderate concussion, a few bruised ribs, and some nasty scrapes on your back. Honestly, given the height of those stairs, you’re incredibly lucky you didn't break your neck. You’ve been out for about eight hours."

I looked outside the windows, it was already morning.

Then the memory came flooding back, the grand staircase, the violent push against the center of my back that had me tumbling down.

"I didn't fall," I hissed, my voice instantly hardening as I gripped the bedsheets. "I was pushed."

Logan raised a perfectly shaped blonde eyebrow. "Pushed? Are you sure, Amelia? You’ve been through a lot of trauma tonight. The sedative Jared’s men used on you can cause severe vertigo and balance issues—"

"I know the difference between losing my balance and feeling a pair of hands slam into my spine, Logan," I snapped, glaring at him.

I wasn't always this rude and impatient.

Spending time in a hardened prison would turn even a saint to the devil. "It was Claire. That psychotic, spoiled brat. I met her in the lobby right before it happened. I told her exactly what she was a temporary wife and she looked like she wanted to murder me. She followed me up those stairs and tried to kill me."

"Amelia, listen to me," Logan said, his tone dropping into something softer, gentler.

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the mattress, bringing his face closer to mine.

goodness he was beautiful.

were all Donovan's this hot?

"That is a incredibly heavy accusation to throw around in this house. Claire might be loud, selfish, and incredibly high maintenance, but attempting murder? That's a different league."

"You don't know what people are capable of when they're desperate," I whispered bitterly, looking away from him as images of Dean and Natalie flashed through my mind. "I've learned that the hard way."

"Maybe," Logan murmured, his hazel eyes locking into mine with an intensity that made my breath hitch. "But in medicine, and in the Donovan family, you don't make a single move until you have definitive proof. If you go throwing blind accusations at the shipping tycoon's daughter without a video clip or a witness, Jared’s lawyers won't be able to protect you from the defamation countersuit. Let me handle the security logs first, okay?"

I let out a ragged breath, leaning my head back against the pillows as the throbbing in my skull was getting worse. "Why are you being nice to me? You're a Donovan. Your cousin just blackmailed me into a marriage contract to steal my father's life's work."

Logan let out a soft, melodic chuckle that actually sounded genuinely amused. "First of all, I'm a doctor. I heal people, I don't corporate raid them. Second of all, Jared is a monster of his own making, but he's not stupid. He brought you here because you're valuable to him. And third..."

He tilted his head, a playful, decidedly flirtatious smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "...I have a massive weakness for fierce, brilliant women who aren't afraid to look death in the eye and smile."

"I wasn't smiling," I muttered, though I felt a strange, unfamiliar warmth bloom in my chest at his tone.

It had been years since anyone had looked at me with anything resembling warmth.

Everyone in prison looked at me with hunger, hatred, or pity.

Logan was looking at me like an actual person.

"Well, you've got a hell of a spark, Amelia Quinn," Logan murmured, his voice dropping as he reached out, his warm fingers gently tracing the edge of the bandage on my forehead to check the dressing.

"Most people collapse into a puddle of tears after a fall like that. You're sitting up, plotting a war. I can't lie, It's kind of intoxicating."

His hand lingered just a second too long near my hairline.

His thumb brushed against my cheek, and his hazel eyes darkened slightly as they drifted downward, leaving my face entirely.

Slowly, deliberately, Logan lowered his gaze, his eyes tracking down to the open collar of my button-up shirt.

The top two buttons were undone, exposing the pale skin of my collarbone and the soft swell of my breasts rising and falling with my heavy breathing.

He stared for a long, quiet beat, his professional demeanor melting away.

Then a sudden, icy voice cut through the room.

"Is there a medical reason your hands are still on my fiancée, Logan?"