My Surgeon Husband Insulted My Dress At His Hospital Gala And Told Me To Serve Drinks — So I Revealed I Bought His Entire Medical Network
The hospital parking garage was a cavern of concrete and shadows, especially after midnight. Rain lashed against the exterior walls, a fitting backdrop to Julian Ellison’s escalating panic. He paced frantically in front of his sleek black sedan, his expensive suit rumpled, his face pale and drawn.
Donald Sibley huddled beside him, shivering despite the mild air, clutching a worn briefcase.
“The audit is a problem, Donald!” Julian hissed, his voice echoing unnaturally in the vast space. “They’re digging. They know about Oceanic. We need to move.”
Sibley wrung his hands. “But Dr. Ellison, the pediatric research fund… that’s highly regulated. It’s earmarked for children’s cancer trials. Draining it would be… catastrophic.”
“Catastrophic for *who*, Sibley?” Julian snapped, seizing the smaller man’s arm. “You think they’ll care about some little cancer fund when they’re locking *us* up? I need $1.8 million out of that account. Now. Before sunrise.”
He pushed a thick envelope into Sibley’s hand. “Flight tickets. For you. And a lawyer. A good one. Offshore, untraceable. Get it done. Buy yourself some time.”
Sibley swallowed hard, his eyes wide with fear. “But… where do I transfer it?”
“My private account in Saint Barts,” Julian practically snarled. “The one with the double encryption. Get it there. My court order for the audit takes effect at nine. We have hours, Sibley. Not a minute more.”
Julian checked his watch, his gaze darting to the garage entrance. He pulled out his phone, a secure banking app already open. “I’ll authorize it from my end. You just make sure the transfer clears. Tell them it’s an emergency operational transfer. Use the old code for ‘international procurement.'”
Unbeknownst to them, Harlan Gable sat quietly in his unassuming sedan, parked three rows away. He had followed Julian from the moment he left his temporary apartment. His small digital recorder, nestled in his cupholder, glowed with a tiny red light, capturing every frantic word, every incriminating detail. The rain outside intensified, drumming a steady rhythm against the car’s roof, masking any faint sounds.
Julian was digging his own grave, and Harlan was collecting the audio for the epitaph.
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