Only My Hands Can Save Her Husband

I am Dr. Evelyn Reed, the nation’s foremost expert in heart transplant surgery. I cut short a research fellowship abroad for an emergency procedure, flying halfway across the world on a moment’s notice. But the second I stepped out of the airport, a mob of women ambushed me in the parking garage, brandishing a massive banner that read: "SHAME THE MISTRESS, SAVE THE MARRIAGE." They screamed that I was a slut, a homewrecker. Then, they broke my right hand—my golden hand. The woman in charge ground her stiletto into my cheek, her voice a venomous hiss. “You little bitch! You thought you could seduce my billionaire husband? I’ll make sure you’re crippled for life, unable to spread your legs for anyone ever again!” With that, she swung a baseball bat and shattered my left hand too. What she didn’t know was that my hands, the very ones she’d just destroyed, were the only hands in the world that could save her husband's life. 1 As I entered the underground parking garage, the first thing I saw was the banner: "SHAME THE MISTRESS, SAVE THE MARRIAGE." The woman holding it, clearly the ringleader, was in the middle of a tearful livestream. “Everyone,” she sobbed, her voice thick with anguish, “I just found out I’m pregnant, and my husband… my husband has a mistress. And she’s not just any mistress. She had the audacity to send me intimate photos of them together!” Her voice cracked. “Because of her, my husband told me to get out of his life, to leave with nothing and never come back!” “I can’t take it anymore!” she wailed. “I just want to die!” She made a dramatic lunge toward a nearby car, but her entourage of friends quickly pulled her back, their faces masks of righteous fury. “Why should you be the one to die? It’s that homewrecker who deserves it, flaunting her nerve in front of the legal wife.” “Don’t be afraid, Isabelle. We’re all on your side. We’ll make that bitch pay!” The group erupted in a cacophony of vicious threats, each more vulgar than the last. I frowned, a flicker of curiosity tempting me to stay, but the emergency surgery was waiting. I had to go. I was scanning the lane numbers for my driver when the entire mob suddenly swarmed towards me. “There she is! We finally found the slut!” “So this is why Matthew has been flying abroad so often! Hiding his little whore in another country! I bet you rushed back to suck up to him for his surgery, didn't you? Pathetic!” CRACK! Before I could process what was happening, a stinging pain exploded across my cheek. The woman—Isabelle—grabbed a fistful of my hair and began slapping me relentlessly. “You bitch! I’ve finally got you!” She yanked me to the ground, my medical files scattering across the concrete. Her friends egged her on. “Get her, Isabelle! Kill the damn dog! She deserves to be drawn and quartered for seducing another woman’s husband!” It finally clicked. I was the mistress they were talking about. But that was impossible. My life was a blur of labs and operating rooms; I barely had time to shake a man’s hand, let alone become a homewrecker. Fury surged through me. I struggled against Isabelle’s grip, shouting, “I’m not a mistress! You’ve made a mistake—” 2 My words were cut short as Isabelle, like a woman possessed, slammed my head against the ground again and again. A crowd of onlookers had gathered, their murmurs a toxic hum. “Homewreckers deserve whatever they get.” “She looks so clean-cut and proper, though. Why would a woman like that choose to be a mistress?” “Don’t fall for it! It’s all an act. Underneath, she’s just another calculating slut, always looking for a rich man to leech off of.” The world spun, the voices closing in. I thought I was going to vomit. “Stop!” I screamed, my voice raw. “I’m not who you think I am! What you’re doing is illegal!” My protests only fueled their rage. They saw it as defiance, and their blows grew harder. My vision started to blur, the warm stickiness of blood matting my hair. Finally, Isabelle released her grip slightly, sneering down at me. “My husband sent me your little photo shoot himself. You still dare to say you’re not his mistress?” She held up her phone for her livestream audience to see. On the screen was a picture of me in my white lab coat, leaning over the billionaire Matthew Flanagan, my hand placed gently on his lips. The photo had been filtered and cropped to oblivion, creating an image dripping with seductive intimacy. It was the ultimate uniform fetish fantasy. The livestream chat exploded. “OMG, her husband is so hot! No wonder this slut is after him. She should die!” “You can tell by the way she poses she’s a pro at this. Total trash.” “Her boobs are practically in his face! And she still denies it? Isabelle, rip that fox’s tail off!” A week ago, Matthew Flanagan had sought me out, begging me to perform his heart transplant. He suffered from a congenital heart defect and had spent his life searching for a compatible donor. He’d finally found one, but a recent scan revealed a complex tumor growing perilously close to his heart. The surgery to remove it and perform the transplant required a level of skill that, in this country, only I possessed. When he found me, Matthew was ecstatic. He promised me a lifetime of financial security, offering to fund all my future research projects if I would just save his life. I took the responsibility seriously, even flying abroad for a final conference to ensure I was at the absolute peak of my abilities for his procedure. The surgery was scheduled for one o’clock this afternoon. Now, because of some ridiculously manipulated photo, I was being beaten in a parking garage. I glanced at my watch. It was already ten. “That photo was taken during a stethoscope examination for Mr. Flanagan,” I explained, my voice tight with urgency. “There were several people in the room. It’s not what you think. His surgery is at 1 PM today, and I am the lead surgeon. Let me go now. If this surgery is delayed, no one can afford the consequences.” My serious tone gave Isabelle a moment’s pause. Just as I thought she might see reason, one of her friends leaned in and whispered, “Don’t listen to her. She’s just trying to get away. The second you let her go, she’ll run straight to your husband and play the victim.” Another chimed in, “Think about it, Isabelle. The top surgeon in the country? Do you really think it would be some woman who’s not even thirty? Besides, if she was so important, wouldn’t he have sent a private car and a security detail? He’s a billionaire, after all.” Matthew had offered a private car, but I’d refused. I’ve always been focused on my work, not the trappings of wealth. A one-hour ride from the airport to the hospital in a civilized society—what could possibly go wrong? I never imagined a soap opera cliché would be my undoing. I tried to explain, but Isabelle was no longer listening. “Stop trying to trick me! Who is that naive anymore? My husband is one of the richest men in the world. People line up to get a piece of him. No one refuses his generosity.” She leaned down, her voice dripping with scorn. “‘Mr. Flanagan’? ‘Stethoscope examination’? ‘Several people’?” With each phrase, she slapped me hard across the face. “You shameless little bitch. You really are something else, fresh from your trip abroad. So sophisticated, so… open.” “You like playing dress-up, huh?” she sneered. “A little cosplay fetish? Well, today, you’re going to play until you’ve had enough.” At her signal, her friends dragged me toward their van. I had a mild concussion, and my body was a canvas of pain. I was too weak to resist. Someone in the crowd tried to intervene. “Even if she is a mistress, this is against the law! Look at what you’ve done to her!” Isabelle shot the young woman a withering glare. “Look at you, all decked out in designer brands at your age. I bet you earned them on your back too. Sluts protecting sluts. Keep your mouth shut before someone decides to teach you a lesson.” The girl burst into tears and shrank back. No one else dared to speak up. Suddenly, my phone, which had fallen to the ground, began to ring. Isabelle snatched it up. The caller ID read “Davies.” Her face twisted into a mask of rage. She answered, and the frantic voice of Matthew’s assistant filled the air. “Dr. Reed, where are you? Mr. Flanagan is fading fast. He needs you urgently.” Before he could finish, Isabelle shrieked and smashed the phone on the ground, shattering it to pieces. “Oh, that’s just perfect! He won’t let me, his wife, be with him for a ‘minor procedure,’ but he specifically requests his little slut to be by his side to serve him.” “I’m carrying his child! What do you have?” Her rage escalating, Isabelle jumped into the back of the van and grabbed a rope. My eyes widened in terror. Those hands were meant to save Matthew’s life this afternoon. “Don’t touch me!” I screamed. My fear only seemed to please her. Her friends held me down while Isabelle wrapped the rope around my wrists, pulling it brutally tight. A searing pain shot through my hands, and a primal instinct took over. A surgeon’s hands are their life. With a surge of adrenaline, I kicked out, driving my knee hard into Isabelle’s side. The space was cramped. She cried out in pain. “Agh! It hurts!” Her friends, panicked, immediately let go of me to tend to her. Seizing the opportunity, I scrambled out of the van and ran. I didn’t get more than a few yards before something slammed into my back with tremendous force. They had hit me with the van. I felt bones snap, a coppery taste filled my mouth. Every breath was agony. A hand grabbed my hair, and I was dragged back into the vehicle. 4 SMACK! Another blow landed on my face. Isabelle was pale, clutching her stomach, her features distorted with pain and fury. “You little bitch! You worthless piece of trash! You dared to hit me? I’ll make you wish you were never born!” I knew she was pregnant, so I had aimed for her side, not her abdomen, and had pulled my strength. But in her mind, I was trying to kill her baby to take her place. She began kicking and punching me wildly. I was fading, my breaths shallow. Then, from somewhere, she produced a long, thick steel needle. Its tip glinted in the dim light, and a cold dread washed over me. “I kicked you…” I rasped. “You’re not showing yet… a three or four-month fetus is unstable. You need to go to a hospital… now.” Isabelle just laughed, a horrifying, joyless sound. “Don’t you worry about me.” She leaned in close, her eyes glittering with malice. “Your hands are important to you, aren’t they? Then I’ll destroy them.” “No!” I begged, my voice cracking with desperation. “Please, I’m a surgeon at City General Hospital! You can call them and verify! I am not Matthew Flanagan’s mistress, I swear! Just call him, and you’ll know I’m not lying!” The path to becoming a surgeon had been grueling. Countless nights spent in the lab, running data until dawn. While others were dating, traveling, I was with lab rats and anatomy charts. Eight years of my life, the best years of my youth, dedicated to reaching this point. The sacrifices were unimaginable. I couldn’t lose the ability to hold a scalpel. Not like this. “If you’re still angry, please, stick the needle in my leg, or even my face, I don’t care! Just please, not my hands, I’m begging you…” I would have knelt if I could have moved. Isabelle sneered. “Don’t make it sound like I’m the bully here. You tried to murder my child. A needle in your thigh won’t teach you a lesson, will it?” With that, she pinned my hand down and drove the steel needle straight through the center of my palm. “AAAAAHHH!” A scream tore from my throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony. My whole body convulsed. Blood welled up around the metal, blurring my vision with tears. It felt like the needle had pierced my very soul, planting a seed of absolute despair. Eight years. How many eight years does a person get in a lifetime? My faith, my perseverance, my hope for the future—all of it severed by a single steel needle. My hands were meant to fail on an operating table, after a long and storied career, not to be destroyed in a dirty van. Blood trickled from the corner of my mouth. The pain was so immense it became a dull, distant throb. My brain, shutting down, wrapped itself in a protective fog. Seeing that I was no longer screaming, just cradling my mangled hand and weeping silently, one of her friends grew nervous. “Isabelle… what if we killed her?” A cruel light flickered in Isabelle’s eyes. “What are you afraid of? I’ve never seen someone die from a hole in their hand.” She shoved me. “Stop faking. A little puncture like that will heal. Don’t be so dramatic.” Soon, they pulled up to a luxury hotel. Isabelle, clearly familiar with the place, got the key card to the top-floor presidential suite and her friends dragged me inside. “You like your uniform fantasies, don’t you? Well, today you’re going to get your fill!” she announced to her livestream. “Everyone, how about a little treat? Let’s make this bitch put on a show for us, shall we?” I lay limp on the floor, summoning my last ounce of strength to issue a final warning. “You keep breaking the law. Have you thought for a second about how this will end for you? Matthew Flanagan is still waiting for me to perform his surgery. If you let me go now, I can still guide another team through the procedure. There’s still a good chance of success.” Even then, the doctor in me was worried about my patient. Isabelle let out a cold, sharp laugh. “If you’re a doctor, then I’ll eat my own shit upside down. Stop pretending you’re some noble professional, you little slut. Take a good look at yourself.” Her friends returned with an armful of cheap, revealing lingerie and costumes. When I refused to put them on, they swarmed me, tearing at my clothes. My injured hands were useless. Blood smeared across my skin as they ripped my blouse, exposing me to their camera before forcing me into one degrading outfit after another. The viewer count on the livestream skyrocketed into the hundreds of thousands. “Damn, she’s got a good body. I can see why the billionaire fell for her.” “This is how you deal with mistresses. They have no shame. Now everyone can see what a pathetic whore she is. Let’s see her try to seduce another man after this.” “To all the white knights in the comments, let’s see how you feel when this bitch comes for your husband.” The vile comments were a second assault, a psychological torture that matched the physical. I bit my tongue until it bled, the sharp pain the only thing keeping me from completely breaking down. Just as they were about to force me into humiliating poses, Isabelle’s phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID, and the rage on her face instantly melted into a soft, demure expression. She shot me a triumphant smirk and provocatively put the call on speaker. Before she could say a word, Matthew Flanagan’s furious voice erupted from the phone. “Did you, or did you not, abduct a woman from the airport?” Isabelle froze, the fury instantly returning to her eyes. “I didn’t abduct anyone,” she snapped. “I was just teaching a homewrecker a lesson.” There was a moment of silence on the other end, followed by a wave of incandescent rage. “Let her go. NOW.” “I’m on my way. If you’ve harmed her in any way, I swear to God, you’re dead.” Thump. The phone slipped from Isabelle’s hand. She swayed on her feet, barely able to stand. She knew Matthew well enough to know he never made empty threats. Her friends exchanged panicked glances, their hands falling away from me. “Isabelle, what’s going on?” one of them whispered, sweat beading on her forehead. “Why is he so angry?” Isabelle slapped the woman across the face. “How the hell should I know?!” She turned on me, her eyes wild with a new, terrifying madness. “You still say you’re not his mistress? I’ve never heard Matthew sound so worried about anyone!” She had completely lost it. She slapped me several more times, then grabbed a fruit knife from a nearby table. “What are you doing? Are you insane?” I scrambled backward, but it was no use. I had no strength left. Her friends were starting to panic. “Isabelle, if this goes any further… someone’s really going to get killed.” “I’m not an idiot,” Isabelle shot back. “I’m not going to jail for killing her. I’m just going to ruin that pretty little face of hers. Let’s see how she seduces Matthew after this!” She regained her confidence. “Besides, he would never let me die. I’m carrying his child, his own flesh and blood.” Her words seemed to erase any remaining doubt in her friends’ minds. A flicker of excitement, of vicarious cruelty, lit up their eyes. They pinned me to the floor. A cold, sharp pain seared across my cheek as the blade dragged through my skin. Blood welled up, filling my vision with a crimson haze. My heart turned to ash. Tears streamed from my eyes, mixing with the blood. “Let’s see you seduce another man now,” Isabelle said, clapping her hands together, a look of profound satisfaction on her face. Just then, a call came from the front desk. Matthew Flanagan was on his way up, and he was furious. The thought of their unborn child being a shield was suddenly not so comforting. Panic washed over their faces. Isabelle’s mind raced. “Hide her,” she ordered. “We’ll tell him she’s not here.”

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