Hidden Billionaire Surgeon

At three in the morning, in the operating room of New York-Presbyterian Hospital, the white light of the operating lights almost pierced my eyes.

The scalpel precisely sliced open the patient's aortic dissection, blood splattering onto the sterile drape like a suddenly blooming scarlet rose. I didn't pause for a moment; my fingertips were as steady as a precision instrument, hemostats, sutures, and electrocautery flowing through my palms, my movements fluid and effortless, as if this eight-hour surgery were nothing more than a routine practice session.

"Heart rate has plummeted to 40 beats per minute!" The scrub nurse's voice trembled. "Inject 1 mg of adrenaline, prepare for defibrillation." My voice was completely flat, as indifferent as if I were saying, " The coffee 's a little cold today ."

The patient was a Wall Street hedge fund manager, worth hundreds of millions, but on the operating table, he was no different from a homeless person in the slums. I've saved countless people like him; they thought they could buy life with money, but they didn't realize that what I truly control goes far beyond this operating table.

As the surgery ended, the sky outside was already turning a pale white. I took off my blood-stained surgical gown, revealing a neatly pressed shirt underneath, and walked into the doctors' lounge. My phone screen lit up; a message popped up. The sender was Leila, my wife, or rather, my ex-wife.

I'll be waiting for you at the law firm. Let's sign the divorce papers.

I stared at the words, my fingertips pausing slightly. Leila, my ex-wife, an art student who climbed her way up from the slums of Brooklyn, married me for three years, yet she didn't even know my real last name. All she knew was that I was a cardiac surgeon earning $300,000 a year, living in a small apartment in Brooklyn, leaving early and returning late every day, taciturn, and even spending our wedding anniversary in the operating room.

She didn't know that the Brooklyn apartment was just one of my many identities; she didn't know that Dr. Ethan Cole of New York-Presbyterian Hospital was also Ethan Worth, the sole heir to the Worth Corporation, which controls the lifeline of North American healthcare and energy. She also didn't know how much trouble I had shielded her from in the past three years, how many scoundrels who coveted her talent I had silently dealt with, and even how I had anonymously paid off her brother's gambling debts.

But she'll never see any of that. All she sees is me always working overtime, my indifference to her advances, and my indifference to the provocations of her so-called "best friend," Claire. Claire, the woman who always appeared beside her with a gentle smile but secretly hinted at my affair, was a pawn planted by Worth Group's old rival, and Lyra became her sharpest knife.

I drove back to my Brooklyn apartment. Leila had already packed all her things, and a signed divorce agreement lay in the living room. She was wearing a white dress, her face was pale, and her eyes held a coldness I had never seen before.

“Ethan, let’s get a divorce.” Her voice was soft, yet it felt like an ice pick piercing my heart. I looked at her, my Adam’s apple bobbing. I wanted to ask why, whether she really believed Claire’s lies, whether three years of marriage meant nothing to her. But the words that came out were a flat, emotionless “Okay.”

She was stunned, seemingly not expecting me to be so decisive. She had thought I would try to persuade her to stay, would offer explanations, but I didn't. I simply picked up the pen and signed Ethan Cole's name on the agreement without a moment's hesitation.

"Don't you want to ask why?" Her voice carried a hint of grievance and resentment. I looked up at her, my gaze as calm as a bottomless lake: "You've already made up your mind, haven't you?"

Her lips moved as if she wanted to say something, but in the end she just bit her lower lip, turned around and picked up her suitcase: "Ethan, you're too cold-hearted. I've had enough of this life where I can't see a future."

She left, the door closing softly like a sigh. I sat in the empty living room, looking at our wedding photo on the wall. In the photo, she smiled like a child, and I stood beside her, my eyes filled with a tenderness I hadn't even realized myself. I raised my hand and gently stroked her face in the photo; my fingertips were icy cold.

A page of the divorce agreement on the table was blown up by the wind, revealing Leila's signature—delicate handwriting, yet carrying a resolute air. I picked up the agreement, walked to the fireplace, and threw it into the fire. The paper curled up, turned black, and finally turned to ashes in the flames, just like the feelings I had carefully hidden for the past three years.

My phone rang again; it was Claire. I answered, her voice sickeningly sweet: "Ethan, did you divorce Lyra? She's such an ungrateful woman. You did so much for her, and she…"

"Shut up." I interrupted her, my voice as cold as ice. "I have no interest in playing along with what you've done. Tell your boss that I will settle accounts with the Worth Group one by one."

Claire fell silent for a moment on the other end of the phone. After a few seconds, her voice trembled slightly: "Ethan, what... what do you mean?" "It means you can get lost." I hung up and tossed my phone onto the sofa. Outside, it was already bright daylight; sunlight streamed through the gaps in the curtains, casting a blinding band of light on the floor.

I stood up, walked to the wardrobe, and opened the hidden door. Inside hung a custom-made suit, its cuffs subtly embroidered with the Worth family crest. I took off my white shirt, put on the black suit, and tied a silver-gray tie. The man in the mirror instantly transformed. He was no longer the gentle, silent surgeon Ethan Cole, but Ethan Worth, the heir to the Worth Corporation, which controlled half of North America's economic lifeline.

The roar of an engine came from downstairs; it was my personal driver and bodyguard. I picked up the black briefcase from the table, walked out of the apartment, and got into the Rolls-Royce parked by the roadside. "Sir, news from the group: our old rival company suffered a data breach last night, causing its stock price to plummet." The bodyguard's voice was respectful and deep. I leaned back in the back seat, closed my eyes, and said calmly, "Understood. Pass the word down; there will be a board meeting tonight. I want to be there in person."

The car slowly drove away from Brooklyn, heading towards the skyscrapers of Manhattan. In the rearview mirror, the small apartment I had lived in for three years receded further and further away, finally disappearing into the traffic. Leila, you thought you were leaving a mediocre doctor, but you didn't know that what you were pushing away was the only wall in this world that could shelter you from the wind and rain.

And all of this is just the beginning.