Chapter 2The Admiral's Secret Wife

My transfer was blocked.

The official reason was beautifully crafted. The base was launching a new, top-secret medical research initiative, and as a core member of the team, I was restricted from leaving my post.

I stared at the notice and almost laughed out loud.

I was a surgeon. I hadn’t touched a research protocol since my residency. I wasn’t a core member of anything except the local gossip circuit.

I knew it was Grant’s doing. He was a man accustomed to control, to a world that bent to his will.

The phone rang while I was organizing patient files. It was his mother, her voice carrying its usual tone of aristocratic condescension.

“Audrey, I hear you’ve been… restless lately.”

I said nothing.

“I understand that young people can be temperamental,” she continued, “but you need to be sensible. The Dempsey family is not a ladder for a girl of your background to climb. And it’s certainly not something you can just walk away from. Come back, apologize to Grant, and we can all pretend this never happened.”

My fingers tightened on the receiver, then relaxed. “Ma’am, I think I’ll leave that particular blessing for you to enjoy.”

I hung up.

The retaliation was swift. The next day, the rumors started. They said I was corrupt, that I used my position to harass a superior officer, that I was a shameless gold-digger trying to claw my way into a powerful family. The stories were viciously detailed, woven with just enough truth to be believable.

In the mess hall, I heard the whispers behind me as I got my food.

“They say she’s been some admiral’s secret mistress for six years. Now she’s trying to force his hand.”

“So pathetic. The man’s engaged and she still won’t give up.”

I carried my tray over to their table and sat down. They immediately fell silent.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out the Dempseys were behind this campaign. They wanted to ruin my reputation, to make my life in the Navy so unbearable that I would come crawling back to them, begging for mercy.

Too bad for them. A person who’s already died once doesn’t scare so easily.

Three days later, the base hosted a delegation of foreign military attachés. As a diplomat’s daughter, Victoria was there, of course, playing the charming hostess. As the on-duty physician, my job was to remain in the clinic, on standby.

In the afternoon, chaos erupted. One of the attachés collapsed, gasping for air, his face turning a terrifying shade of blue. Anaphylactic shock.

Someone burst into the clinic, screaming for a doctor.

I sprinted to the scene, took one look, and yelled, “Get me a crash cart! I need epinephrine, now!”

A corpsman ripped open the emergency kit, then froze. “Doctor… there’s no epi in the kit.”

My blood ran cold.

How was that possible? I had personally inspected that kit yesterday. Every single medication was accounted for.

The attaché’s breathing grew fainter. The people around me started to panic, their fear turning to accusation.

“What do you mean there’s no epinephrine? What kind of clinic are you running?”

“If he dies, it’s on you!”

“Get a chopper ready for emergency evac to the nearest hospital, now!” I commanded, trying to keep my voice steady. “Get him on oxygen, keep his airway clear.” I knelt on the floor and began chest compressions.

The meds arrived just in the nick of time. The attaché was stabilized and airlifted out. He would live.

The investigation report placed the blame squarely on me.

The logbook clearly showed my signature from the day before, confirming the kit was fully stocked. But now, that page was missing. In its place was a forged entry, dated three days prior, suggesting the kit hadn’t been inspected at all.

I looked up and saw Victoria standing in the doorway of my office. She was holding a cup of coffee, a gentle smile playing on her lips.

“Dr. Ross, I hope you’re not thinking of doing anything rash,” she said sweetly. “After such a monumental failure, I can’t imagine how you must be feeling.”

I got to my feet and walked toward her. “You think this is going to destroy me?”

“Destroy you?” She laughed, a sound like ice cubes clinking in a glass. “Oh, Audrey, you give yourself far too much credit. You’re just a mistake Grant made, a stain he needs to erase. I’m just helping him clean up the mess a little sooner.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Have you considered what would have happened if that attaché had died? Malpractice? Manslaughter? An international incident? You would have been court-martialed before the sun went down.”

I stared at her. This woman, in her obsession to marry Grant, had gone completely insane.

That evening, I received my official orders.

Suspended from duty, pending further investigation.