Please Me, Daddy

The Wellington steak sat in the center of the mahogany dining table, cold, gray, a monument to wasted time.

Isabella reached out and adjusted the plate for the tenth time. Her fingertips brushed the porcelain, trembling slightly. She aligned the silver fork until it was perfectly parallel with the knife.

The old grandfather clock in the hallway chimed. The sound was heavy, penetrating the floors of the Beacon Hill mansion. Midnight had come.

The day was over. Her birthday was over.

Isabella withdrew her hand and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The silence inside the house was suffocating. It wasn't just quiet; it was a dense, physical weight pressing against her chest, making it hard to breathe.

She looked down at her attire. A simple cotton dress, bought three years ago at a discount store in Southie. It was soft, worn, and utterly out of place in this room that smelled of beeswax and old money.

The sharp beep of the front door's fingerprint lock broke the silence.

Isabella stood up immediately. The chair scraped against the floor with an unpleasant screech, making her frown. She smoothed the wrinkles from her dress. Her heart hammered inside her ribcage like a trapped bird.

Hamilton walked into the dining room.

He brought the cold wind with him. He wore a dark wool coat worth more than the house she'd grown up in. His jaw was tight, his eyes scanning the room without really seeing it. Or seeing her.

A scent clung to him. Not the crisp winter air. Vanilla and expensive musk.

Cuba's perfume.

Isabella swallowed, her throat tightening. She reached for the small gift box on the side table. Inside was a scarf she had spent two months knitting. Cashmere, soft gray, meant to match his eyes.

"Hamilton," she said. Her voice was thin, almost a whisper. "I waited."

Hamilton didn't look at her. He walked straight to the crystal decanter on the sideboard. Amber liquid splashed into a glass. He drank it in one gulp, the motion sharp and angry.

"I don't need a welcome committee, Isabella," he said with his back to her. "And I don't need a gift. I just need you to stay out of my space for five minutes."

Isabella took a step forward, clutching the box tightly. "It's... the third year. Our anniversary. And my birthday."

Hamilton turned around.

His face was a mask of exhaustion and disdain. He looked at her as if she were a stain on his immaculate carpet.

"Our marriage is a transaction," he said. His words were precise, cutting through the air like a scalpel. "Stop trying to turn it into a romance novel. You needed tuition. I needed a wife who doesn't ask questions. Don't overact."

Isabella felt the blood drain from her face. Her fingers clenched around the gift box, numb.

Before she could respond, a vibration buzzed against the mahogany surface of the sideboard. Hamilton's phone.

The screen lit up. Cuba Hayden.

Hamilton's expression shifted instantly. The cold mask cracked, replaced by a frantic, raw concern that Isabella had never seen him direct at her.

He snatched up the phone. "Cuba? Where are you?"

He listened for a second, his knuckles white as he gripped the device.

"Don't move," he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur laced with fear and tenderness. "I'm coming. I'll be right there. Don't be afraid."

He hung up, grabbed his keys. He didn't look at the table. He didn't look at the cold dinner. And he didn't look at his wife.

He turned and ran for the door.

"Hamilton!" Isabella cried out. She dropped the box. It hit the floor with a dull thud. "Please! Just tonight!"

He didn't stop. The heavy oak door slammed shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

Isabella ran.

She didn't think. She just ran. She chased him into the bitter Boston night. Her slippers slapped against the icy driveway.

"Hamilton!"

The estate's iron gates stood open. Outside, a wall of flashbulbs ignited.

The paparazzi had been waiting. They circled like vultures, smelling scandal.

"Mr. McKee! Is Cuba really in the hospital?"

"Mrs. McKee! Do you know your husband is going to see his ex?"

"Is this marriage a sham?"

The questions drowned out the sharp clicks of the blinding flashes. Isabella shielded her eyes, disoriented.

Hamilton was already in his car. The black Maybach's engine roared to life. Through the tinted windows, she saw his silhouette. He glanced at the rearview mirror.

He saw her. He saw her standing in the cold, shivering, surrounded by wolves.

Then he looked away.

The car's tires screamed on the asphalt as he sped off, leaving a cloud of exhaust that choked her.

Isabella stood frozen. The cold seeped into her bones.

"Hey! Look at her! She's crying!"

A photographer, desperate for the money shot, lunged forward. He shoved another cameraman aside, swinging his heavy equipment bag wildly.

The bag slammed into Isabella's shoulder.

She staggered. Her slippers lost their grip on a patch of black ice.

She fell backward.

The world tilted. Time seemed to slow. She saw the dark night sky, the blinding white flashes, and the sharp granite edge of the gate's stone pillar rushing toward her.

Crack.

The sound was sickeningly loud.

An explosion of pain at the base of her skull. It wasn't just pain; it was a searing white light that burned through her brain, erasing the cold, the noise, the humiliation.

She hit the ground.

Warmth spread beneath her, creeping up the back of her neck. Sticky, wet warmth. It trickled down her spine, staining the collar of her cheap dress.

The shouts became distorted. It sounded like being underwater.

"She's down! Call 911!"

Isabella stared up at the sky. The stars were spinning.

Then darkness came. But it wasn't empty.

Images flickered behind her eyelids. Not memories of the orphanage. Not memories of waiting tables.

A sterile operating room. The rhythmic beep of a cardiac monitor. A scalpel in her gloved hand. Intricate vascular sutures.

A boardroom. A white-haired man smiling at her. "You're a McKee, Isabella. The true heiress. Never forget that."

Fire. The smell of burning rubber. Three years ago, just before the crash-her own hands, secretly installing a tiny recorder beneath a car's dashboard. Just in case, Uncle Marcus, she had thought. Dragging a heavy body from a wrecked car. Hamilton's face, bloodied and unconscious. Not Cuba. Her. It had always been her.

A dusty orphanage file room. A younger girl with cruel eyes-Cuba-pulling a necklace from a sleeping child's neck. Switching two folders. "You don't deserve this," the girl whispered. "I'm the heiress now."

Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder.

A paramedic leaned over her, shining a penlight into her eyes. "Pupils are blown. She's losing consciousness."

Isabella's hand twitched on the cold pavement. Her fingers curled-not into a fist, but into a precise, delicate grip. The way a surgeon holds a scalpel.

The obedient wife died on that pavement.

The woman who woke up in the ambulance was someone else entirely.

The ceiling tiles were counting down. One, two, three, four.

Isabella opened her eyes.

There was no grogginess. No confusion. Her vision snapped into focus instantly, her pupils contracting against the harsh fluorescent light of the hospital room.

She took a breath. It was deep and controlled. She cataloged her body's sensations. A dull throb in the occipital region. A wave of vertigo that she quelled by pressing two fingers hard against the base of her skull. Slight nausea. Dehydration.

She lifted her left hand. A simple gold band sat on her ring finger.

She stared at it. A wave of revulsion curled in her stomach. It felt like a shackle.

The memories had settled. The two lives-Isabella Oconnor, the poor orphan from Southie, and Isabella Mckee, the heiress and prodigy surgeon-had collided and fused. The fog of the last three years, induced by the trauma of the car accident and suppressed by a subconscious desire to hide, was gone.

The door opened. A nurse walked in, carrying a tray. She didn't look up.

"Mrs. Mckee," the nurse said, her voice dripping with bored condescension. "Mr. Mckee paid the bill, but he said not to expect him. He's busy."

Isabella sat up. The movement was fluid.

She looked at the IV line taped to the back of her hand. With a quick, sharp motion, she ripped the tape and pulled the needle out. She applied pressure to the puncture site immediately with her thumb, preventing a bruise.

"Get out," Isabella said.

The nurse froze. She looked up, startled by the tone. It wasn't the voice of a woman who had been brought in crying. It was ice.

"Excuse me?"

"I said get out," Isabella repeated. She swung her legs over the side of the bed. "And tell the attending physician that this isn't a saline drip. It's a dopamine solution. You're giving a pressor to a patient with a head injury. It's not just incompetent, it's malpractice."

The nurse gaped at her, then turned and hurried out of the room, the tray rattling in her hands.

Isabella walked to the small mirror over the sink. She looked pale. A bandage was taped to the back of her head. But her eyes... her eyes were amber fire.

The door banged open again.

Hamilton strode in. He looked disheveled. His tie was loosened, and he smelled of hospital antiseptic and stale coffee.

He stopped when he saw her standing.

"Get back in bed," he snapped. "I don't have time for your theatrics, Isabella. The press is already having a field day."

Isabella turned slowly. She didn't flinch. She didn't apologize. She just looked at him.

She looked at him the way a scientist looks at a specimen in a jar.

"You're right," she said. Her voice was calm, devoid of the tremor that used to define her speech. "We don't have time."

She walked to the bedside table. There was a notepad and a pen next to the water pitcher. She picked them up.

She wrote one word on the paper. The letters were sharp, angular, aggressive.

She ripped the page off and held it out to him.

Hamilton frowned. He took the paper.

DIVORCE.

He let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Is this a joke? Are you trying to leverage the accident for a bigger allowance?"

Isabella walked back to the bed and sat down, crossing her legs. Her posture was regal.

"I want the beach house in the Hamptons," she said. "The dilapidated one on the north shore. The one nobody has visited in five years."

Hamilton blinked. "That shack? It's practically a ruin."

"That shack," she confirmed. "And in exchange, I will sign away my rights to the secondary Mckee shares outlined in the pre-nup. I walk away with the house and my personal effects. Nothing else."

Hamilton went still. The businessman in him woke up. The shares were worth millions. The house was worth dirt.

"You're serious," he said, narrowing his eyes. "You'd leave with nothing? You'd go back to waiting tables in Southie?"

Isabella's lips curved slightly. It wasn't a smile. "That is none of your concern. Do we have a deal?"

Hamilton stepped closer. He tried to use his height to intimidate her, a tactic that had worked for three years. "If you sign this, Isabella, you are dead to this world. You will starve."

Isabella didn't blink. She tilted her head back, exposing her throat, daring him.

"Call your lawyer, Hamilton. Before I change my mind."

"You're insane," he muttered. But he was already reaching for his phone.

Just then, his phone rang. The ringtone was distinctive.

He looked at the screen. His face softened into that sickening worry again.

"Cuba," he answered. "I'm here. What? You're dizzy?"

He looked at Isabella with pure annoyance. "I have to go. My lawyer will be here in an hour. Don't think you can back out."

"I won't," Isabella said.

Hamilton turned and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the frame rattled.

Isabella stared at the closed door.

"You have no idea," she whispered to the empty room. "The only person who is going to regret this is you."

The lawyer, a man named Sterling with a sheen of sweat on his upper lip, placed the document on the hospital tray table.

Isabella sat on the edge of the bed. She had found a tablet at the nurses' station and "borrowed" it. Her fingers were currently tapping a rhythmic, complex beat on the screen-Morse code. S-O-S-G-O-N-E.

Hamilton stood by the window, his arms crossed. He looked impatient.

"Mrs. Mckee," Sterling said, clicking his pen. "I must advise you that this settlement is highly unusual. You are waiving rights to assets valued at-"

"I can read, Mr. Sterling," Isabella interrupted. She didn't look at him. She flipped the document to the last page.

Hamilton scoffed. "Maybe you should read it. It's the most money you've ever turned down. You're going to be begging on the street in a week."

Isabella uncapped the pen. The sound was a sharp click in the quiet room.

"My time is worth more than your money, Hamilton," she said.

She signed her name. The signature was different. It wasn't the rounded, hesitant script of Isabella Oconnor. It was sharp, jagged, and confident.

Hamilton watched the pen move. A strange feeling curled in his gut. Unease.

Before he could analyze it, the door burst open.

Preston, Hamilton's personal assistant, rushed in. His face was pale.

"Sir! It's Cuba. She... she took pills."

Hamilton froze. The color drained from his face. "What?"

"The housekeeper found her," Preston stammered. "There was a note. She said she couldn't bear being the reason for your unhappiness."

Silence filled the room.

Then, a laugh cut through it.

It was Isabella. She was chuckling. A dry, cold sound.

"Classic Histrionic Personality Disorder," she said, capping the pen. "I assume she calculated the dosage perfectly? Enough to cause lethargy, not enough to cause organ failure?"

Hamilton spun around, his eyes blazing with fury. A flicker of confusion crossed his face. Where did she even learn a term like that? Had she been watching medical dramas? "How dare you? She could be dying! You heartless-"

"Sign the paper, Hamilton," Isabella said, pointing to the document. "Sign it, and you can go play hero to your damsel."

Hamilton grabbed the pen. He was shaking with rage. He scrawled his signature next to hers, tearing the paper slightly with the force of it.

"Get this processed," he barked at the lawyer. "I want the divorce decree sent to her. I never want to see her face again."

He threw the pen down and ran out of the room, Preston on his heels.

The lawyer gathered his papers, looking uncomfortable, and scurried after them.

The room was quiet again.

Isabella stood up. She walked to the door and locked it.

She reached under her pillow and pulled out a disposable burner phone she had swiped from a distracted orderly's cart earlier.

She dialed a number. It was a number that hadn't existed for three years.

It rang once.

"Who is this?" A male voice answered. Guarded. Dangerous.

Isabella leaned against the wall. "Code Black. Location: MGH, Room 304. I need extraction, Luke."

There was a pause. Then, the sound of a chair crashing to the floor.

"Boss?" The voice cracked. "Is that you? We thought... we thought you were dead."

"I'm not," Isabella said. "Bring the kit. The full kit. I have work to do."

"Five minutes," Luke said. "Meet me on the roof. I'm jamming their security feeds now."

Isabella hung up. She ripped the sticky electrodes off her chest. The monitor flatlined with a high-pitched whine, but she silenced it with a punch to the power button.

She walked to the window. Down below, she saw Hamilton's convoy speeding away toward another hospital.

She reached down and tore the hem of her hospital gown, tying her hair back tightly.

"Game on, Hamilton," she said.