Uninvited Suitor

"And you! Why didn't you stop him from doing something like that?" Martha shrieked, the claustrophobic confines of the sedan amplifying her furious voice. She twisted away from Kaelen, straining against her seatbelt to aim her wrath directly at the driver's seat.

Brielle gripped the steering wheel tight enough to turn her knuckles stark white. She pressed her lips into a thin, bloodless line, choosing the sanctuary of silence over a futile screaming match. By the time she had reached the twisted metal of the wreckage, Kaelen was already pulling the dying man back from the edge. Stopping him hadn't been an option, even if she had tried.

"Hey, why aren't we leaving?" Martha slammed her palm against the dashboard, her chest heaving with frantic breaths. "Are you waiting for the Doyle family guards to hunt us down?" She whipped her head back around, fixing Kaelen with a vicious sneer. "Just because you succeeded today, it isn't enough to hide the years of failure. Do you really think of yourself as a miracle doctor?"

Instead of shrinking back into the upholstery, Kaelen leaned his head against the headrest. He kept his gaze fixed on the passing streetlights outside the window, his expression unreadable and stony. The harsh, cutting insults washed over him without leaving a single visible mark.

Brielle glanced in the rearview mirror, a deep frown creasing her forehead. The man sitting in the back seat felt like a stranger wearing her husband's skin. Just yesterday, Kaelen would have bowed his head, rubbed the back of his neck, and issued a string of pathetic, endless apologies to placate her mother’s rage. Now, he possessed an unshakable stillness. A fundamental shift had occurred within his psyche, replacing his long-standing groveling demeanor with profound indifference. She swallowed hard, bewildered by the drastic change, and steered the car toward the Vale residence in heavy silence.

Miles away, the harsh fluorescent lights of Vertex Hospital illuminated a scene of medical impossibility.

Dr. Hobbs, a seasoned trauma surgeon with over two decades of experience in Oakhaven's finest medical facility, stood frozen over Preston Doyle's bloodied body. He gripped a surgical penlight in his gloved hand, staring at the raw wounds in sheer, unadulterated disbelief.

"How is this possible?" Dr. Hobbs muttered under his breath, his words fogging his mask.

He leaned closer, examining the deep lacerations spanning the patient's chest. The skin was split open, yet there was zero bleeding. Not a single medical stitch held the torn flesh together. More baffling still, the young man's crushed chest cavity felt aligned under his careful fingertips. The fractured ribs, which should have fatally pierced the heart upon the brutal impact, had been flawlessly shifted away from the vital organs. It defied logic.

"Dr. Hobbs, you've asked yourself that five times." A well-dressed woman paced the sterile floor, her brow pinched with mounting anxiety. "Did that street beggar really not use any instruments on my husband?"

Dr. Hobbs offered a wry, apologetic smile. "Mrs. Doyle, his methods bypass modern medical literature. The emergency intervention was a marvel. I have never seen a technique like this in my career."

Standing near the window, Conrad Doyle absorbed the doctor's verdict in silence. The formidable patriarch of Oakhaven's most prominent family commanded the hospital room with his mere physical presence. Relief washed away the deep, exhausted lines on his weathered face. He had almost lost his only heir today, the son poised to take over a massive empire.

Conrad turned to his loyal subordinate waiting by the door. His voice carried undeniable, booming authority. "Lucas, find that young man. Give him my business card. Then, when the young master recovers, I'll treat him to a feast!"

He knew the true value of unparalleled talent. A man possessing such miraculous medical skills was someone the Doyle family needed to befriend at all costs.

The moment the front door of the Vale residence clicked shut, Martha’s phone rang loudly in her purse. She snatched it up, her lingering panic over the roadside accident vanishing the second she heard the voice on the other end. After a brief, animated exchange, she ended the call and beamed at her daughter.

"Brielle, your aunt is dropping by soon!" Martha announced, shameless excitement oozing from her words. "And she's bringing Declan Bowers!"

"Okay," Brielle replied absent-mindedly, tossing her car keys onto the entry table without looking up.

Martha spun around, locking a cold, venomous glare directly onto Kaelen. She crossed her arms over her chest. "If you had a shred of dignity, you would take the initiative to divorce Brielle immediately. Stop dragging her down into your pathetic life. She shouldn't waste another second on a loser when she could be with a real man."

Kaelen didn't drop his chin. He didn't shuffle his feet. He met her vicious gaze dead-on.

"Mom," Kaelen started, his voice steady and challenging, "do you really think it's appropriate to arrange a blind date for Brielle when her husband is right here?"

Martha’s jaw dropped. The unprecedented defiance in his tone sent a jolt of pure, fiery fury through her veins. "How dare you talk back to me?" she snarled, raising her hand high to deliver a stinging slap across his face.

Her hand swung down, but it froze midway through the air.

Kaelen’s eyes had hardened into chips of ice. He stared her down with a terrifyingly daring intensity, his posture rigid and commanding. Paralysis gripped Martha's limbs. For a fleeting, humiliating second, she feared the man she had bullied mercilessly for three years. She couldn't bring her hand down to strike him.

Breaking the suffocating tension, Brielle walked past them toward the staircase. She paused on the first step, tossing a calm, calculated remark over her shoulder.

"If you really don't want your wife to go on a blind date, don't sit around doing nothing all day long!"

Kaelen watched her ascend the stairs, a faint smile touching the corners of his mouth. He perfectly recognized the deliberate psychological provocation. She wanted to spur his ambition, testing to see if his newfound backbone was real.

Twenty minutes later, heavy footsteps sounded on the wooden porch. Martha rushed to swing the door open, ushering in Brielle's aunt and a young man clutching several expensive gift bags.

"Auntie Martha, just a small token of my appreciation!" Declan Bowers flashed a practiced, bright smile as he thrust the branded bags into her waiting hands.

"Declan! You shouldn't have spent so much on me!" Martha gushed, her eyes sparkling as she peeked inside the designer packaging. She gestured toward the living room, acting as if she owned a sprawling palace rather than a modest suburban home.

Once they settled onto the sofa, Declan’s gaze darted around the room, searching for the prize he had come to claim. Realizing his obvious intention, Martha waved her hand dismissively. "Brielle heard you were coming. She went upstairs to change into something nicer."

Martha then snapped her fingers, pointing at Kaelen standing silently near the hallway. "You! Go to the kitchen and make a cup of tea for Declan."

Kaelen didn't budge a single inch. He crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes dropping to the man sitting on his sofa, trying to court his wife in broad daylight. The sheer audacity hung thick in the air.

Declan leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. A disdainful, arrogant smirk plastered itself across his face. "Is this Brielle's good-for-nothing husband I've heard so much about?"

"You're truly a shameless man," Kaelen sneered coldly, his voice slicing through the polite living room atmosphere. "Especially since you're looking for someone's wife right before her husband!"

"What is wrong with your mouth today?" Martha leaped up, pointing a trembling finger at the hallway. "Get back to your room before you ruin this!"

"It's fine, Auntie Martha," Declan chuckled, dripping with artificial magnanimity. He looked at Kaelen with triumphant pity. "I won't argue with a guy like him. Just ask Brielle to come down."

"Mr. Bowers, you can leave."

Brielle’s firm voice rang out from the second-floor landing. She stood near the top of the stairs, her arms folded across her chest. "I will not divorce my husband. This blind date is nothing but my mother's wishful thinking!"

Declan tilted his head back. Undeterred by her rejection, his eyes locked onto her beautiful, alluring figure, sweeping over her curves with visible, blatant lust. The denial only seemed to fuel his inflated ego.

"Brielle, why anchor yourself to dead weight?" Declan coaxed, standing up and loudly thumping his chest. "In terms of status, I'm a manager at the Doyle Corporation. In terms of appearance, I'm ten times better looking than this garbage! I can crush him to death with just one finger!"

A loud, nonchalant snort echoed through the room.

Kaelen shook his head, looking Declan up and down with raw amusement. "Ten times better looking? The foundation on your face is caked on like cheap frosting. I can't even count the number of facelifts you got with both my hands. For a man wearing that much makeup... just where do you get the nerve to say that with such confidence?"

On the stairs, Brielle slapped a hand over her mouth, desperately stifling a laugh. Her shoulders shook as Kaelen's surprisingly sharp, venomous tongue dismantled the arrogant suitor in front of everyone. She genuinely couldn't figure out what had gotten into him today.

Declan’s face turned an ugly shade of magenta underneath his cosmetic layers. Public humiliation warped his carefully sculpted features. "You worthless househusband!" he roared, stepping forward. "I'd rather jump off a cliff than live like you!"

"Look at yourself!" the aunt shouted, jumping aggressively to Declan's defense. "Declan manages major projects at Doyle Corporation at twenty-five! What do you do? You wash rice and chop firewood every day!"

The shouting match hit a frantic fever pitch. Declan balled his fists, stepping deeper into the living room.

Right before the heated argument could escalate into a physical brawl, three heavy, distinct knocks reverberated through the front door of the house.

The sudden noise ripped the attention away from the fight. Everyone turned in surprise. Martha gritted her teeth, smoothing down her blouse before marching to the entryway. She yanked the door open, ready to yell at whoever was interrupting her daughter's crucial matchmaking session.

Instead, she found a refined young man standing on the porch. He wore a bespoke tailored suit that screamed immense wealth, paired with polished leather shoes that caught the dim porch light.

Before Martha could even speak, the man smiled politely.

"Excuse me, is Mr. Vance here?"