He offered no pity. He pulled a gold-edged folder from his jacket and dropped it on my desk.

“Sterling Emergency and Critical Care opens in Manhattan next month,” he said, his voice a low cello string. “I have the best hardware on earth. I need a commander who can drag patients back from the reaper.

This is the contract for chief medical officer. Name your salary.”

I looked at the folder. “Mr. Sterling, I’m an exhausted single mother in the middle of a massive medical scandal. Hiring me is a PR nightmare.”

“I’m a businessman, Elena.” He leaned over the desk, his gaze locking onto mine. “I don’t care whose ex-wife you are. I care about the blade in your hands.

You don’t belong wallowing in a puddle of blood. You belong at the head of the table.”