Chapter 3: The Ghost of Metropolitan Hospital

Three months later. Manhattan, New York-Presbyterian Hospital, VIP Wing.

This was a premier medical institution serving only the top 1% of the global elite, situated in prime Upper East Side real estate. The lobby resembled a Ritz-Carlton more than a hospital, the air scented with expensive sandalwood, the walls adorned with authentic oil paintings.

However, in the surgical wing where few were permitted entry, a ghost story circulated—the legend of "Dr. C."

No one knew her real name; no one had seen her face beneath the mask. She only accepted cases other doctors had sentenced to death. Her surgical style was renowned for being "fast, precise, and ruthless," like a reaper's scythe forcibly snatching people back from the underworld.

Vanessa wore navy blue scrubs and black-rimmed glasses. Her long, wavy hair, once kept that way to please Dominic, was now sheared into a sharp, chin-length bob. She stood in the corridor outside a VIP suite, scrolling through an electronic chart.

"Dr. C, that... that patient refuses to take his medication and is complaining that our Evian water isn't cold enough," an intern reported, trembling.

Vanessa snapped the iPad shut and gave him a cold glance. "If he wants to die, let him sign a DNR. This is a hospital, not the Waldorf Astoria."

Just then, the VIP elevator doors opened.

A grand entourage poured out. Leading them was Dominic. He wore a bespoke, jet-black Tom Ford suit. Though he still required a cane, his recovery speed was astonishing. Carmela clung to his arm like a proud peacock.

Vanessa instinctively turned sideways, shielding half her face with the medical chart.

"Dom, the view from the VIP suite here is wonderful; you can see Central Park," Carmela cooed. "My heart has been so uncomfortable lately. I want a full check-up here."

"You can book the entire floor if you like," Dominic replied, his voice so gentle it felt alien to Vanessa.

As they brushed past, Dominic suddenly stopped. He turned his head, his gaze piercing as he stared at the back of the figure in scrubs.

That posture, the curve of that straight spine... there was an inexplicable familiarity.

"What is it, Dom?" Carmela asked alertly.

"Nothing." Dominic withdrew his gaze, shaking his head in self-mockery. That woman should be sunbathing in Florida with her money right now; how could she possibly be in this pinnacle of medical sanctuaries? "Must be seeing things."

Only after they entered the ward did Vanessa lower the chart, the corner of her mouth hooking into a sarcastic arc.

She turned and walked toward the rooftop smoking area. Although she was a doctor, she occasionally needed nicotine to steady her nerves.

The wind was strong on the roof, offering a panoramic view of Central Park's autumn colors. An elderly gentleman in an old trench coat stood by the railing, coughing violently. His silhouette looked lonely and desolate, but the exquisite silver-headed cane betrayed his extraordinary status.

Vanessa walked over and handed him a mint.

"This won't cure your emphysema, but it will make you feel better," she said flatly.

The old gentleman turned, revealing a dignified face etched with wrinkles. He looked at the young female doctor in surprise. "How did you know I have emphysema? My private doctors all say it's bronchitis."

"Look at your fingers." Vanessa pointed to his fingertips. "Clubbing. Classic symptom of chronic hypoxia. And the wheezing when you breathe—it's faint, but it doesn't escape my ears. Sir, if you don't want to die of respiratory failure, you'd best get a high-resolution CT immediately."

The old gentleman narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing her. "What is your name?"

"Call me Dr. C."

The old man suddenly laughed, the laugh of a superior being who controlled everything. "Dr. C? The legendary phantom surgeon? Interesting. I am William Vanderbilt. Remember that name, little girl. We will meet again soon."

Vanessa paid no mind to the weight of the name—the reclusive patriarch controlling half of New York's real estate, true "Old Money." She simply nodded politely and turned back toward the world of antiseptic.

She didn't know that the gears of fate had quietly locked into place at that very moment.