FATHER OF A BASTARD SOM ASKED FOR A DIVORCE PLUS 50 MILLION

Chapter 6

Michael didn't argue. His brow furrowed tightly as he instantly dropped to his knees beside the dying man.

"Get back, John," Michael said, his voice dropping into a commanding, authoritative tone that chilled everyone present. "He's hemorrhaging internally."

John opened his mouth to mock him, but the absolute, terrifying intensity in Michael's eyes forced him to shut his mouth and take a step back in sheer shame.

Michael pulled out his travel needle case, unrolling a set of long, silver acupuncture needles. His hands moved like blurred lightning—precise, steady, and blindingly fast.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

With incredible precision, Michael drove three silver needles directly into the old man's sternum, throat, and pulse points. He applied rhythmic, targeted pressure right over his chest, using a specialized chest-compression technique to manually force the trapped blood out of his lungs while relieving the lethal pressure on his heart.

The crowd held its collective breath.

Within thirty seconds, the fountain of blood stopped spilling from the old man's mouth. His violent, terrifying convulsions slowed down, then ceased entirely. A soft, deep breath escaped the old man's lips, and his pulse gradually stabilized into a calm, steady rhythm.

In the distance, the wailing siren of an ambulance cut through the night air, pulling up right along the curb. Paramedics rushed out with a stretcher.

The young woman let out a long, breathless gasp, staring at her grandfather, who had opened his eyes and was looking around coherently.

She turned around, her face filled with profound shock, gratitude, and deep shame. "Dr. Michael... I... I don't know how to thank you... I was so wrong—"

She stopped.

The space beside her was completely empty.

Michael had already packed his silver needles, pulled his coat hood over his head, and quietly slipped away into the crowd, heading down the street toward the bar, leaving John standing alone in front of the stunned crowd to face the consequences.

Michael shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets as he pushed through the doors of the tavern. The stale smell of spilled beer and old peanuts filled the air, exactly as it had the night before.

Behind the counter, a burly man was wiping and cleaning down glasses. He looked up, his brows furrowing as he recognized Michael.

"Back again?" the bar owner asked, tossing the rag over his shoulder. "You had quite the night, doctor. I thought you'd still be sleeping it off."

Michael leaned against the counter, his voice tight. "I need answers. The woman who took me out of here last night... who was she?"

The owner let out a short laugh. "How am I supposed to know? You were slurred, barely able to keep your head up. You kept pulling out your phone, babbling that you were calling someone to pick you up. Twenty minutes later, a gorgeous woman walked through those doors, grabbed your arm, and dragged you out."

"Was it my wife?" Michael asked, his heart beating wildly in his chest. "Did I call my wife?"

"Look, man, I don't keep tabs on who my customers sleep with," the owner said, shaking his head. "She was beautiful, high-class, that's all I know."

"Show me your security footage," Michael demanded, pointing up at the camera at the corner of the ceiling. "Just let me look at the tape from midnight. I need to see her face."

The owner’s eyes hardened. "Not happening, pal. I don't show my footage to anyone unless a cop is standing right next to them with a warrant. Now, if you're not ordering a drink, clear out please ."

Michael bit his lip, his fists clenching inside his coat pockets. Was it really Susan he had called? Did his muscle memory just take over when he was drunk? The doubts were eating him alive, but without the footage, he was slamming against a brick wall.

He left the bar and walked straight back to the hotel. He wasn't going back to that cold, empty mansion he used to call home. He walked up to the front desk and booked a brand new room under his own name.

Sitting on the edge of the hotel bed, Michael pulled out his phone. His fingers hovered over his contacts before he dialed the hospital director.

"Director Baron," Michael said when the line connected, his voice sounding completely drained. "It's Michael. I... I need to request a few days off."

"Michael? Is everything okay?" the director asked, sounding surprised. "You've never missed a shift in five years."

"Personal emergency, sir. I just can't come in right now. My head isn't in the right space for surgery."

"Take all the time you need, son. Just let us know when you're ready."

Michael hung up the phone and threw it onto the mattress. He place his face in his hands in a form of distress, letting out a long, shuddering sigh.

Divorce. It was the only way out. How could any man accept this? How could he share a bed for nearly ten years with a woman, raise two children with all his heart, only to discover one of them wasn't biologically his? The sheer embarrassment and betrayal felt like a blade twisting in his chest.

He stared out the window as the sky turned gray, his mind drifting back to his graduation day.

He had been the star graduate of the top medical university in the country. Offers had flooded in from every elite research institution in the world. Even the legendary Medical Sage—a man whose medical expertise was revered globally—had personally offered to take Michael under his wing as his sole disciple. It was a golden path to ultimate wealth, fame, and power.

And Michael had turned it down.

Why? Because back then, Susan’s career was blowing up. She was working eighteen-hour days taking over the Sterling Enterprise. Michael had been terrified that if he accepted the discipleship and traveled the world, the distance would tear their young marriage apart.

So he sacrificed his golden future. He stepped down from the high-stress, core positions in the emergency department, voluntarily moving to a marginal, quiet clinic role just so he could leave the hospital at five o'clock sharp every evening.