My Husband Chooses to Save His Lover's Daughter Instead

Chapter 5

Miguel strode into the room, shrugging off his suit jacket and letting it fall to the floor. As he unbuttoned his shirt, completely unaware, I gave the hotel the final go-ahead. Within seconds, the live feed from his room was projected onto the massive conference hall screen, and broadcasted online for good measure.

"If you want to be famous, Miguel," I murmured to myself, a smirk tugging at my lips, "I'll make sure it's for all the wrong reasons."

A wave of gasps and horrified murmurs swept through the hall as the screen lit up with the unmistakable sight of tangled limbs and heavy breathing. Doctors who had lingered after the event froze mid-conversation, their faces twisting in shock.

Right on cue, Miguel reached for that disgusting bottle of lubricant again.

Tricia stopped him with a coy smile, cheeks flushed. "Dr. Richardson, about Chloe's surgery…"

Miguel barely paused. "We'll do it as soon as we're back. Be good, put on a good performance, and I'll make sure it's scheduled for tomorrow," he murmured roughly.

The livestream chat exploded.

[No wonder my son's surgery keeps getting postponed, guess I'm not a woman willing to trade my body!]

[What kind of scumbags are running our hospitals? You have to sleep with a doctor to get treatment now?!]

[Someone drop the hotel address. My daughter hasn't even gotten a consultation yet, I think it's time I 'thank' this doctor myself.]

Smirking, I did them one better. I enabled the hotel's location tag and pinned the exact room number.

Three minutes later, an angry mob of patients' families stormed into the lobby, baseball bats and cans of paint in hand, their fury boiling over. Meanwhile, on screen, Miguel and Tricia were basking in their post-coital haze, completely oblivious that their private performance had gone viral, and that their careers were about to burn to the ground.

Then, my phone buzzed with a message from my friend at the prison.

[Ms. Gomez, your guest has arrived.]

As if on cue, a furious roar echoed through the hotel lobby.

"WHERE THE HELL IS THAT BITCH TRICIA?!"

Every head turned as a man stormed in, his voice dripping with rage. Tricia's freshly released husband, Brandon.

I met him with an easy smile and gestured toward the elevator. "Right this way."

A few minutes later, we stood outside their room. Out of sheer politeness, I knocked.

From inside, Miguel's irritated voice snapped, clearly annoyed at the interruption. "Who the hell is it? Get lost!"

Brandon didn't bother answering. He just kicked the door open with a deafening BANG.

Then, he pulled a kitchen knife from his waistband.