The Billionaire Refuses To Divorce Me

Bang—

The office door flew open without a knock, slamming against the wall.

Minutes before, the clock on the wall had just hit five p.m. precisely.

Iris Weaver closed the final patient file. The crisp sound of the manila folder shutting echoed in the quiet office. It was a sound of finality, of a day's work done.

She slid the file into the out tray, her movements economical and sharp. No wasted motion. No lingering.

The white coat came off next, revealing a simple silk blouse underneath. She folded the coat, a practiced ritual, and placed it neatly over the back of her chair. Her shift was over.

A glance at her phone confirmed what she already knew: no new messages. A small wave of relief washed over her, loosening the tight knot of tension that always gathered at the base of her neck during a shift. She picked up her handbag, the soft leather cool against her fingers, ready to disappear into the New York evening.

And now, the intruder: Caleb Hayes, another surgical resident, stumbled in, his chest heaving. His face was flushed, a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

Iris's brow furrowed, a barely perceptible line of annoyance. She hated interruptions, especially when she had already tidied up and was ready to leave. She remained silent, letting him catch his breath.

"Iris, thank God," he panted, trying to block the doorway. "I need a favor. A huge one."

She looked pointedly at the clock on the wall. "My shift ended a few minutes ago, Caleb."

"I know, I know, but this is an emergency. VIP floor. We have an admit, and she's refusing to be seen by any male doctors."

"Then call Dr. Evans," Iris said, her tone flat. "She's on call tonight."

Caleb's face twisted in desperation. He lowered his voice, leaning in conspiratorially. "It's Kelsey Mcknight. The actress. She just flew in from Europe. Her agent threw Dr. Evans out—insisted on a female attending. You're the only female attending in the building."

Kelsey Mcknight.

Iris knew the name. Not just from the tabloid headlines she glimpsed at grocery store checkouts, but from the photographs—the ones where Kelsey Mcknight hung on Adler Pope's arm at galas and premieres, her smile bright and possessive. The rumored girlfriend. The woman the world assumed he belonged to.

Something bitter and acidic coiled in Iris's stomach. It took everything she had to keep her expression neutral, to not let the sudden tightness in her jaw show. She had no claim to him. She had no right to feel anything. And yet.

She forced the feeling down, burying it beneath a mask of professional indifference.

"Then she can wait for her private physician," Iris said, her voice carefully even. "This isn't my responsibility."

"She doesn't have one in New York," Caleb pleaded, his voice cracking. "And... the call came from the dean's office. You know... the Pope Group is the hospital's biggest benefactor."

The name Pope landed like a second blow. A sudden, sharp coldness shot through her fingertips. Her breath hitched for a fraction of a second, a reaction so small it was invisible to the frantic man in front of her. She quickly forced the feeling down, burying it under layers of professional detachment.

She was silent for a long moment. The clock on the wall ticked, each second a small hammer against her resolve.

It wasn't the dean or the benefactor that made her decision. It was the ingrained, unshakeable core of her training. A patient needed a doctor.

"Fine," she said, her voice clipped. "This one time."

Relief flooded Caleb's face. "Thank you, Iris. Seriously. You're a lifesaver." He immediately turned and started leading the way, chattering his thanks.

Iris slipped her arms back into the starched white coat. It felt heavier than it had a moment ago.

They rode the dedicated elevator to the top floor, the VIP wing. The air here was different—quieter, scented with something floral and expensive. Caleb filled the silence with gossip about Kelsey Mcknight's possible ailment, his voice a low buzz that Iris tuned out. Her mind was a blank slate, a defense mechanism she had perfected over the years.

They arrived at the suite. Before Iris could stop him, Caleb, in his usual clumsy haste, pushed the heavy door open without knocking. A flicker of irritation crossed her face at his lack of professionalism.

She took a deep, steadying breath, pushing all personal feelings into a locked box in the back of her mind. She smoothed the front of her coat, composed her features into a pleasant, neutral mask, and stepped inside.

The room was less like a hospital and more like a suite at the Four Seasons. Plush carpets, designer furniture, and a panoramic view of the glittering Manhattan skyline.

A slender figure in a standard-issue hospital gown was propped up against a mountain of pillows on the bed.

Iris's eyes swept over the patient, her professional gaze taking in the pale face, the slight tremor in her hands. "Ms. Mcknight," she began, her voice calm and clear. "I'm Dr. Weaver. What seems to be the problem?"

The woman on the bed looked up. It was indeed the face plastered across magazines and movie posters—Kelsey Mcknight. Up close, Iris could see the delicate bone structure, the wide eyes, the pout that photographers adored. She looked younger and more fragile in person. Prettier, too.

Iris felt nothing. She refused to feel anything.

Her gaze, however, drifted past the bed toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. It snagged on a figure standing there.

A tall man, his back to her, was staring out at the city. The bespoke suit he wore was impeccably tailored, stretching across a broad back and tapering to a lean waist. The sheer presence of him filled the room, a silent, gravitational pull.

That silhouette.

Even if it were burned to ash, she would know it.

A cold dread, sharp and familiar, coiled in her gut. Her heart, which had been beating at a steady, calm rhythm, suddenly hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.

As if sensing her stare, the man slowly turned.

A devastatingly handsome face came into view, all sharp angles and stark beauty. His eyes, deep-set and the color of a storm-tossed sea, found hers and held. They were just as she remembered—cold, bottomless, and utterly unreadable.

Adler Pope.

Her husband.

Her husband of four years, in name and on paper only. The man she hadn't seen since the day they signed the documents in a sterile lawyer's office. The man whose rumored girlfriend now lay in the bed between them.

The air in her lungs seemed to evaporate. She felt the invisible hand that had been resting on her heart clench into a fist, squeezing until she couldn't breathe.

She tried to tear her gaze away, to look at the patient, at Caleb, at anything else. But his eyes were like chains, pinning her to the spot.

A soft, weak voice broke the suffocating silence.

"Adler," Kelsey Mcknight murmured, her voice laced with a practiced vulnerability. She looked from Iris to the man by the window. "This doctor... she looks so young. Are you sure she's really good enough to be trusted?"