The True Heiress Returns After Divorce

A jagged blade of agony twisted deep inside Emmie's lower abdomen.

Her fingers dug into the cold edge of the marble island in the penthouse kitchen. The pristine white stone offered no comfort.

The pain ripped through her again, sharper this time. Her knees buckled.

She hit the hard ceramic tile floor with a heavy thud. The impact sent a shockwave up her spine, but it was nothing compared to the tearing sensation in her gut.

Her vision blurred into a mess of gray shadows. Cold sweat instantly soaked through the thin silk of her nightgown, clinging to her spine like a layer of ice.

Her hand trembled violently as she reached out. Her fingers brushed against the cold screen of her phone lying on the floor.

She pressed the speed dial button for Daxton. Her chest heaved as she waited.

"Please," she gasped to the empty room.

A cold, automated female voice filled the silence. Please leave your message after the tone.

Her fingers went completely numb. The phone slipped from her weak grasp.

It hit the tile with a sharp crack.

The edges of her vision turned black. The darkness rushed in, swallowing the pain, the cold floor, and the suffocating silence of the penthouse. Emmie closed her eyes and let it take her.

The sharp, chemical stench of bleach burned Emmie's nostrils.

She forced her heavy eyelids open.

The blinding white ceiling lights of a hospital room pierced her eyes. The steady, rhythmic beep... beep... beep of a heart monitor echoed in the sterile space.

She slowly turned her head.

A tall, broad-shouldered figure stood by the floor-to-ceiling window. The bespoke charcoal suit fit him perfectly. Daxton Ellis. Her husband.

Emmie's dry, cracked lips parted. She tried to push his name out of her throat, but no sound came.

Daxton turned around. His deep, dark eyes locked onto hers. There was no warmth in them. No relief. He looked at her the way a mechanic looks at a broken machine.

The heavy wooden door pushed open. Dr. Evans walked in, a metal clipboard in his hand, breaking the suffocating silence.

"Mr. Ellis," Dr. Evans said, his voice professional and tight. "Mrs. Ellis suffered a severe shock induced by acute stomach cramps. Her body is under immense stress."

Daxton's brow furrowed slightly. He didn't look at Emmie.

"Will this affect the bone marrow transplant next month?" Daxton's voice was a flat, emotionless line. He cut the doctor off completely.

Emmie's heart violently contracted in her chest. The tiny spark of hope that had just ignited in her chest instantly turned to ash.

Dr. Evans flipped a page on his clipboard, clearing his throat. "As long as she rests and follows the nutritional plan, the hematopoietic stem cell activity will not be compromised."

The tight line of Daxton's jaw visibly relaxed. He gave a short, cold nod. "Understood."

Dr. Evans turned and walked out, pulling the heavy door shut behind him with a soft click.

The room fell dead silent again.

Emmie dug her elbows into the mattress, forcing her weak, trembling body to sit up against the headboard. Her breathing was shallow.

Daxton didn't move an inch to help her. He stood exactly where he was, his gaze sweeping over her pale face, assessing her like a medical asset.

"Is Hortensia's life the only thing you care about?" Emmie asked. Her voice was a broken, raspy whisper.

Daxton casually lifted his arm and adjusted the cuff of his expensive suit.

"Yes," Daxton said brutally. "Do not forget that is the only value this marriage holds."

Emmie's fingers gripped the white hospital bedsheets. She squeezed so hard her knuckles turned stark white.

She lifted her chin, looking at the man she had loved for a decade. "I have been by your side for six years, Daxton. Two years as your wife. Can you not give me even a fraction of a second of your concern?"

Daxton let out a low, mocking scoff. He took two slow steps toward the bed.

He looked down at her, his expression a wall of solid ice. "Do not beg for things that do not belong to you, Emmie. It is pathetic."

He lifted his wrist, glancing at his Patek Philippe watch.

"I'll be in the waiting room," he stated. "The board can wait."

He turned on his heel. His long legs carried him toward the door without a single moment of hesitation.

The door slammed shut. The sound echoed in the room, leaving Emmie entirely alone in the suffocating silence.