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.

The echo of the slamming door bounced off the sterile walls. Emmie stared at the solid oak wood.

A single, hot tear broke free. It slid down her cheek and splashed onto the pale skin of the back of her hand.

She sucked in a sharp breath. She forced the burning bile down her throat and threw the thin hospital blanket off her legs.

Her bare feet hit the freezing linoleum floor. A wave of dizziness slammed into her brain. She grabbed the edge of the metal nightstand to keep from collapsing.

She reached over and ripped the IV needle out of the back of her hand.

A stream of dark red blood welled up instantly. She grabbed a medical cotton swab from the tray and pressed it hard against the wound.

Emmie dragged her feet toward the small closet. She pulled out a hospital-branded fleece jacket left by a nurse. The paramedics had wrapped it around her when they loaded her into the ambulance-her own nightgown had been soaked through with cold sweat. A nurse must have found her phone on the penthouse floor and placed it in the jacket pocket before the ambulance left.

A harsh, vibrating buzz erupted from the pocket of the jacket.

She pulled her phone out. The screen flashed with the name of Alistair Finch, the Brandt family's lifelong butler.

She swiped the screen. "Alistair?" she whispered, her voice still weak.

"Miss Emmie..." Alistair's voice cracked. He was crying. The sound of his raw panic sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through her veins.

"What is it? What happened?"

"It's Master Silas," Alistair choked out. "He collapsed. His condition deteriorated rapidly. We are at the hospital. They are trying to resuscitate him."

A deafening ringing exploded in Emmie's ears. The cotton swab slipped from her fingers, dropping to the floor.

"Where?" Her voice shot up an octave, thick with pure terror. "Which hospital?"

Alistair gave her the address. Emmie ended the call.

She shoved her arms into the jacket. A sudden, vicious wave of pain hit her abdomen, forcing her to lean heavily against the wall. She gasped, waiting for the agony to recede just enough to move, then forced her trembling legs into a desperate, stumbling run toward the door.

She hadn't even noticed the minutes passing. Unbeknownst to her, Daxton's board meeting had been canceled when the hospital called him about her stable condition. He'd been pacing the corridor ever since, waiting for a chance to secure her signature on the surgical consent form.

She grabbed the handle and yanked it open.

Two massive men in identical black suits stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the hallway. Ellis family bodyguards. They blocked the exit like a brick wall.

Emmie lowered her shoulder and tried to push between them.

A thick, heavy hand shoved her squarely in the chest. She stumbled backward into the hospital room.

"Mr. Ellis gave strict orders," the guard said, his face completely blank. "You are to remain under observation until the transplant. You cannot leave."

"My grandfather is dying!" Emmie screamed, her lungs burning. "Get out of my way!"

The guards didn't blink. They stood in silence.

The sound of heavy, measured footsteps echoed down the corridor. Daxton appeared in the doorway, holding a stack of medical papers.

Emmie lunged forward. She grabbed the lapels of his pristine suit jacket, her fingers twisting the expensive fabric.

"Daxton, please," she begged, her eyes wide and red. "My grandfather is in the ICU. They are losing him. I have to go!"

Daxton looked down at her hands gripping his jacket. Disgust flashed in his dark eyes. He grabbed her wrists and violently shoved her hands away.

"Another trick, Emmie?" Daxton sneered. "You think faking a family emergency will get you out of the surgery?"

Emmie stared at him. The air left her lungs. "I want a divorce."

Daxton froze. The air in the room instantly dropped ten degrees. His eyes narrowed into dangerous, dark slits.

He stepped directly into her personal space. "You have no leverage to negotiate, Emmie. You are nothing but the vessel keeping Hortensia alive."

He lifted the papers in his hand and slapped the surgical consent form hard against her chest.

"Stay in this room and behave," Daxton ordered.

He turned his head to the guards. "If she takes one step out of this room, sedate her and bring her back-but do not harm her body. I need her marrow intact."

Daxton turned and walked away.

Emmie clutched the cold consent form. Her knees gave out. She slid down the wall, hitting the floor, and let out a broken, agonizing sob.

Emmie sat on the freezing linoleum, her hands covering her face. She took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing the panic down into her stomach.

She dropped her hands and scanned the room. Her eyes locked onto the small ventilation window inside the attached private bathroom.

She stood up. Her legs were shaky, but she forced them to move. She walked toward the door.

She grabbed the heavy metal IV stand next to the bed and violently shoved it. It crashed to the floor with a deafening metallic clatter.

The door burst open immediately. Both bodyguards rushed in, their eyes scanning the floor.

Emmie grabbed the heavy glass vase from the nightstand. Instead of aiming at the trained men, she hurled it with everything she had at the metal medical tray behind them. The explosive shatter of thick glass and the deafening clatter of falling metal instruments made both men flinch and turn instinctively. The sudden chaos gave her the exact split second she needed. She shot past them like a bullet, dodging their grasping hands.

One of the guards grabbed for her ankle, ready to yank her back-but she kicked free, her bare foot slamming into his jaw. He staggered, giving her the split second she needed.

She sprinted down the hallway, her bare feet slapping against the tile. She shoved past a stunned nurse and threw her body against the heavy door of the fire exit stairwell.

She flew down the concrete stairs, her breath tearing at her throat.

She burst out of the hospital's side exit and into the blinding Manhattan sunlight. A yellow taxi was just pulling up to the curb.

Emmie ripped the back door open and threw herself inside.

"Presbyterian Hospital!" she screamed at the driver. "Now! Please!"

The cab lurched forward, weaving recklessly through the dense city traffic. Emmie gripped her phone so hard her knuckles ached.

The cab slammed to a halt outside the emergency room. Emmie threw a crumpled hundred-dollar bill at the front seat and sprinted out before the driver could speak.

She ran to the nurse's station, gasping for air. "Silas Brandt. Where is he?"

The nurse typed quickly. "ICU, fourth floor."

Emmie ran to the elevators and slammed her fist against the button.

When the doors opened on the fourth floor, she saw Alistair pacing outside the intensive care unit.

Alistair looked up. His eyes were bloodshot. He rushed forward and caught Emmie by the arms as she stumbled.

Emmie pressed her face against the massive glass window of the ICU.

Her grandfather, the man who had been a titan of industry, looked incredibly small. Tubes snaked out of his mouth and arms. The ventilator pumped his chest up and down in a harsh, unnatural rhythm. The numbers on the monitor were terrifyingly low.

A massive weight crushed Emmie's chest. Her legs gave out. She dropped to her knees right there on the floor.

She pressed her palms flat against the cold glass, tears streaming down her face, silently mouthing his name.

Alistair knelt beside her. He placed a trembling hand on her back.

Minutes passed. Emmie finally pulled enough air into her lungs to stand. Alistair guided her to a hard plastic chair in the hallway.

Alistair took a deep breath. "He has been sick for a long time, Miss Emmie."

Emmie snapped her head toward him, her eyes wide with shock.

"He forbade me from telling you," Alistair said, his voice breaking. "He knew your position in the Ellis family was precarious. He didn't want his weakness to become a weapon used against you."

A physical pain sliced through Emmie's heart. The guilt was suffocating.

Alistair reached into his leather briefcase. He pulled out a thick, heavy manila envelope sealed with red wax.

He placed it gently into Emmie's hands. "Master Silas told me to give this to you the moment he could no longer protect you."

Emmie's trembling fingers traced the wax seal.

The ding of the elevator echoed loudly down the quiet hall.

The doors slid open. Four men in black suits stepped out. Ellis family bodyguards. Their eyes locked onto Emmie instantly. The lead guard held up a sleek tablet, a blinking red dot pulsing on the digital map displayed on the screen. "Your phone has a tracker, Mrs. Ellis," the guard stated, his voice devoid of any emotion. "Mr. Ellis insists on knowing your location at all times."