The Unwanted Wife Is A Genius Zillionaire

Aurora POV:

I pushed through the swinging double doors of the ER, my eyes locked on the glowing calendar reminder on my phone: Marriage Contract Expiration: 3 Days. My seven-year marriage to NHL superstar Darrel Stark was finally coming to an end.

Before I could lock my screen, the heavy VIP double doors at the far end of the hall crashed open. The violent sound was enough to silence the entire emergency room.

Darrel stormed into the harsh fluorescent lights. His custom game-day suit was rumpled. His tie was missing. In his arms, he carried a bleeding woman. Her face was completely hidden beneath his expensive wool peacoat.

Dread settled heavily in my chest. There was my husband, with another woman cradled in his embrace. I stared at the custom platinum cufflinks glinting under the lights-the ones I had bought him for our third anniversary. My feet cemented to the linoleum floor.

"I need this entire floor cleared! Now!" Darrel roared.

His voice carried the commanding boom of a hockey captain, vibrating off the walls. The on-call doctors froze, intimidated by the sheer fame, wealth, and power radiating from him. No one moved.

But the chaos of a Chicago ER didn't stop for a franchise player's demands. A gurney loaded with a screaming, blood-covered drunk suddenly barreled into the trauma bay. I stepped sideways, my back hitting the cold plaster wall to let them pass.

The head nurse shot me a desperate look across the chaotic room. I didn't hesitate. I snapped on a pair of blue latex gloves and rushed into the trauma bay to assist. In the split second the attending physician was tied up with another critical arrival, I read the monitor's data and calmly issued a series of crucial, protocol-based preliminary instructions to the other nurses, stabilizing the patient's vitals.

The drunk patient thrashed wildly. A heavy fist swung toward my face. I ducked, the air rushing past my ear, and used his momentum to strap his thick arm down with a heavy-duty restraint.

The heart monitor shrieked a high-pitched warning.

I kept my breathing steady. I pushed a heavy dose of sedative through his IV line. The erratic lines on the screen smoothed out. The man's head lolled to the side.

After securing the drunk patient, I finally turned my attention back to the man demanding to own the room. I pressed two fingers against the pulse point on my wrist. My heart hammered against my skin. I grabbed a plastic triage clipboard, forcing my legs to walk forward.

I stopped two feet away from my husband. My face was a blank mask.

"Patient's name and symptoms," I said, my voice entirely devoid of emotion.

Darrel's head snapped up. He recognized the eyes above my surgical mask. Panic flashed in his ice-blue pupils. His hands instinctively tightened around the woman in his arms, pulling her closer to his chest.

A soft, breathy whimper escaped from beneath the peacoat.

My lungs stopped working. I knew that sound. It was Jayme Silva. The sports reporter. His brother's fiancée.

My eyes dropped to the hem of Jayme's skirt hanging over Darrel's arm. Dark, wet blood stained the expensive fabric. My medical instincts overrode the crushing weight in my chest.

"I need to remove the coat to assess the bleeding," I said, reaching out.

Darrel violently shoved my hand away.

"Shut your mouth and get a private trauma room ready!" he snarled, his jaw locked tight.

The force of his push sent me stumbling backward. My lower back slammed into the edge of the nurse's station. A sharp pain shot up my spine, but it was nothing compared to the numbing emptiness spreading through my chest.

Two other nurses rushed forward with a gurney. I was forced to follow them into Trauma Room 1.

I stood by the counter, my hands gripping the plastic clipboard. I watched Darrel gently stroke Jayme's hair as the attending physician pulled back the coat.

Jayme's clothes were torn. Her thighs were covered in aggressive red marks. The visual was a violent punch to my gut.

The ultrasound machine hummed.

"Massive fluid in the abdominal cavity," the doctor said, his brow furrowed. "It's a ruptured corpus luteum. Given the extensive bruising on her inner thighs and the signs of pelvic trauma, this is typically caused by intense, vigorous sexual intercourse. Has she engaged in rough sexual activity in the last few hours?"

Jayme buried her face into Darrel's arm, letting out a pathetic sob.

Darrel's face turned a sickly shade of gray. He twisted his platinum cufflink. "Yes," he gritted out.

I gripped my pen so hard my knuckles turned stark white. The tip of the pen sliced right through the triage paper. Seven years of marriage. Seven years of playing the perfect, quiet wife in the shadows of his spotlight. It all evaporated in the sterile air of the ER.

The head nurse leaned in close to me. "Do you know them?" she whispered.

I stared at my husband holding his brother's fiancée. "No," I said, my voice flat.

Darrel pulled out his phone, barking orders to his PR agent to prep his private helicopter. He was already trying to bury the scandal with his checkbook.

Jayme groaned loudly, her body twisting in pain. Darrel kicked a red biohazard bin across the room in frustration.

I calmly walked over, picked up the plastic bin, and set it upright. I pulled a critical condition consent form from my clipboard and shoved it against Darrel's chest.

"Sign," I demanded.

Darrel glared at me. He hated the absolute lack of emotion in my eyes. He snatched the pen and scribbled his name. The ink bled through the paper.

I ripped the copy away. I turned my back on him and walked out of the trauma room. I didn't look back.

The heavy doors clicked shut behind me, cutting off the chaos.

I leaned against the cool hallway wall and pulled my phone from my scrub pocket. The screen still displayed the calendar reminder I had seen earlier.

Marriage Contract Expiration: 3 Days.

I swiped the screen and pinned the notification to the top. The last shred of warmth in my body died.

Ambulance sirens wailed outside in the Chicago night. I peeled off my bloody latex gloves and dropped them into the trash.

I walked into the locker room, stared at my pale face in the mirror, and took a deep breath. It was over.

Aurora POV:

A dozen men in black suits swarmed the emergency department.

Darrel's private security team moved like a military unit. They violently yanked the privacy curtains shut across every glass window, blocking out the waiting room.

A massive bodyguard stepped directly into my path. He reached out to snatch the triage clipboard from my hands.

I took a swift step back.

The bodyguard scowled and unclipped the heavy baton from his belt. Behind the counter, the head nurse let out a squeak and ducked out of sight.

I didn't blink. I stared dead into the bodyguard's eyes.

"Under federal HIPAA laws, touching this medical record is a federal offense," I said, my voice sharp as glass. "Try it."

The trauma room doors swung open. Darrel stepped out. He waved the bodyguard away and marched toward me. His blue eyes were dark and stormy.

The hospital director sprinted down the hallway, sweating profusely in his tailored suit. He bowed his head to Darrel before turning a frantic glare on me.

"Give me the chart, Aurora. Now," the director ordered.

I didn't fight him. I let my fingers slip from the plastic board. I watched the director hand it over like a loyal dog.

Darrel reached into his tailored suit jacket. He pulled out a leather-bound checkbook and a gold fountain pen. He scribbled a number so fast the pen scratched the paper.

He slammed the check down on the nurse's station counter.

"One hundred thousand dollars," Darrel said, his voice a low, dangerous threat. "Keep your mouth shut."

The check slid off the slick surface and fluttered to the linoleum floor. I looked down at the paper. A bitter, mocking smile pulled at the corner of my mouth.

The double doors opened again. Paramedics wheeled Jayme out on a transport bed. Her face was pale, but her eyes fluttered open.

Jayme's gaze cut through the crowd and locked perfectly onto me. A weak, highly intentional smirk formed on her lips.

Bile rose in the back of my throat. I looked at Jayme the same way I looked at a bag of medical waste.

Darrel immediately turned his back to me. He leaned over the transport bed, his large hand gently cupping Jayme's cheek, blocking my view completely.

The paramedics pushed the bed toward the VIP exit. Darrel walked right beside it.

Right before he pushed through the exit doors, Darrel threw one last warning glare over his shoulder at me. Then, he was gone.

The roar of his Bentley's engine faded into the night. The ER was suffocatingly quiet. The director wiped his sweaty forehead and scurried away.

Claire, a young ER nurse, popped up beside me. Her eyes were wide with excitement.

"Oh my god," Claire whispered. "Was that Captain Stark? That girl must be his absolute soulmate. They must have been going at it so hard to end up here."

I bent down. I picked up the hundred-thousand-dollar check, crumpling it into a tight ball in my fist.

I turned to Claire. I lowered my voice, adopting a deeply serious, clinical tone.

"I saw his chart," I lied smoothly. "The man suffers from severe, organic erectile dysfunction."

Claire gasped, her hands flying to cover her mouth.

"The injuries," I continued, my face completely deadpan, "were caused by illegal, oversized mechanical toys. He can't perform naturally."

Claire's eyes nearly bulged out of her head. The romantic illusion shattered instantly, replaced by pure disgust. "Ew. Gross."

I patted Claire's shoulder. "Patient confidentiality, Claire. Don't tell a soul."

I knew Claire. She couldn't keep a secret if her life depended on it. By tomorrow morning, the rumor of Darrel Stark's impotence would be the absolute hottest topic of gossip circulating through every breakroom and nurse's station in this entire hospital.

I walked into the breakroom. I shoved the crumpled check into the heavy-duty paper shredder.

The machine whirred loudly, chewing the paper into tiny, worthless strips.

I stripped off my scrubs, pulled on my coat, and pushed through the hospital doors. The freezing Chicago wind hit my face, and for the first time in seven years, I felt like I could breathe.

Aurora POV:

I pushed open the heavy oak doors of our Manhattan penthouse.

The motion-sensor lights flickered on, casting a cold glow onto the vast white marble floor. I kicked off my heels. My bare feet hit the thick rug, but the apartment felt as cold as an ice rink.

I walked straight past the massive portrait hanging in the foyer. Darrel had paid half a million dollars for that custom oil painting of us during his first Stanley Cup championship run. It seemed incredibly ironic now.

I entered the study. Stepping behind his massive mahogany bookshelf, I pulled a thick encyclopedia of hockey history forward. A hidden digital keypad glowed to life.

I punched in a complex sequence of numbers. The heavy steel door of the wall safe clicked open.

I ignored the velvet boxes of diamonds and the custom emeralds he had bought to match his team colors. I reached into the very bottom and pulled out a yellowed manila envelope.

I slid the documents out. The bold black letters at the top read: Prenuptial and Fixed-Term Marriage Agreement. Duration: Seven Years.

I flipped to the last page. My fingers traced the signature of the man who had brokered this marriage-the late Baron Stark III, the former owner of Darrel's NHL franchise.

I walked over to the sleek printer in the corner and hit the copy button. The machine spit out the warm pages. I stapled them together and placed the stack perfectly in the center of Darrel's massive desk.

The front door keypad beeped. Heavy, rushed footsteps echoed across the marble floor.

Darrel stalked into the living room, aggressively yanking his designer tie loose. The cloying scent of the hospital's VIP luxury candles clung to his custom suit, mixing sharply with the smell of sterile alcohol.

He saw the light spilling from the study and frowned. He marched in.

"You left your shift early," Darrel snapped, his dark eyes full of irritation.

I didn't argue. I just pushed the stapled contract across the smooth wood of the desk, stopping it right at his fingertips.

Darrel glanced down at the cover page. He rolled his eyes.

"Another trust fund amendment?" He let out a harsh, mocking laugh. He planted both hands on the desk, leaning over to glare down at me.

"Your cold-blooded performance at the hospital tonight was just a negotiation tactic, wasn't it?" he sneered. "You want more money."

I looked up at him. My eyes were painfully clear.

"I want a divorce," I said evenly. "The contract expires in three days."

Darrel froze for a fraction of a second. Then, he threw his head back and laughed.

"You're pathetic," he said. "This dramatic, attention-seeking act is getting old, Aurora."

He didn't even open the document. He backhanded the stack of papers. They flew off the desk, scattering like snow across the expensive Persian rug.

"I don't have time for your desperate games," he said, turning his back on me.

Before he could take two steps, Jayme's signature ringtone came from his phone.

Darrel answered it, his voice instantly dropping into a sickeningly sweet, gentle whisper. "I'm here, baby. Does it hurt?"

A frantic, breathless voice echoed faintly from the earpiece. "Darrel... the doctor says there might be a complication. I'm so scared. Please come back."

His face tightened with sheer panic. He spun around, completely ignoring the papers on the floor. He didn't even look at me.

He grabbed his keys from the side table and sprinted out of the apartment.

The front door slammed shut. The sound echoed violently through the empty penthouse.

I sat perfectly still in the leather chair. I looked at the scattered papers on the floor.

I bent down and picked up the signature page. I stared at the date, silently murmuring a few unfeeling words of mourning for this marriage in name only.