Too Late, Billionaire: The Doctor's Comeback

The harsh glare of the smartphone screen was the only light in the sprawling Manhattan penthouse bedroom. Aimee Simpson lay on the massive king-sized bed, her thumb scrolling mindlessly through social media, waiting for Hamilton to return from his supposed business trip to Chicago.

Then a breaking news notification from Page Six dropped down from the top of her screen.

She tapped it out of boredom. The network lagged for a fraction of a second. Then a high-definition paparazzi photo loaded, filling the entire display.

Her breath caught in her throat.

In the photo, Hamilton Reed IV was stepping out of a charity gala-wearing the custom Tom Ford tuxedo she had picked up from the dry cleaners for him last week. His arm was wrapped possessively around the waist of Celeste Robinson-Vanderbilt, a prominent socialite.

Aimee's fingers began to tremble. She swiped down, her eyes hunting desperately for a date that would prove this was an old photo.

It wasn't.

The article detailed how this public appearance was the precursor to a massive corporate merger between their two families. Below the text was a screenshot of Celeste's official Twitter account. She had liked the article less than an hour ago.

Then Aimee's gaze locked onto a second photo-a side profile of Celeste in a skin-tight silver gown. The curve of her stomach was undeniable. A distinct, rounded bump.

A wave of ice-cold water crashed over Aimee, chilling her from scalp to toes. Her stomach violently contracted. The past three months of Hamilton's late nights, his sudden need to take calls in the other room, his unexplained weekend absences-the logic snapped together in her brain like a steel trap.

She slammed the phone face-down onto the velvet mattress. A thick, acidic wave of nausea rose in her throat. She clamped her hand over her mouth, fighting the urge to vomit.

Then she squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to take three deep, shuddering breaths. The oxygen burned her lungs, but it pushed the panic down.

She threw off the heavy velvet comforter. Her bare feet hit the freezing hardwood floor. She didn't bother looking for slippers. She walked straight into the massive walk-in closet.

The left side of the closet was lined with thousands of dollars' worth of haute couture-gowns, designer heels, silk blouses that Hamilton had bought for her. She ignored all of it.

Aimee stood on her tiptoes and reached for the very top shelf. She grabbed the handle of a plain, black canvas suitcase-the exact same cheap luggage she had brought with her five years ago, carefully preserved-and yanked it down. The rusted zipper let out a harsh, metallic shriek as she forced it open.

She pulled open the bottom drawer of the dresser. She grabbed the faded cotton scrubs and plain T-shirts she had bought with her own medical school scholarship money. She shoved them roughly into the canvas bag.

She walked over to the marble vanity. She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her face was chalky white, but her brown eyes were hardening into something resembling shattered glass.

Aimee reached up to the back of her neck. Her fingers fumbled with the clasp of the diamond necklace Hamilton had given her for their anniversary. The clasp was tight. She yanked it hard. The platinum chain dug into her skin, leaving an angry red welt across her pale neck before it finally gave way.

She placed the diamonds dead center on the marble countertop. Next to it, she placed the limitless black titanium credit card he had given her.

She walked back to the bed and picked up her phone. She dialed Hamilton's private number.

The line rang. Once. Twice. Five times.

"Hello?" Hamilton's deep, slightly annoyed voice finally came through. There was a brief rustling sound, as if he was stepping away from whoever he was with.

In the background, Aimee could hear the soft, elegant notes of a cello playing. Woven through the music was the distinct, breathy laugh of a woman.

"Why are you still awake?" Hamilton asked, his tone dripping with the casual authority of a man who believed he controlled every aspect of her existence.

Aimee didn't scream. She didn't ask about the photo. She didn't mention the baby.

"We are done," Aimee said. Her voice was completely flat.

Dead silence stretched over the line for a full second.

Then Hamilton let out a low, mocking chuckle. "Are you throwing another tantrum because I couldn't fly you out to Chicago with me? Grow up, Aimee."

Aimee pulled the phone away from her ear. She pressed the red end-call button.

She immediately opened her contacts, selected his name, and hit block. She severed the connection completely.

She grabbed the canvas backpack, slung it over her shoulder, and zipped up the cheap suitcase. She looked around the opulent bedroom one last time. She was leaving with exactly what she had brought into this relationship. Nothing more.

She walked down the hallway to the grand foyer. Doloris, the head housekeeper, was just stepping out of the kitchen with a silver tray.

Doloris stopped, her eyes widening at the sight of Aimee's faded clothes and cheap luggage. "Miss Aimee? Where are you going at this hour?"

Aimee reached into her pocket. She pulled out the heavy brass key and the magnetic keycard to the penthouse. She placed them gently onto the silver tray in Doloris's hands.

"Thank you for everything, Doloris," Aimee said quietly.

"But Mr. Reed will be home soon," Doloris protested, her voice laced with genuine panic. "You can't just leave."

Aimee shook her head. She pressed the down button for the private elevator.

The brass doors chimed and slid open. Aimee stepped inside without a backward glance. She hit the button for the lobby.

The metal doors slowly closed, cutting off the sight of the luxurious penthouse. Aimee watched the digital numbers tick downward. She let out a long, shaky exhale.

But as the elevator descended, her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. She opened it and froze.

The message contained a single photo: Hamilton, holding Celeste's hand at the charity gala. And written across the bottom in elegant script: "You were always just the placeholder, darling.."

Aimee pushed through the heavy glass doors of the lobby and stepped out into the biting chill of the Manhattan night. The wind whipped her hair across her face. She dragged her suitcase to the curb, raising her hand to hail a passing yellow cab.

The taxi didn't slow down. It sped past, its tires hitting a pothole and sending a spray of dirty, freezing water onto the pavement.

Aimee jumped back to avoid the splash. As she did, a sleek, black Maybach glided silently out of the traffic and stopped exactly inches from her boots.

The tinted rear window rolled down with a soft hum. Hamilton was sitting in the back seat. His jaw was clenched tight, and his dark eyes were fixed on the cheap canvas suitcase by her leg.

Aimee's heart hammered against her ribs. She pretended not to see him. She grabbed the handle of her suitcase, turned on her heel, and started walking fast in the opposite direction.

A heavy curse echoed from inside the car. "Stay exactly where you are!" he barked at his driver. The heavy door swung open. Hamilton stepped out, his expensive leather dress shoes splashing directly into a puddle.

He closed the distance in three long strides. His large hand shot out and clamped down on her slender wrist. His grip was bruising, his fingers digging into her skin.

Aimee gasped at the sudden pain. She twisted her arm, throwing her weight backward to break his hold. But the difference in their physical strength was absolute. She was forced to stop and spin around to face him.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Hamilton hissed, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He towered over her, his presence suffocating. "Why did you block my number?"

Aimee stared at the crisp collar of his tuxedo shirt. "Was the charity gala fun?" she asked, her voice dripping with ice.

Hamilton's eyes flickered with a fraction of surprise. He quickly smoothed his expression into mild irritation. "It was a mandatory PR event for the board. It means nothing."

Aimee's lips curled into a bitter sneer. "Is the baby growing in Celeste's stomach a PR event too?"

Hamilton's pupils dilated instantly. His entire body went rigid. The hand holding her wrist loosened just a fraction in his shock.

"That..." Hamilton stammered, his smooth composure shattering. He quickly recovered, his tone turning urgent. "That is a business arrangement. It's complicated, Aimee. You don't understand how my family operates."

The nausea hit Aimee again, twisting her insides into a tight knot. She used his moment of distraction to violently yank her wrist free. She stepped back, rubbing the red marks his fingers had left on her skin.

"I understand perfectly," Aimee said, looking dead into his eyes. "I will never be your dirty little secret. I am not playing this disgusting game with you."

Hamilton's face darkened with fury. His authority was being challenged on an open street. "If you walk away from me right now," he warned, his voice dropping an octave, "I will cut off every cent. Your research funding, your credit cards, everything."

Aimee let out a harsh, humorless laugh. "I left your black card on the vanity. Take your filthy money and go to hell."

Hamilton's jaw ticked. He reached out, aiming to grab her by the shoulders and physically force her back toward the building.

Aimee's survival instinct flared. As his hands came toward her, she shifted her weight. She lifted her right leg and drove the hard heel of her ankle boot directly into Hamilton's shin with all the force she could muster.

"Fuck!" Hamilton grunted in pain. He doubled over, clutching his lower leg, his eyes wide with absolute shock. He stared at her as if he had never seen her before.

Aimee didn't waste a second. She grabbed her suitcase and sprinted toward the intersection just as a yellow cab stopped at a red light.

She yanked open the back door, practically throwing her suitcase onto the floorboards. She dove into the backseat and slammed the door shut behind her.

Hamilton straightened up, limping heavily as he took two steps toward the car. He slammed his open palm angrily against the trunk of the taxi.

Aimee looked at him through the smudged glass. "Drive," she yelled at the driver. "Brooklyn. Now."

The light turned green. The driver slammed on the gas. The taxi lurched forward, leaving Hamilton standing in the exhaust fumes under the glow of the streetlights.

Inside the cab, Aimee sank back against the cracked vinyl seat. The adrenaline was slowly draining from her veins, leaving her limbs shaking.

She pulled out her phone and opened her banking app. The screen loaded to show her current balance: two thousand dollars. It was nothing in this city.

She took a deep breath, the smell of old air freshener filling her nose. "Change of plans," she told the driver. "Take me to the old medical dorms near the university."

As the cab merged onto the bridge, Aimee's phone buzzed again. Another unknown number. This time, it was a voicemail. She pressed it to her ear and heard Hamilton's voice, low and venomous: "You think running to Brooklyn will save you? I own that building, Aimee. Sleep tight."

The taxi pulled up to the curb in front of a crumbling brick building. Aimee handed the driver a few crumpled bills and pushed the heavy door open.

She grabbed her suitcase and dragged it up three flights of narrow, unlit stairs. The hallway smelled strongly of stale pizza and cheap weed.

Aimee dug into her backpack and pulled out the spare brass key she had kept for her old single dorm room. She shoved it into the lock, twisted hard, and pushed the door open.

She hit the plastic light switch on the wall. The overhead bulb flickered violently for three seconds before casting a dim, yellow glow over a narrow twin bed and a scratched wooden desk piled high with old medical textbooks.

She shoved her suitcase into the corner. Her muscles ached with exhaustion, but her mind was racing. She walked over to the small sink in the corner, turned the squeaky faucet, and splashed freezing water onto her face.

The icy drops ran down her chin and soaked the collar of her shirt. She gripped the edges of the porcelain sink and stared at her red-rimmed eyes in the cracked mirror. She slapped her own cheeks twice, hard, forcing herself to focus.

Aimee walked over to the desk and opened her laptop. The screen illuminated her pale face.

She opened a blank document. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, typing out a formal letter of resignation to the private research clinic. Hamilton had used his connections to get her this high-paying, low-stress fellowship. She needed to sever every single tie to him immediately.

She hit the final period, saved the document, and connected her laptop to the dusty printer sitting on the floor. The machine groaned and squeaked as it spit out the single sheet of paper.

The next morning, Aimee changed into a clean set of navy blue scrubs. She folded the resignation letter, slid it into a brown manila envelope, and walked out of the dorm.

She took the crowded subway to the Upper East Side. The private clinic was housed in a sleek, glass-fronted building. Aimee swiped her badge at the employee entrance and walked in.

She headed straight for the reception desk to drop the envelope off with the administrative assistant. But the desk was completely empty.

Aimee frowned and tapped her knuckles against the polished wood. As she did, her eyes fell on the receptionist's computer monitor, which had been carelessly left unlocked. The daily VIP appointment schedule was glowing brightly on the screen.

The name highlighted in the current time slot hit her like a physical blow: Celeste Robinson-Vanderbilt.

Aimee's lungs seized. She knew she shouldn't look, but a masochistic need for absolute proof took over her body. She leaned slightly over the counter, her eyes darting to the 'Reason for Visit' column.

Her medically trained eyes scanned the brief intake notes instantly. The words were impossible to misinterpret. Follow-up for astronomical HCG levels. Right next to it was the radiologist's preliminary note from the recent ultrasound: Intrauterine pregnancy, 12 weeks gestation. Normal fetal development.

The glaring pixels on the screen destroyed the last tiny fraction of doubt in her mind. Hamilton's claim of a "business arrangement" was a pathetic lie.

A wave of dizziness washed over her. Aimee bit down on her lower lip so hard that she tasted the sharp, metallic tang of blood on her tongue. Her hand shook as she carefully stepped back from the desk, leaving the computer exactly as she found it.

Footsteps echoed down the hall. A nurse walked around the corner, holding a cup of coffee and complaining loudly about a demanding patient. Aimee quickly pulled her hand back and pretended to adjust the collar of her scrubs.

She didn't leave the envelope on the desk. She gripped the manila folder tightly. She needed to hand this directly to the department head, Dr. Thorne.

Aimee marched down the pristine white hallway. Her knuckles were white from gripping the envelope. She stopped in front of Dr. Thorne's frosted glass door.

She took a deep breath, forcing her racing heart to slow down. She raised her fist and knocked three times.

"Come in," Dr. Thorne's voice called out.

Aimee pushed the door open. Dr. Thorne was hunched over a microscope. He looked up and smiled warmly. "Aimee. Do we have the new assay results?"

Aimee walked straight to his desk. She held out the manila envelope with both hands. "I am resigning, Dr. Thorne. Effective immediately."

Dr. Thorne's smile vanished. He stared at the envelope in shock. "Resigning? Aimee, what is this about?"

Before Aimee could speak, the heavy office door was violently shoved open from the outside, slamming against the wall with a deafening crack.

Hamilton Reed stood in the doorway, his chest heaving, his eyes blazing with a fury that made the air itself seem to freeze. Behind him, in the hallway, Aimee caught a glimpse of Celeste-perfectly coiffed, one hand resting on her small baby bump, smiling like a cat who had swallowed the canary.