His Unwanted Wife Is A Genius Designer

Arianna pushed through the revolving doors of the luxury Upper East Side apartment building. Ice-cold rainwater dripped from her hair, pooling on the pristine marble floor of the lobby. The night-shift security guard stood up behind the desk. His eyes widened at the sight of the usually immaculate CEO's wife looking so drenched and disheveled. He opened his mouth, closed it, and quickly pressed the button for the private penthouse elevator. The elevator doors slid open on the top floor. Instead of the warm, ambient lighting she expected, she was met with pitch-black silence. She frowned. She hit the switch on the entryway wall. "Aoife?" she called out for the live-in nanny. Her wet heels clicked loudly against the hardwood floor of the massive duplex living room. The sound echoed. No one answered. A sudden, sharp spike of adrenaline hit her bloodstream. It was the primal, terrifying instinct of a mother. She kicked off her ruined heels and ran barefoot down the hallway toward the nursery. The door was slightly ajar. Through the dim light spilling from the hallway, she saw something small and round lying on the thick shag carpet. It was a half-eaten macaron. Her chest tightened. She slapped her hand against the wall, finding the switch. The bright overhead lights flickered on. She gasped, the sound tearing out of her throat. Her five-year-old son, Benjaman, was lying on the floor. His small body was curled into a tight, agonizing ball. Her heart skipped a violent beat. She dropped to her knees and pulled him into her arms. His face was a terrifying shade of blue. His chest heaved, producing a horrific, high-pitched wheezing sound as he fought for air. The heavy, sweet scent of peanut butter wafted from the crushed macaron on the rug. It was a severe anaphylactic shock. Arianna's eyes darted wildly around the room. She gently laid him down and sprinted toward the corner cabinet where they kept the emergency medical kit. She grabbed the handle of the locked box. She punched in the four-digit code. A red light flashed. The nanny had changed the code and locked it. Aoife had mentioned something last week about updating the code so Benjaman wouldn't accidentally get into the adult medications, a stupidly careless safety measure she hadn't bothered to share with Arianna yet. Arianna punched the numbers again. Red light. A third time. Red light. The keypad locked her out. She spun around, her eyes landing on the heavy, solid brass lamp on the dresser. She grabbed the lamp by the base, raised it high above her head, and slammed it directly into the glass door of the medical cabinet. The glass shattered with an explosive crash. Jagged shards sliced deep into the back of her hand. Warm blood instantly welled up, dripping down her fingers, but she didn't feel the pain. She shoved her bleeding hand into the broken cabinet and tore through the supplies. Her fingers closed around the plastic tube of the EpiPen. She ripped the blue safety cap off. She gripped Benjaman's tiny thigh, aimed the orange tip at his outer muscle, and drove it down hard. The needle clicked. The medication shot into his system. Benjaman's violent convulsions slowed slightly, but his eyes remained rolled back. He was still unconscious. Arianna pulled her phone from her pocket. Her bloody fingers smeared across the screen as she dialed 911. "My son is in anaphylactic shock. Five years old. EpiPen administered. He is unresponsive," she barked into the phone, rattling off the penthouse address with terrifying precision. She threw the phone aside and immediately dialed Francis's private number. The line rang. And rang. And rang. Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system. She gritted her teeth, her jaw aching from the pressure, and hit redial. It rang exactly once before the line went dead. He had manually rejected her call. A wave of pure, toxic rage mixed with absolute despair crashed over her. She pulled Benjaman tightly against her chest. Tears finally broke free, spilling over her eyelashes and dropping onto her son's pale, clammy cheek. The shrill, piercing wail of an ambulance siren echoed from the streets far below, cutting through the dead silence of the penthouse. Minutes later, paramedics rushed through the front door, their heavy boots thudding against the floor. They loaded Benjaman onto a small stretcher. Arianna grabbed a random coat from the chair, instinctively scooped her phone from the floor, and sprinted after them into the medical elevator. The back of the ambulance was cramped and smelled heavily of sterile alcohol. The harsh red and blue strobe lights flashed through the small windows, illuminating the terrifying pallor of Arianna's face. A paramedic strapped a clear oxygen mask over Benjaman's face and attached the sticky ECG pads to his chest. The monitor beeped rapidly. The erratic, unstable rhythm made the temperature in the small space feel like it had dropped below freezing. Arianna gripped her son's icy hand. She pulled out her phone again and typed a frantic text to Francis's executive assistant, Morgan. Benjaman is dying. Presbyterian Hospital. Now. The tiny 'Read' receipt popped up instantly. She stared at the screen. The ambulance slammed on its brakes, throwing her forward as they arrived at the emergency room doors. The screen went black. There was no reply.