The Divorced Wife And Her Billionaire

The heavy blackness slowly gave way to a warm, golden light. A faint scent of fresh freesias drifted into Aurora's nose. She slowly opened her eyes. This wasn't the freezing, sterile ICU. She was staring at a vaulted ceiling with soft, recessed lighting. The room looked like a suite at a five-star hotel, draped in rich creams and soft grays. She instinctively tried to move her legs. The fatal, tearing agony in her lower back was completely gone. In its place was only a dull, tight pulling sensation across her abdomen. The state-of-the-art medical monitors next to the bed hummed a quiet, rhythmic tune. Her vitals were perfectly stable. A private nurse in a tailored, high-end uniform pushed the door open. She was carrying a glass of room-temperature lemon water. Seeing Aurora awake, the nurse flashed a perfectly trained, comforting smile and walked quickly to the bedside. "Ms. Valdez, you're finally awake," the nurse said softly. "The surgery by the Swiss team was a complete success." Aurora's throat was raw. She stared at the woman in disbelief. "I... I'm alive? Where am I?" The nurse placed a straw near Aurora's lips, helping her take a small sip. "You are in a private rehabilitation center on the Upper East Side. You received a flawless kidney transplant." Aurora's eyes widened. Her mind instantly flashed to the pathetic balance in her joint bank account before she passed out. She knew exactly how much this level of medical care cost. It was a number normal people couldn't even dream of. "Who... who arranged all this?" She reached out and grabbed the nurse's wrist. Her grip was weak but desperate. The nurse, whose nametag read Brenda, didn't flinch. "I'm Brenda, your primary care nurse," she said softly, before she gently but firmly pulled her wrist free. "A gentleman who cares very deeply for your well-being." The first absurd thought that popped into Aurora's head was Conrad. But the memory of that cold, heartless phone call instantly killed the idea. "Was it Conrad Huffman?" she asked. Her voice was flat, laced with self-mockery. Brenda's professional smile didn't waver for a second. Her expression remained perfectly neutral as she shook her head slightly. "I apologize, Ms. Valdez. I have signed an extremely strict Non-Disclosure Agreement." Aurora frowned. Her mind spun in circles. Aside from her ex-husband, she didn't know a single person with this kind of terrifying wealth and power. Brenda smoothly changed the subject. She pulled back the edge of the blanket to check the healing incision on Aurora's side. Aurora stared at the ceiling. She dug into her memory, trying to pull up the angry, violent voice she had heard right before her heart stopped. "There was a man," Aurora said, looking at Brenda. "He kicked the doors in at the hospital. He threatened the doctors. Do you know who that was?" Brenda kept her flawless smile in place. Her answer was airtight. "My duties are strictly confined to your post-operative care. I have no information regarding the events prior to your arrival here." Aurora caught the rehearsed tone in the nurse's voice. She realized she wasn't going to get a single clue out of this woman. She stopped asking. With Brenda's help, Aurora swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her bare feet touched the warm hardwood floor. She stood up. She walked slowly to the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. Below her, the vibrant, sprawling green canopy of Central Park stretched out for miles. A rush of pure, raw life force pumped through her veins. The old Aurora-the woman who swallowed her pride, who begged for scraps of attention from a husband and a son who didn't want her-had died on that operating table. She looked at her pale, sharp reflection in the glass. Her eyes were completely cold. She turned back to Brenda. "I need a pen and some paper," she said evenly. Aurora sat down on the velvet sofa. She placed the paper on the glass coffee table and began to write a list of things she needed to do the second she was discharged. Item number one. End the toxic marriage that had drained every ounce of her dignity. She pressed the tip of the pen hard against the paper. She wrote the word Divorce. She pressed so hard the metal tip tore straight through the thick paper, leaving a permanent scar on the desk beneath.