The True Heiress Returns After Divorce

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.