The Unwanted Wife Is A Zillionaire

Elisa pushed through the swinging double doors of the ER.

The harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. A gurney loaded with a screaming, blood-covered drunk barreled toward her. She stepped sideways, her back hitting the cold plaster wall to let them pass.

The head nurse shot her a desperate look across the chaotic room. Elisa didn't hesitate. She immediately 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, she 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 her face. Elisa ducked, the air rushing past her ear, and used his momentum to strap his thick arm down with a heavy-duty restraint.

The heart monitor shrieked a high-pitched warning.

Elisa kept her breathing steady. She 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.

Before she could exhale, the heavy VIP double doors at the far end of the hall crashed open.

The sound was violent enough to silence the entire emergency room.

August Chambers stormed into the bright lights. His custom Tom Ford suit was wrinkled. His tie was gone. In his arms, he carried a woman. Her face was completely hidden beneath his expensive trench coat.

Elisa's stomach dropped. A cold, heavy stone settled right behind her navel.

She stared at the custom platinum cufflinks glinting under the lights. She bought him those for their third anniversary. Her feet cemented to the linoleum floor.

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

His voice vibrated off the walls. The on-call doctors froze, intimidated by the sheer wealth and power radiating from him. No one moved.

Elisa pressed two fingers against the pulse point on her wrist. Her heart hammered against her skin. She grabbed a plastic triage clipboard, forcing her legs to walk forward.

She stopped two feet away from her husband. Her face was a blank mask.

"Patient's name and symptoms," Elisa said, her voice entirely devoid of emotion.

August's head snapped up. He recognized the eyes above the surgical mask. Panic flashed in his dark 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 trench coat.

Elisa's lungs stopped working. She knew that sound. It was Allena. His cousin's fiancée.

Elisa's eyes dropped to the hem of Allena's skirt hanging over August's arm. Dark, wet blood stained the expensive fabric. Her medical instincts overrode the crushing weight in her chest.

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

August violently shoved her hand away.

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

The force of his push sent Elisa stumbling backward. Her lower back slammed into the edge of the nurse's station. A sharp pain shot up her spine, but it was nothing compared to the absolute deadness spreading through her chest.

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

She stood by the counter, her hands gripping the plastic clipboard. She watched August gently stroke Allena's hair as the attending physician pulled back the coat.

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

The ultrasound machine hummed.

"Massive fluid in the abdominal cavity," the doctor said, his brow furrowed. "Looks like a ruptured corpus luteum. Has she engaged in vigorous physical activity in the last few hours?"

Allena buried her face into August's arm, letting out a pathetic sob.

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

Elisa gripped the pen so hard her 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. It all evaporated in the sterile air of the ER.

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

Elisa stared at her husband holding another woman. "No," she said, her voice flat.

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

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

Elisa calmly walked over, picked up the plastic bin, and set it upright. She pulled a critical condition consent form from her clipboard and shoved it against August's chest.

"Sign," she demanded.

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

Elisa ripped the copy away. She turned her back on him and walked out of the trauma room. She didn't look back.

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

She leaned against the cool hallway wall and pulled her phone from her scrub pocket. The screen lit up with a calendar reminder.

Marriage Contract Expiration: 3 Days.

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

Ambulance sirens wailed outside. Elisa peeled off her bloody latex gloves and dropped them into the trash.

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