His Discarded Wife Is The Rival's Queen

Isabella Schmitt POV:

"Warning: You are currently designated as essential personnel on active intellectual property filings. Resigning will forfeit all unvested equity and annual performance bonuses. Do you wish to proceed?"

As I was filling out the resignation form, a red warning box suddenly appeared on the screen.

I stared at the seven words in the "Reason for Leaving" field.

Severe career limitations. Resignation effective immediately.

For three years, I had built seven foundational anti-fatigue algorithms from scratch in this windowless laboratory. Every single line of code, every patent, every conference credit had been handed to My husband Fitzgerald David and his mistress Kristi Wheeler's signature, while I was kept on an entry-level researcher's weekly stipend.

An hour gone, and I still haven't clicked "Confirm." I can't do it. My adoptive mother is gravely ill and needs money. If I quit out of selfishness, I'll lose more than just a job.

Just at that moment, my phone vibrated against the cold steel of the lab bench, the screen lit up with an incoming call from Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston.

I could only fumble across the glass screen with a shaking hand, my heart in my throat.

"Isabella?" The voice on the other end was clipped and breathless. "It's Dr. Albright. Your mother's leukemia took a severe downturn twenty minutes ago. Her blast counts are surging. We need to perform the bone marrow transplant immediately."

A cold weight dropped into the pit of my heart."How much do we need for the surgical deposit?"

"Five hundred thousand dollars," Dr. Albright said, his voice flat with clinical urgency. "And we need it cleared within seventy-two hours, or we lose the donor match."

Five hundred thousand.

The number hit my chest like a lead weight, knocking the air clean out of my lungs.

"I will get it to you," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Please, keep her stable."

I hung up, not even bothering to unbutton my white lab coat, and marched straight toward the regional human resources suite at the end of the hall.

The frosted glass door flew open under my hand, sending a draft through the room.

Ken, the regional HR manager, jolted in his ergonomic chair, spilling hot dark roast down the front of his silk tie.

"Jesus Christ, Isabella!" Ken barked, scowling as he grabbed a handful of paper towels. "Don't they teach you how to knock in that basement lab?"

"Ken, I need an immediate hardship leave approved," I said, planting both hands flat on his desk and leaning in. "My mother is in the ICU in Boston. I have over four weeks of accumulated paid time off."

Ken dabbed at his stained tie, his sneer deepening as he leaned back.

"Hardship leave? Today?" He let out a dry, nasal chuckle. "You know the David Sports Group is presenting your joint fatigue and kinematic tracking algorithm at the NHL analytics symposium next week. Mr. David personally issued a direct freeze on your profile. No leave. No exceptions."

The mention of Fitzgerald's name made my chest tighten, a familiar ache flaring behind my ribs.

I forced my spine rigid.

"I am the lead researcher on that dynamic load algorithm," I said, keeping my tone dead and steady. "Under federal labor standards and my direct employment rider, personal medical emergencies override internal presentation prep."

"Don't give me that lead researcher garbage," Ken scoffed, tossing the wet paper towels into the bin. "You're only in this facility because Mr. David was generous enough to give his little charity-case wife a quiet corner to play with data. You think you're indispensable?"

My pulse hammered in my throat, but I didn't blink.

"If you refuse to process my statutory leave, I will take formal escalation measures."

"Be my guest," Ken said, spreading his arms wide with an arrogant grin. "Go ahead and quit. Walk out that door. Without the David Sports Group's hockey franchises, funding, and legal team backing your credentials, you wouldn't last forty-eight hours in North American sports science. Who else is going to hire a woman whose license was practically bought by her husband's family?"

So it turns out that, in their eyes, the years I slaved away for the company amount to nothing; the work I poured my heart and soul into-only to have it stolen by my husband and his mistress-counts for nothing; and whether my adoptive mother lives or dies matters even less. That being the case, why should I stay here and work myself to death for them?

I didn't waste another breath on him.

I spun on my heel, my heels clicking sharply against the linoleum as I strode out of his office.

Back at my workstation, the bright red warning window still remained on the screen.

This time,I didn't hesitate for a fraction of a second.

I slammed my thumb down on the enter key.

A green confirmation message replaced the warning: "Submission successful. Routing to Executive Suite for final administrative approval."

I reached behind my neck, unclipped the plastic lanyard holding my David Sports Group security badge, and dropped it into the metal trash can beneath my desk.

It hit the bottom with a hollow clang.

Several junior analysts at the neighboring benches stared at me, their whispers buzzing in the background.

I grabbed my wool trench coat, scooped my car keys off the desk, and walked out without looking back at the lab where I had spent the last three years of my life.

By the time the regional jet touched down at Logan International Airport, it was past three in the morning.

The Boston air was vicious, biting right through my thin woolen coat the second I stepped out of the terminal.

I flagged down a yellow cab idling at the curb and gave the driver the destination: "Massachusetts General Hospital. Emergency entrance."

The taxi sped through the empty, snow-dusted streets of downtown Boston.

I bolted through the hospital's sliding glass doors, my wet shoes leaving messy tracks across the white linoleum floor.

On the third floor of the intensive care wing, I stopped in front of the observation glass.

My adoptive mother, Brenda, lay beneath a thin thermal blanket, surrounded by the rhythmic, mechanical hiss of ventilators and cardiac monitors. Her face was gray, her cheeks sunken.

Dr. Albright emerged from the nurses' station, holding a beige paper folder.

"Isabella," he said gently, handing me the formal deposit notice. "The hospital's charitable emergency reserve for her case has completely run out. If that five hundred thousand isn't in escrow within forty-eight hours, the transplant coordinator will have to release the matched stem cells to the next patient on the registry."

I took the slip of paper.

The sharp edge caught the side of my thumb, drawing a small, bright bead of crimson.

I squeezed my hand into a fist, pressing the cut against my palm, and looked through the glass at Brenda's frail chest rising and falling.

"I will have the funds, Doctor," I said quietly. "Keep the prep meds running."

I pulled out my phone and scrolled to the contact labeled "Fitzgerald."

My thumb hovered over the call button for three full seconds before I locked the screen.

Begging him over the phone would yield nothing.

I turned toward the elevators, ready to head straight to Beacon Hill.

This time, I'm done being the figurehead wife everyone at the company sees me as. I'm coming to him as an employee, demanding what I'm owed.