THE POOR BILLIONAIRE

Gracelyn POV:

Fresh off a grueling twelve-hour coronary bypass surgery, I received a frantic call from my boyfriend, Derik Mccarthy, claiming he was badly injured and needed me immediately.

I rushed through Boston's freezing autumn rain and burst into the VIP room of the sports bar he had texted me, only to find a blonde woman with her pale, slender legs draped shamelessly over Derik's thighs, her eyes rimmed with red.

It was Krystle Paul, a minor model desperate to claw her way into the NHL WAG circle.

"Gracelyn, you're finally here. Krystle hurt her ankle. Hurry up and look at it," Derik ordered. There wasn't an ounce of guilt in his voice, just impatient entitlement.

Soaked to the bone by the freezing rain, my heart plummeted.

So he had panicked me into rushing over in a storm just to treat his new fling's ankle?

Swallowing the bitterness in my throat, I crouched down anyway. But just as my hand reached out, before my fingers even brushed her skin—

"Ah! It hurts!" Krystle let out a shrill, agonizing gasp, burying her face into Derik's neck.

"Gracelyn, are you blind? Can't you be gentle?!" Derik snapped, his eyebrows knotting together in furious annoyance.

I froze. "I haven't even touched her yet."

"If you didn't touch her, why would she cry out in pain?" Derik glared at me, his large hand gently rubbing Krystle's back to soothe her.

Looking at the man in front of me, the extreme contrast felt like a scalpel slicing straight into my chest.

I had been his girlfriend for four years, but before that, we had known each other for twelve years. We went to the same private schools. Every off-season, I meticulously managed his diet. When he ran a fever during his rookie season, I stayed awake for forty-eight hours straight, applying cold compresses so he wouldn't miss a game.

He had known this girl for what? Four days? Yet he chose to believe her cheap tears over me.

I slowly stood up, my spine perfectly straight. "I'm a cardiothoracic surgeon, Derik. I can't treat this."