The Wrong Billionaire or Not

Elisa pushed through the swinging double doors of the ER, staring at the glowing calendar reminder on her phone: Marriage Contract Expiration: 3 Days. Her seven-year marriage to her husband, August Chambers, was finally coming to an end.

Before she could lock her screen, 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 bleeding woman—his mistress, suffering from a ruptured corpus luteum. Her face was completely hidden beneath his expensive trench coat.

A heavy dread dropped in Elisa's chest. There was her husband, with another woman cradled in his embrace. 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.

But the chaos of the ER didn't stop for a billionaire's demands. A gurney loaded with a screaming, blood-covered drunk suddenly barreled into the trauma bay. 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.

After securing the drunk patient, Elisa finally turned her attention back to the man demanding to own the room. She 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.