My Ex husband Begged Me to Get Back Together

While I Was Bleeding Out, He Lit Lanterns For Her

Katie Oettgen

As I lay on the floor of our manor, bleeding out from a ruptured ectopic pregnancy, I used my last ounce of strength to call my husband, Cole. I begged him for help, my vision blurring. But the only thing I heard was the clinking of champagne glasses and his mistress's giggle in the background. "Stop the drama, June," Cole snapped, his voice cold. "We're about to go on stage. Don't call again." He hung up, leaving me to die alone on the Persian rug while he accepted an award with another woman on his arm. I woke up in the hospital days later. My baby was gone. They had removed my fallopian tube. Cole finally arrived, smelling of expensive scotch and his mistress's perfume. He didn't hug me. He didn't cry. Instead, he leaned over my hospital bed, pressing his knee into the mattress until my fresh stitches tore open and bled. "You embarrassed me by calling an ambulance," he hissed. "My mistress, Alycia, says you're faking it. Clean yourself up." He left me bleeding again to go announce a $10 million donation to Alycia's "groundbreaking" medical research. I stared at the TV screen, numb. The research Alycia was taking credit for? It was mine. I wrote that patent years ago under a pseudonym. They thought I was just a poor, orphan housewife who needed Cole's money to survive. They had no idea I was actually a billionaire scientist hiding my identity. I pulled the IV needle out of my arm. A drop of blood fell onto the divorce papers I had been hiding. I didn't wipe it off. I signed my name right over it. Then I walked into the bank, reactivated my dormant account with $128 million, and bought the penthouse directly overlooking Cole's house. The mourning widow is dead. The avenger is born.

Romance Crime Revenge Pregnancy Enemies to Lovers Pregnancy Personal Growth

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"Greg, save Dr. Lambert now. That concrete slab is about to collapse. It's crushing her right hand."

"Shut up. Rose has claustrophobia. The smoke is so thick here. If we don't get her out soon, she'll go into shock. Ronda is a surgeon. She has strong mental resilience. She can hold on."

The new building site of Cyburris Hospital suddenly collapsed, sending clouds of dust into the air.

Ronda Lambert was pinned beneath the reinforced concrete. A searing pain in her abdomen twisted together with a dead numbness in her right hand. Her body was long since drenched in cold sweat.

She struggled to lift her head and peered through the dust-filled gaps and saw her husband, Greg Riley, the influential hospital director, carrying another woman and rushing towards the light without looking back.

The woman was Rose Lloyd, Greg's junior from the same medical school. She had just returned to the country and joined the hospital yesterday.

"Greg..." Ronda called out.

Her voice was hoarse and broken, like it had been rubbed with sandpaper.

She wanted to tell him that if the concrete slab wasn't moved now, her right hand would be ruined, and she would never be able to perform surgery again.

She wanted to tell him she was pregnant.

But Greg's retreating figure was unwavering, without so much as a pause for her.

"Boom—" A secondary collapse struck.

The heavy concrete slab bore down again. Amidst the audible crunch of bones, Ronda's vision blackened, and consciousness slipped away.

...

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