My ruthless billionaire husband

The Jilted Wife Is A Secret Heiress

Zi Ya

The Wellington beef sat cold on the mahogany table, a graying monument to three years of wasted devotion. It was my birthday and our anniversary, but my husband, Hamilton McKee, didn't even look at the gift I’d spent months knitting. "Our marriage is a transaction," he said, his voice cutting like a scalpel. "Stop trying to make it a romance novel. I just need you to stop existing in my space for five minutes." Then his phone buzzed with a call from Cuba, the ex-girlfriend he never truly left. His cold mask shattered into frantic concern, a look he had never once given me. "I'm coming," he whispered to her, sprinting for the door without a backward glance at the wife he was leaving behind. I chased him into the freezing Boston night, only to be swarmed by predatory paparazzi. As Hamilton’s Maybach roared away, a heavy camera bag slammed into my shoulder. I slipped on the black ice, my skull hitting a granite gate pillar with a sickening crack. Warm blood trickled down my neck, and as the world tilted, the fog in my brain finally cleared. I wasn't the penniless orphan from Southie he thought I was. Images of sterile operating rooms, complex sutures, and a billion-dollar inheritance flooded back—along with the memory of the car wreck three years ago where I was the one who pulled Hamilton from the flames, not Cuba. How could I have spent three years begging for scraps of affection from a man who didn't even recognize his own savior? Why did I let a fraud steal my life while I played the role of a submissive shadow? When I woke up in the hospital, the trembling girl was gone. I ripped the IV from my arm and stared at the man who had come back only to demand I stay out of his way. I didn't cry. I didn't beg. I simply handed him a piece of paper with one word written in the sharp, confident script of a woman who owned half the city: DIVORCE. "Sign it, Hamilton," I said, my voice like ice. "Because by tomorrow, I’m not just leaving you—I’m taking the McKee empire with me."

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"Son, you have only but two options here, find a girl, marry her and bring her to my fiftieth birthday party or else you leave me no other choice than to will all my properties to my younger brother, your dearest uncle."

Ethan knew very well that what his father had just told him was more than a threat. He didn't care about the family business and all of his dad's properties but hearing him say he would will all the properties to the man whom he hated the most, hit him real hard. His dad knew very well, how much he hated his uncle and that was the reason he used his uncle against him. Though he did not know why he hated him that much.

"Dad are you being serious right now? Why would you give all your properties to that scum bag of an uncle? "I'd suggest you transferred them all to an orphanage rather than give it to that two faced liar of a man," he lashed out in anger.

"Mind you son, the man you are insulting is my blood brother, so I will not have you call him names in my presence. If you really hate him that much and if you cannot bear to see him take over the properties, you know what to do. It is all in your hands, now." Mr. Moore turned to leave.

"But dad I am still twenty four years of age, don't you think it's too early for me to get entangled in a long term involvement. I still need to enjoy my youth days, besides marriage is a relationship that needs more than enough time," Ethan said, hoping he could change his father's mind.

"Twenty four and you think you are too young to get married. For your information son, I married your mother at the age of twenty five. My fiftieth birthday is coming up on the eighteenth December of next year and we are still in the third month of this year, so there are still more than enough months for you to enjoy your youth," he said and walked away quickly.

Obviously, he didn't want to hear anymore of Dan's complaints.

"No way dad, I do not want to get married, I am still enjoying the title of being the most handsome rich bachelor," Ethan muttered to himself, his face turning pale.

He pulled out his phone from the left pocket and dialed a number.

"Hey Clint," Ethan greeted the other caller.

"Ethan, what's up?"

"I need your help Clinton. I will be at your place in the next fifteen minutes, be ready, we will drop by a bar to get a drink," he said, keeping his voice down.

"I'll be waiting," Clinton said and hung up.

Ethan wiped his sweating hands and rushed into his room.

Not less than fifteen minutes later, Ethan's Peugeot pulled up in front of his friend's place. Clinton opened the car door and entered.

"Is there any bar around here?"

"Yes, there is one at the end of the Street. It was just recently launched and I heard that there are so many hot girls who linger around the bar," Clinton voiced out shamelessly.

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