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For seven years, I played the perfect, invisible wife in a contract marriage with Darrel Stark, the famous hockey captain. That illusion shattered the night he rushed his brother's fiancée to the ER for a "pregnancy scare." Instead of explaining, my husband demanded I release a public statement to cover up their affair. When I refused and handed him my divorce notice, his family retaliated by trying to forcibly move his mistress into my home. The final straw came at an exclusive VIP dinner. His mistress faked a trip, sending a tray of scalding soup flying toward us. Darrel instantly lunged to shield her with his body, leaving me to get burned by the splashing liquid. While she squeezed out fake tears about "losing her baby" from the shock, Darrel and his friends aggressively cornered me. "Apologize to her," Darrel demanded, his eyes full of pure hatred. I stared at the man I had secretly loved for seven years. He treated my pain as absolutely nothing and a liar's tears as gospel. How could he be so blindly devoted to a manipulative mistress while treating his legal wife like disposable garbage? He didn't even know I had secretly given birth to our daughter five years ago. I didn't cry, and I didn't beg. I just laughed. Right in front of his elite inner circle, I shredded our marriage contract into pieces and mercilessly exposed her fake pregnancy stunt. It was time to stop playing the pathetic wife, leave this toxic family, and return to my true, powerful identity.
Contents
The Unwanted Wife Is A Genius Zillionaire Chapter 1
Aurora POV:
I pushed through the swinging double doors of the ER, my eyes locked on the glowing calendar reminder on my phone: Marriage Contract Expiration: 3 Days. My seven-year marriage to NHL superstar Darrel Stark was finally coming to an end.
Before I could lock my screen, the heavy VIP double doors at the far end of the hall crashed open. The violent sound was enough to silence the entire emergency room.
Darrel stormed into the harsh fluorescent lights. His custom game-day suit was rumpled. His tie was missing. In his arms, he carried a bleeding woman. Her face was completely hidden beneath his expensive wool peacoat.
Dread settled heavily in my chest. There was my husband, with another woman cradled in his embrace. I stared at the custom platinum cufflinks glinting under the lights-the ones I had bought him for our third anniversary. My feet cemented to the linoleum floor.
"I need this entire floor cleared! Now!" Darrel roared.
His voice carried the commanding boom of a hockey captain, vibrating off the walls. The on-call doctors froze, intimidated by the sheer fame, wealth, and power radiating from him. No one moved.
But the chaos of a Chicago ER didn't stop for a franchise player's demands. A gurney loaded with a screaming, blood-covered drunk suddenly barreled into the trauma bay. I stepped sideways, my back hitting the cold plaster wall to let them pass.
The head nurse shot me a desperate look across the chaotic room. I didn't hesitate. I 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, I 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 my face. I ducked, the air rushing past my ear, and used his momentum to strap his thick arm down with a heavy-duty restraint.
The heart monitor shrieked a high-pitched warning.
I kept my breathing steady. I 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, I finally turned my attention back to the man demanding to own the room. I pressed two fingers against the pulse point on my wrist. My heart hammered against my skin. I grabbed a plastic triage clipboard, forcing my legs to walk forward.
I stopped two feet away from my husband. My face was a blank mask.
"Patient's name and symptoms," I said, my voice entirely devoid of emotion.
Darrel's head snapped up. He recognized the eyes above my surgical mask. Panic flashed in his ice-blue 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 peacoat.
My lungs stopped working. I knew that sound. It was Jayme Silva. The sports reporter. His brother's fiancée.
My eyes dropped to the hem of Jayme's skirt hanging over Darrel's arm. Dark, wet blood stained the expensive fabric. My medical instincts overrode the crushing weight in my chest.
"I need to remove the coat to assess the bleeding," I said, reaching out.
Darrel violently shoved my hand away.
"Shut your mouth and get a private trauma room ready!" he snarled, his jaw locked tight.
The force of his push sent me stumbling backward. My lower back slammed into the edge of the nurse's station. A sharp pain shot up my spine, but it was nothing compared to the numbing emptiness spreading through my chest.
Two other nurses rushed forward with a gurney. I was forced to follow them into Trauma Room 1.
I stood by the counter, my hands gripping the plastic clipboard. I watched Darrel gently stroke Jayme's hair as the attending physician pulled back the coat.
Jayme's clothes were torn. Her thighs were covered in aggressive red marks. The visual was a violent punch to my gut.
The ultrasound machine hummed.
"Massive fluid in the abdominal cavity," the doctor said, his brow furrowed. "It's a ruptured corpus luteum. Given the extensive bruising on her inner thighs and the signs of pelvic trauma, this is typically caused by intense, vigorous sexual intercourse. Has she engaged in rough sexual activity in the last few hours?"
Jayme buried her face into Darrel's arm, letting out a pathetic sob.
Darrel's face turned a sickly shade of gray. He twisted his platinum cufflink. "Yes," he gritted out.
I gripped my pen so hard my knuckles turned stark white. The tip of the pen sliced right through the triage paper. Seven years of marriage. Seven years of playing the perfect, quiet wife in the shadows of his spotlight. It all evaporated in the sterile air of the ER.
The head nurse leaned in close to me. "Do you know them?" she whispered.
I stared at my husband holding his brother's fiancée. "No," I said, my voice flat.
Darrel pulled out his phone, barking orders to his PR agent to prep his private helicopter. He was already trying to bury the scandal with his checkbook.
Jayme groaned loudly, her body twisting in pain. Darrel kicked a red biohazard bin across the room in frustration.
I calmly walked over, picked up the plastic bin, and set it upright. I pulled a critical condition consent form from my clipboard and shoved it against Darrel's chest.
"Sign," I demanded.
Darrel glared at me. He hated the absolute lack of emotion in my eyes. He snatched the pen and scribbled his name. The ink bled through the paper.
I ripped the copy away. I turned my back on him and walked out of the trauma room. I didn't look back.
The heavy doors clicked shut behind me, cutting off the chaos.
I leaned against the cool hallway wall and pulled my phone from my scrub pocket. The screen still displayed the calendar reminder I had seen earlier.
Marriage Contract Expiration: 3 Days.
I swiped the screen and pinned the notification to the top. The last shred of warmth in my body died.
Ambulance sirens wailed outside in the Chicago night. I peeled off my bloody latex gloves and dropped them into the trash.
I walked into the locker room, stared at my pale face in the mirror, and took a deep breath. It was over.
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