My Ex-Husband Thinks My Daughter Is His,Until the Billionaire Father Shows Up

During my time recovering in the hospital, I sank into a quiet despair.

After that first day, no one came to see me.

I only found out through my phone that the family was bustling with preparations for Diana and Martin's wedding.

Afraid I'd cause a scene, Mom and Dad gave strict orders to keep me under watch.

What they didn't expect was this:

On the wedding day, I didn't show up to make trouble.

Instead, I boarded a train heading to another city.

As the train pulled away, fireworks exploded across the Southport sky.

Congratulations to Martin and Diana on their wedding!

Southport and Sunvale were separated by thousands of miles.

I thought I'd never see any of them again.

But life has a way of surprising you.

"Ruth, do you really hate me that much? We—"

Martin's voice was strained, urgent.

Before he could finish, I cut him off, my expression calm.

"There is no 'we.' That ended seven years ago."

Did I hate him?

Right after the divorce, yes. I hated him.

Now, seven years later, everything had changed.

Martin, the Fox family—I'd let all of it go.

Martin's voice came out rough. "But that child..."

I knew he'd jump to conclusions after seeing Lorna.

"Lorna has nothing to do with you."

Martin and I did have a child once.

I'd planned to surprise him on our wedding anniversary.

Instead, he surprised me first—with something far worse.

That injury at the detention center.

It left an ugly scar across my palm.

The nerve damage nearly ended my career as a surgeon.

But worse than my hand was the wound to my abdomen—deep enough to expose bone.

Blood pooled on the floor that day. My baby was gone.

"That's impossible. You don't have to lie to me—she looks exactly like me..."

Martin refused to believe it. He'd convinced himself Lorna was his daughter.

I cut him off coldly. "Believe what you want. That child has nothing to do with you. So please, stop bothering us."

"I'm sorry. Back then... I failed you."

His voice was hoarse, his eyes unable to hide the pain.

Just as he was about to say more, a warm, gentle voice came from behind us.

"You're back? Why haven't you come upstairs?"

It was Phoebe Taylor. She'd come down to check on me when I didn't appear after getting out of the car.

Seeing Martin on the verge of breaking down, she looked confused. "And who's this?"

"A patient's family member. He was heading this way, so he gave me a ride."

"Thank you for bringing me home. I have work tomorrow, so I'd better head in."

I gave a slight nod, then turned to help Phoebe up the stairs.

"Why are you back so late again? I told you, I'm fine. You don't need to come check on me every day."

Phoebe's tone was gently scolding.

"I worry about you living alone. If only you'd agree to move in with me."

I leaned my head against her shoulder, letting myself be soft for a moment.

This version of me—warm, unguarded—

Martin hadn't seen her in years. Something dark flickered in his eyes.

Seven years ago, I fled Southport and ended up in this remote little town.

Phoebe took me in when I was broken and desperate.

She gave me something I'd almost forgotten—the warmth of family. She gave me a reason to keep going.

I don't know when Martin left.

Honestly, I didn't care.

All I know is that when I came downstairs the next morning, the spot where his car had been parked was littered with cigarette butts.

When I arrived at the hospital, Martin was there again—waiting for me, it seemed.

He held a small pharmacy bag. "Yesterday, I noticed you kept rubbing your palm. I had someone track down this ointment. It helps with the aching when the weather changes."

I didn't reach for it. "Thank you for the concern, but I thought I made myself clear yesterday."

I lifted my chin toward the space behind him.