Divorced by the Billionaire, I Came Back With His ‘Heir’

That was how I met Darren Gilbert—a guy who pulled all-nighters gaming instead of studying.

We were two peas in a dysfunctional pod, clawing our way through high school together until we landed at the same university.

Just when I thought I could finally see the light at the end of the tunnel, my mother collapsed.

She'd spent her whole life fighting for a future, only to lose to reality itself.

Treating her syphilis drained every cent she had.

After graduation, I became a nurse at a hospital in the state capital. The pay was pitiful.

Rent. A sick mother. A boyfriend in grad school. The math never worked.

That's when I learned to squeeze every penny—and cut every corner.

A nurse's salary couldn't cover my expenses, but fortunately, I found ways to supplement it. Gray areas, let's call them.

Around that time, the hospital established the Outreach Office, and the message from the top was clear: every employee should develop an awareness of generating revenue from patients.

My awareness developed fast.

I referred two patients with serious conditions to Director Hanley, steering them toward purchasing surgical equipment through our hospital. They spent hundreds of thousands more than they needed to.

The hospital rewarded me with three thousand dollars in cash. Incentive pay, they called it.

Once I tasted that sweetness, I couldn't stop. Money became the only thing I saw.

I had an eye for opportunity—predatory, some might say. At a medical supplies demo, I sniffed out a chance and made my move on a young equipment vendor desperate to break into the market.

I leveraged my subtle influence over which supplies got "selected" for our department, extending an olive branch to the supplier.

My job was to smooth things over internally—making sure their products got used. A lot.

Their job was to cover things up externally—disguising kickbacks as "marketing fees" and "academic conference stipends."

Through deal after deal, banquet after banquet, I became Director Hanley's golden girl.

He told the hospital director he wanted to poach me for the Outreach Office. Promised I'd own a house and a car within a year.

I was ready to make the leap—until an unexpected wrinkle derailed everything.

A new patient checked into the hospice ward. An elderly woman requiring end-of-life care.

Every department buzzed with whispers about her extraordinary identity.

When I learned she was Molly Farley, chairwoman of the Farley Group, my heart nearly burst through my chest. My hands trembled with barely contained excitement.

I threw myself into providing impeccable care for Mrs. Farley. Attentive. Devoted. Irreplaceable.

Then one day, Mrs. Farley ordered her only son to propose to me.

Director Hanley looked at me like I'd sprouted wings.

The Farley Group was a privately held empire worth billions.

Marrying into that family? It was my chance to rewrite my fate entirely.

What I couldn't have predicted was that three years later, Colin Farley would throw me away like a worn-out shoe.

Darren's wife was named Celine Clark.

Her face was peppered with freckles, and her tongue dripped acid.

"I'm only staying a few days," I said politely. "I'll move out as soon as I find a place."

She rolled her eyes, sizing me up like a rival.

Darren took my hand in his. "You're in my home now. Stay as long as you want."

Celine's expression curdled. She clutched her stomach with theatrical distress. "Ow—your son just kicked me!"

Darren didn't even blink. "At ten weeks, a fetus is about four to five centimeters long. Weighs less than five grams. The legs have barely formed—a few millimeters at most." His voice was clinical, detached. "If you think he's kicking you, it's definitely your imagination."

"Then why does it feel like there's pressure in my stomach?"

"Sounds like you need to fart."

Celine's eyes rimmed red, her lips pressing into a thin, wounded line.

And me? I felt an inexplicable ripple of satisfaction.

"Let me cook for you," I offered, eager to prove my usefulness.

Darren's lips curved into a half-smile. "Then we're in for a treat."