Divorcing The CEO To Save My Baby

Emma stood in the guest bathroom, letting the scalding water from the shower beat against her skin for half an hour until she was red and raw.

The next morning, she walked into Diego's consulting firm, thick concealer hiding the dark circles under her eyes.

The moment she stepped off the elevator, the frantic, chaotic energy of the office hit her.

Employees were running down the halls. Phones were ringing off the hook. Several desks already had cardboard packing boxes on them.

She rushed to Diego's office. Through the glass, she saw him yanking his tie loose, screaming into his phone in rapid Spanish.

He slammed the receiver down. He looked up, saw Emma, and forced a tired, strained smile.

Emma walked in. "Diego, what is happening?"

Diego didn't speak. He turned his Bloomberg Terminal monitor toward her.

The screen was a sea of flashing red numbers. Chaney Media Group, using a dozen shell companies, had launched a massive, coordinated short-selling attack on Diego's primary clients the second the market opened.

Simultaneously, three major financial news outlets had published coordinated hit pieces accusing Diego's firm of accounting fraud.

"My credit lines are frozen," Diego said, rubbing his temples. "We have maybe forty-eight hours before we file for bankruptcy."

Emma felt like she had been struck by lightning. This was Denton. This was his retaliation for the slap last night.

Her personal cell phone vibrated violently in her pocket.

She pulled it out. The caller ID read: Leland Rios—her father.

She answered. Before she could speak, her father's frantic, screaming voice blasted through the speaker.

"Emma! Denton just pulled every single bridge loan keeping the family business afloat! The banks are calling in the debts today!" Leland roared. "Get on your knees, crawl back to him, and beg for forgiveness, or you will ruin us all!"

Emma's expression turned to stone. "That is the price you pay for selling your daughter," she said coldly, and hung up. She powered the phone off.

But looking at Diego, who was burying his face in his hands, the guilt crushed her chest.

She couldn't let the only person who helped her be destroyed because of her toxic marriage.

Emma grabbed her coat and ran out of the office.

Thirty minutes later, she stood on the top floor of the Chaney Building, the absolute epicenter of Manhattan's corporate power.

The executive assistants saw her face and immediately looked down. No one dared to stop her.

Emma pushed open the heavy double doors of the CEO's office and marched in.

Denton sat in his massive leather chair, casually spinning a Montblanc pen between his fingers. He looked like he had been expecting her.

Emma slammed her hands down on his mahogany desk. "Stop the hostile takeover on Diego's firm right now."

Denton raised an eyebrow, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "Coming to beg for your lover already?"

He opened his top drawer, pulled out the divorce settlement agreement, and tossed it onto the desk.

"Sign it. Leave with nothing. And I'll call off the dogs on Pena."

Emma stared at the thick stack of paper. Her mind raced to the astronomical costs of private hospital deliveries, diapers, and raising a child alone in New York. Her fingers twitched.

She gritted her teeth. She grabbed the agreement, ripped it violently in half, and threw the pieces right at Denton's face.

She turned around and walked out without a single word. The negotiation was dead.

Denton watched her leave, his jaw tight. The torn papers lay scattered across his desk like dead leaves. He didn't move for a long moment. Then his private cell phone rang, shattering the silence.

He glanced at the screen. Alex.

"What?" he answered, his voice clipped.

"Mr. Chaney, there's been an accident." Alex's voice was tight with urgency. "Beverly's car was hit on her way back from a follow-up neurological appointment downtown. The ambulance is taking her to NewYork-Presbyterian. The emergency room just called—she's hemorrhaging. They're saying the blood bank is critically low on her type."

Denton shot to his feet. The Montblanc pen rolled off the desk and clattered to the floor.

"What's her blood type?"

"Rh-negative AB. It's rare, sir. They're searching the regional bank now, but—"

"I'm on my way." Denton grabbed his coat and strode toward the door. He paused, his hand on the frame, and looked back at his security chief who had appeared in the doorway. "Find Emma. Bring her to the hospital. She's the same blood type."

The security chief nodded and disappeared. Denton took the private elevator straight to the underground garage. The engine of his black Aston Martin roared to life. He tore out of the parking structure and into the sleet-covered streets, weaving through traffic with brutal precision.

Fifteen minutes later, he screeched to a halt outside the VIP emergency entrance of NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital. He abandoned the car at the curb and ran inside.

The fluorescent lights of the corridor were blinding. A trauma team was rushing a gurney through the double doors. Denton caught a glimpse of Beverly's pale face and the dark stain spreading across her white dress before the doors swung shut.

A doctor approached him, pulling down her surgical mask. "Mr. Chaney? Your wife—"

"She's not my wife," Denton cut in. "What's her status?"

The doctor blinked, then nodded. "She's lost a significant amount of blood. We need to transfuse immediately, but the regional blood bank just confirmed they have only one unit of Rh-negative AB available. We need at least three."

"I'm bringing a donor," Denton said flatly. "Same blood type. She'll be here shortly."

He pulled out his phone and dialed the security team. "Where is she?"

"Five minutes out, sir. We picked her up on Fifth Avenue."

Denton ended the call and began pacing. The adrenaline was still pumping through his veins, his shirt damp from the sleet outside. He stripped off his coat and threw it over a waiting room chair.

He glanced down. A small smear of fresh blood stained the front of his white shirt, just below the ribs. It wasn't his. It must have transferred when he leaned over the gurney as it passed—Beverly's blood, soaking through the rails onto his chest. He hadn't even noticed.

He didn't bother trying to wipe it off. His eyes fixed on the emergency room doors, waiting.