His Unwanted Wife Is A Genius Designer

The automatic doors of the emergency room slid open.

Arianna sprinted into the blindingly bright lobby, her hand still gripping the metal rail of the gurney.

A triage nurse stepped in front of her, holding up a hand at the red line painted on the floor.

"Ma'am, you need to stay back. Please go to the front desk for admissions."

Arianna slammed her hands against the glass window of the trauma room. She watched in horror as a doctor forced a metal laryngoscope down her son's throat to secure his airway.

Her knees buckled. She slid down the glass, her back hitting the cold wall to keep herself upright.

The bright red light above the trauma room door flashed on.

A wave of severe, physiological dizziness hit her. The room spun, her stomach churning violently.

The front desk nurse walked over, holding a clipboard with a critical condition notice.

"I need a direct family member's signature," the nurse said softly.

Arianna stared at the bold black letters on the paper. She reached for the pen, but her hand was shaking so badly she dropped it twice.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. She bit down on her lower lip until the sharp, metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth. The pain forced her brain to focus.

She gripped the pen and signed her name.

She turned away from the desk and walked down the empty, sterile corridor.

Her legs gave out completely. She collapsed onto the cold tile floor.

She stared blankly at her own clothes. Her ruined designer dress was stained with her son's vomit, and the deep cuts on the back of her hand were crusted with dried blood. Her eyes were entirely hollow.

At the far end of the hallway, the VIP elevator let out a soft ding.

The polished metal doors slid open.

Francis stepped out. He was wearing a flawlessly tailored bespoke suit. His brow was furrowed in deep annoyance as his long legs ate up the distance.

Walking closely behind him was Chanelle. She was still wearing her stunning haute couture gown, her makeup absolutely flawless, looking as if she were stepping onto a red carpet rather than into an ER.

Arianna placed her uninjured hand against the wall and slowly pushed herself up to her feet.

Her dead eyes locked onto the two intruders. They looked entirely out of place in this hallway of suffering.

Francis stopped in front of her. His eyes darted to the glowing red light above the trauma room for a fraction of a second, his jaw tightening, before he turned his cold fury on her. He didn't ask about Benjaman.

"Why weren't you watching him?" he demanded, his voice hard and accusing.

There was no comfort in his tone. Only the arrogant, entitled reprimand of a man who believed his wife had failed her only job.

Arianna didn't answer him. Her gaze bypassed his face entirely and landed on Chanelle's neck.

Under the harsh, fluorescent hospital lights, the multi-million-dollar aquamarine diamond necklace sparkled with a sickening, blinding brilliance.

Chanelle noticed where Arianna was looking. She slowly raised her hand, her manicured fingers brushing against the heavy diamond pendant. The corner of her mouth twitched upward into a subtle, mocking smirk.

Chanelle took a step forward, her voice dripping with exaggerated, fake concern.

"Arianna, what on earth happened to poor little Benjaman?"

A violent spasm of nausea ripped through Arianna's stomach.

She raised a trembling, bloodstained finger, pointing straight at the elevator. "Get out."

Francis immediately stepped sideways, using his broad shoulders to shield Chanelle.

"Are you out of your mind?" Francis snapped, his voice echoing in the quiet hall. "Stop acting like a lunatic in a hospital."

Arianna reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. The screen was cracked from when she dropped it in the penthouse.

She pulled up the call log. She shoved the screen inches from Francis's face, showing the red icon of the rejected call.

"While your son was choking to death on his own swollen throat," she said, her voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly whisper, "what exactly were you doing when you hung up on me?"

For a fraction of a second, Francis's eyes darted away.

"The auction was at the final hammer drop," he defended himself, his jaw tight.

"Chanelle's new brand needed that necklace for the PR launch. I couldn't just walk out in the middle of the bidding war."

The sheer absurdity of his excuse hit Arianna like a physical blow.

Six years of silent submission, of swallowing her pride, of shrinking herself to fit into his world-it all ignited into a blinding inferno of rage.

She raised her right hand. The cuts on her knuckles throbbed.

She swung her arm with every ounce of strength she possessed and slapped Francis directly across his handsome face.

The sharp, explosive crack of flesh hitting flesh echoed down the corridor.

Two nurses at the end of the hall froze, dropping a chart in shock.

Francis's head snapped to the side. A bright red handprint instantly bloomed across his cheek. His eyes widened, filling with absolute, stunned fury.

Arianna took a step back. A cold, humorless smile touched her lips.

She looked at him the way one looks at a rotting corpse.