The Abandoned Wife's Cold Revenge

Emaline's body plummeted toward the floor.

Just as her knees were about to slam into the hard linoleum, a pair of thick, muscular arms wrapped securely around her waist from behind. The sudden halt jerked her spine, but the grip was incredibly steady.

She gasped, her eyes flying open. Her nose brushed against a black leather jacket. The sharp, masculine scent of cedarwood mixed with dark tobacco filled her lungs. It was a scent that definitely did not belong in a sterile hospital.

Emaline tilted her head back. She met a pair of deep, piercing blue eyes.

Daxton Phillips.

He wore a faded black baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, casting a shadow over his sharp jawline. A cynical, lazy smirk played on his lips, but his eyes were entirely alert.

Without asking for permission, Daxton bent his knees, scooped one arm under her thighs, and lifted her completely off the ground.

As her body went airborne, the loose titanium prosthetic shifted violently inside her wide hospital pants.

A dull, mechanical shifting of metal and loose silicone vibrated against his arm, distinct and unnatural.

Emaline's breath hitched. Panic seized her chest. She instinctively grabbed a fistful of Daxton's leather jacket, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Daxton's smirk vanished for a fraction of a second. A dark, twisted flash of sick satisfaction flickered deep within his blue eyes. He felt the unnatural, rigid weight of her left leg resting against his forearm, a brutal secret he had personally orchestrated behind the scenes. It was the physical proof of his control over her.

But he didn't look down. He didn't ask. He simply shifted his grip, pulling her left side tighter against his solid chest, completely hiding her lower body from view.

"Put me down," Emaline hissed, her voice weak but frantic. "If the paparazzi catch you holding me, they'll tear me apart."

Daxton let out a low, mocking scoff. He leaned his head down, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear.

"Your ice-cold husband just left you to die on an operating table, Emaline," Daxton murmured, his breath warm against her skin. "Do you really give a damn about your reputation right now?"

He didn't wait for an answer. Daxton carried her down the hallway with long, silent strides. He moved with the fluid, calculated grace of a predator, easily dodging a nurse who stepped out of a nearby room.

He kicked open the door to her VIP suite, carried her inside, and used his heel to slam the door shut, locking the chaotic world outside.

Daxton walked to the bed and lowered her onto the mattress with surprising gentleness. He reached over, grabbed a thick pillow, and carefully slid it under her left leg, elevating the limb so the loose socket wouldn't grind against her skin.

Emaline immediately clamped both hands over her left thigh. She pulled the hospital blanket up to her waist, her eyes wide and defensive, tracking his every move.

Daxton acted like he didn't notice her panic. He turned his back to her, walked over to the water dispenser in the corner of the room, and filled a paper cup with warm water.

He walked back to the bed. As he handed her the cup, his blue eyes dropped to her neck.

The dark, purple bruises from Clayton's fingers were already blooming across her pale skin, forming a violent necklace of abuse.

A flash of pure, unadulterated murder darkened Daxton's eyes. The easygoing playboy facade cracked, revealing something deeply dangerous underneath. But just as quickly as it appeared, he blinked, and the lazy smirk returned.

Emaline reached for the cup. Her hands were shaking so violently that the warm water sloshed over the rim, spilling onto the white blanket. Her body was completely failing her.

Daxton sighed. He sat on the edge of the mattress, took the cup from her trembling fingers, and brought it to her lips. He tilted it slowly, forcing her to drink. The gesture was so intimate, so natural, it felt like they had been doing this for years.

Emaline swallowed the water, soothing her raw throat. She leaned back against the pillows, her chest heaving.

"Why are you here?" she rasped, staring at him. "The AB-negative blood... the sudden reversal of the hospital board. That was you, wasn't it?"

Daxton crossed his long legs, leaning back in the chair beside her bed. He didn't bother denying it.

"I bought out the hospital board. Had them unlock the restricted donor reserves while I held a financial gun to their heads," he said smoothly, as if discussing the weather.

Emaline's stomach twisted. "Extorting a hospital board is a federal felony in New York. If the feds trace that coercion back to you, you'll go to prison."

Daxton shrugged, completely unbothered. "What's a little felony for my favorite scandal-ridden girlfriend?"

Emaline closed her eyes, a wave of exhaustion washing over her. "Stop playing games, Daxton. I don't have the energy for your flirtations today."

The smirk finally dropped from Daxton's face. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His expression turned deadly serious.

"I'm not playing," Daxton said, his voice dropping an octave. "Clayton just froze every single credit card attached to your name. Your checking accounts, your emergency funds. Everything is locked. You have exactly zero dollars to your name."

Emaline's eyes snapped open. Her heart gave a violent lurch. Clayton wasn't just trying to divorce her; he was trying to starve her into submission. He was cutting off her oxygen financially.

Daxton pulled his phone from his pocket. He tapped the screen and held it up for her to see.

It was a push notification from Page Six. The headline screamed in bold black letters: CALDWELL CEO RUSHES TO BEDSIDE OF INJURED SOCIALITE CRISTA GARRETT AMIDST WIFE'S HOSPITALIZATION.

Below the headline was a high-resolution photo. Clayton was standing outside the Upper East Side penthouse, using his own suit jacket to shield Crista from the rain as he guided her into a waiting Maybach. His face was a picture of absolute, protective devotion.

Emaline stared at the photo. The bile rose in her throat. The phantom pain in her amputated leg flared into a blinding, white-hot agony.

Her body began to shake. It started in her hands and quickly violently consumed her entire frame. Her teeth chattered. The PTSD from the asylum, combined with the fever from the blood loss, hit her nervous system like a freight train.

Daxton cursed under his breath. He dropped the phone and grabbed her shoulders, his large hands gripping her tight.

"Emaline. Look at me. Breathe," he commanded, his voice tight with real fear.

But Emaline couldn't hear him. Her eyes rolled back, the room spinning into a dark, suffocating vortex.

Her fingers reached out blindly, her nails digging into Daxton's wrist like a drowning woman grabbing a lifeline. Then, her grip went slack, and she plunged into the dark.