The Jilted Wife Is A Secret Heiress

The ceiling tiles were counting down. One, two, three, four.

Isabella opened her eyes.

There was no grogginess. No confusion. Her vision snapped into focus instantly, her pupils contracting against the harsh fluorescent light of the hospital room.

She took a breath. It was deep and controlled. She cataloged her body's sensations. A dull throb in the occipital region. A wave of vertigo that she quelled by pressing two fingers hard against the base of her skull. Slight nausea. Dehydration.

She lifted her left hand. A simple gold band sat on her ring finger.

She stared at it. A wave of revulsion curled in her stomach. It felt like a shackle.

The memories had settled. The two lives-Isabella Oconnor, the poor orphan from Southie, and Isabella Mckee, the heiress and prodigy surgeon-had collided and fused. The fog of the last three years, induced by the trauma of the car accident and suppressed by a subconscious desire to hide, was gone.

The door opened. A nurse walked in, carrying a tray. She didn't look up.

"Mrs. Mckee," the nurse said, her voice dripping with bored condescension. "Mr. Mckee paid the bill, but he said not to expect him. He's busy."

Isabella sat up. The movement was fluid.

She looked at the IV line taped to the back of her hand. With a quick, sharp motion, she ripped the tape and pulled the needle out. She applied pressure to the puncture site immediately with her thumb, preventing a bruise.

"Get out," Isabella said.

The nurse froze. She looked up, startled by the tone. It wasn't the voice of a woman who had been brought in crying. It was ice.

"Excuse me?"

"I said get out," Isabella repeated. She swung her legs over the side of the bed. "And tell the attending physician that this isn't a saline drip. It's a dopamine solution. A pressor is contraindicated for an isolated head injury without hemodynamic instability. This isn't just incompetent-it's reckless."

The nurse gaped at her, then turned and hurried out of the room, the tray rattling in her hands.

Isabella walked to the small mirror over the sink. She looked pale. A bandage was taped to the back of her head. But her eyes... her eyes were amber fire.

The door banged open again.

Hamilton strode in. He looked disheveled. His tie was loosened, and he smelled of hospital antiseptic and stale coffee.

He stopped when he saw her standing.

"Get back in bed," he snapped. "I don't have time for your theatrics, Isabella. The press is already having a field day."

Isabella turned slowly. She didn't flinch. She didn't apologize. She just looked at him.

She looked at him the way a scientist looks at a specimen in a jar.

"You're right," she said. Her voice was calm, devoid of the tremor that used to define her speech. "We don't have time."

She walked to the bedside table. There was a notepad and a pen next to the water pitcher. She picked them up.

She wrote one word on the paper. The letters were sharp, angular, aggressive.

She ripped the page off and held it out to him.

Hamilton frowned. He took the paper.

DIVORCE.

He let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Is this a joke? Are you trying to leverage the accident for a bigger allowance?"

Isabella walked back to the bed and sat down, crossing her legs. Her posture was regal.

"I want the beach house in the Hamptons," she said. "The dilapidated one on the north shore. The one nobody has visited in five years."

Hamilton blinked. "That shack? It's practically a ruin."

"That shack," she confirmed. "And in exchange, I will sign away my rights to the secondary Mckee shares outlined in the pre-nup. I walk away with the house and my personal effects. Nothing else."

Hamilton went still. The businessman in him woke up. The shares were worth millions. The house was worth dirt.

"You're serious," he said, narrowing his eyes. "You'd leave with nothing? You'd go back to waiting tables in Southie?"

Isabella's lips curved slightly. It wasn't a smile. "That is none of your concern. Do we have a deal?"

Hamilton stepped closer. He tried to use his height to intimidate her, a tactic that had worked for three years. "If you sign this, Isabella, you are dead to this world. You will starve."

Isabella didn't blink. She tilted her head back, exposing her throat, daring him.

"Call your lawyer, Hamilton. Before I change my mind."

"You're insane," he muttered. But he was already reaching for his phone.

Just then, his phone rang. The ringtone was distinctive.

He looked at the screen. His face softened into that sickening worry again.

"Cuba," he answered. "I'm here. What? You're dizzy?"

He looked at Isabella with pure annoyance. "I have to go. My lawyer will be here in an hour. Don't think you can back out."

"I won't," Isabella said.

Hamilton turned and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the frame rattled.

Isabella stared at the closed door.

"You have no idea," she whispered to the empty room. "The only person who is going to regret this is you."