The Jilted Wife Is A Secret Heiress

The lawyer, a man named Sterling with a sheen of sweat on his upper lip, placed the document on the hospital tray table.

Isabella sat on the edge of the bed. She had found a tablet at the nurses' station and "borrowed" it. Her fingers were currently tapping a rhythmic, complex beat on the screen-Morse code. S-O-S-G-O-N-E.

Hamilton stood by the window, his arms crossed. He looked impatient.

"Mrs. Mckee," Sterling said, clicking his pen. "I must advise you that this settlement is highly unusual. You are waiving rights to assets valued at-"

"I can read, Mr. Sterling," Isabella interrupted. She didn't look at him. She flipped the document to the last page.

Hamilton scoffed. "Maybe you should read it. It's the most money you've ever turned down. You're going to be begging on the street in a week."

Isabella uncapped the pen. The sound was a sharp click in the quiet room.

"My time is worth more than your money, Hamilton," she said.

She signed her name. The signature was different. It wasn't the rounded, hesitant script of Isabella Oconnor. It was sharp, jagged, and confident.

Hamilton watched the pen move. A strange feeling curled in his gut. Unease.

Before he could analyze it, the door burst open.

Preston, Hamilton's personal assistant, rushed in. His face was pale.

"Sir! It's Cuba. She... she took pills."

Hamilton froze. The color drained from his face. "What?"

"The housekeeper found her," Preston stammered. "There was a note. She said she couldn't bear being the reason for your unhappiness."

Silence filled the room.

Then, a laugh cut through it.

It was Isabella. She was chuckling. A dry, cold sound.

"Classic Histrionic Personality Disorder," she said, capping the pen. "I assume she calculated the dosage perfectly? Enough to cause lethargy, not enough to cause organ failure?"

Hamilton spun around, his eyes blazing with fury. A flicker of confusion crossed his face. Where did she even learn a term like that? Had she been watching medical dramas? "How dare you? She could be dying! You heartless-"

"Sign the paper, Hamilton," Isabella said, pointing to the document. "Sign it, and you can go play hero to your damsel."

Hamilton grabbed the pen. He was shaking with rage. He scrawled his signature next to hers, tearing the paper slightly with the force of it.

"Get this processed," he barked at the lawyer. "I want the divorce decree sent to her. I never want to see her face again."

He threw the pen down and ran out of the room, Preston on his heels.

The lawyer gathered his papers, looking uncomfortable, and scurried after them.

The room was quiet again.

Isabella stood up. She walked to the door and locked it.

She reached under her pillow and pulled out a disposable burner phone she had swiped from a distracted orderly's cart earlier.

She dialed a number. It was a number that hadn't existed for three years.

It rang once.

"Who is this?" A male voice answered. Guarded. Dangerous.

Isabella leaned against the wall. "Code Black. Location: MGH, Room 304. I need extraction, Luke."

There was a pause. Then, the sound of a chair crashing to the floor.

"Boss?" The voice cracked. "Is that you? We thought... we thought you were dead."

"I'm not," Isabella said. "Bring the kit. The full kit. I have work to do."

"Five minutes," Luke said. "Meet me on the roof. I'm jamming their security feeds now."

Isabella hung up. She ripped the sticky electrodes off her chest. The monitor flatlined with a high-pitched whine, but she silenced it with a punch to the power button.

She walked to the window. Down below, she saw Hamilton's convoy speeding away toward another hospital.

She reached down and tore the hem of her hospital gown, tying her hair back tightly.

"Game on, Hamilton," she whispered.