The True Heiress Returns After Divorce

Emmie sat on the freezing linoleum, her hands covering her face. She took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing the panic down into her stomach.

She dropped her hands and scanned the room. Her eyes locked onto the small ventilation window inside the attached private bathroom.

She stood up. Her legs were shaky, but she forced them to move. She walked toward the door.

She grabbed the heavy metal IV stand next to the bed and violently shoved it. It crashed to the floor with a deafening metallic clatter.

The door burst open immediately. Both bodyguards rushed in, their eyes scanning the floor.

Emmie grabbed the heavy glass vase from the nightstand. Instead of aiming at the trained men, she hurled it with everything she had at the metal medical tray behind them. The explosive shatter of thick glass and the deafening clatter of falling metal instruments made both men flinch and turn instinctively. The sudden chaos gave her the exact split second she needed. She shot past them like a bullet, dodging their grasping hands.

One of the guards grabbed for her ankle, ready to yank her back—but she kicked free, her bare foot slamming into his jaw. He staggered, giving her the split second she needed.

She sprinted down the hallway, her bare feet slapping against the tile. She shoved past a stunned nurse and threw her body against the heavy door of the fire exit stairwell.

She flew down the concrete stairs, her breath tearing at her throat.

She burst out of the hospital's side exit and into the blinding Manhattan sunlight. A yellow taxi was just pulling up to the curb.

Emmie ripped the back door open and threw herself inside.

"Presbyterian Hospital!" she screamed at the driver. "Now! Please!"

The cab lurched forward, weaving recklessly through the dense city traffic. Emmie gripped her phone so hard her knuckles ached.

The cab slammed to a halt outside the emergency room. Emmie threw a crumpled hundred-dollar bill at the front seat and sprinted out before the driver could speak.

She ran to the nurse's station, gasping for air. "Silas Brandt. Where is he?"

The nurse typed quickly. "ICU, fourth floor."

Emmie ran to the elevators and slammed her fist against the button.

When the doors opened on the fourth floor, she saw Alistair pacing outside the intensive care unit.

Alistair looked up. His eyes were bloodshot. He rushed forward and caught Emmie by the arms as she stumbled.

Emmie pressed her face against the massive glass window of the ICU.

Her grandfather, the man who had been a titan of industry, looked incredibly small. Tubes snaked out of his mouth and arms. The ventilator pumped his chest up and down in a harsh, unnatural rhythm. The numbers on the monitor were terrifyingly low.

A massive weight crushed Emmie's chest. Her legs gave out. She dropped to her knees right there on the floor.

She pressed her palms flat against the cold glass, tears streaming down her face, silently mouthing his name.

Alistair knelt beside her. He placed a trembling hand on her back.

Minutes passed. Emmie finally pulled enough air into her lungs to stand. Alistair guided her to a hard plastic chair in the hallway.

Alistair took a deep breath. "He has been sick for a long time, Miss Emmie."

Emmie snapped her head toward him, her eyes wide with shock.

"He forbade me from telling you," Alistair said, his voice breaking. "He knew your position in the Ellis family was precarious. He didn't want his weakness to become a weapon used against you."

A physical pain sliced through Emmie's heart. The guilt was suffocating.

Alistair reached into his leather briefcase. He pulled out a thick, heavy manila envelope sealed with red wax.

He placed it gently into Emmie's hands. "Master Silas told me to give this to you the moment he could no longer protect you."

Emmie's trembling fingers traced the wax seal.

The ding of the elevator echoed loudly down the quiet hall.

The doors slid open. Four men in black suits stepped out. Ellis family bodyguards. Their eyes locked onto Emmie instantly. The lead guard held up a sleek tablet, a blinking red dot pulsing on the digital map displayed on the screen. "Your phone has a tracker, Mrs. Ellis," the guard stated, his voice devoid of any emotion. "Mr. Ellis insists on knowing your location at all times."