The Unwanted Wife's Ultimate Vengeful Return

The sharp, chemical stench of bleach burned Carlota's nostrils.

She forced her heavy eyelids open. The harsh fluorescent lights of the Manhattan private hospital blinded her.

Instantly, a hollow, agonizing ache radiated from her lower abdomen. It felt like someone had scooped out her insides with a rusted spoon.

Carlota gasped. Her hands flew down to her stomach. The slight, comforting bump she had grown used to rubbing was gone. It was completely flat.

"No," Carlota whimpered. Hot tears flooded her eyes, spilling over her temples and soaking into the thin hospital pillow. The dam broke, and she sobbed, her body shaking violently.

The door to her private room was shoved open.

Eleanora Vance walked in, the sharp clacking of her heels sounding like gunshots. Two massive men in black suits followed her, standing guard at the door.

Eleanora walked to the side of the bed. She didn't look at Carlota with an ounce of pity. She tossed a thick legal document and a black fountain pen right onto Carlota's chest.

"Sign it," Eleanora commanded.

Carlota turned her head weakly. The words Divorce Settlement blurred through her tears. "Where is Jared?" she rasped, her throat raw from screaming.

Eleanora sneered. "Jared tried to protect you. He openly went to war with the most conservative elders on the board for your sake. They jointly triggered the family's emergency bylaws, temporarily stripping him of his executive voting rights. He has been forcibly put on a private jet to our European branch. He is under house arrest."

Eleanora pulled a sleek tablet from her designer bag. She tapped the screen and held it up to Carlota's face.

It was a live security feed from the intensive care unit. Graham lay in the bed, a thick plastic tube shoved down his throat, the ventilator pumping air into his frail lungs. A doctor in a white coat stood right next to the machine, his hand hovering over the main power switch.

"If you don't sign that paper in the next sixty seconds," Eleanora said, her voice dead and flat, "that doctor unplugs the machine. Your brother dies."

Carlota's entire body convulsed. She bit down on her lip so hard blood instantly filled her mouth. Pure, unadulterated hatred burned in her eyes, but she was completely powerless.

Her hands shook uncontrollably as she picked up the heavy pen.

Tears dripped from her chin, landing on the paper, blurring the black ink. She dragged the pen across the signature line. She signed away her marriage, her protection, her only lifeline.

Eleanora snatched the paper back, checked the signature, and smiled. She turned and walked out, the bodyguards following her like shadows.

Carlota was left alone. She pulled her knees to her chest and wailed, the sound of a mother who had lost everything.

Half an hour later, heavy, frantic footsteps echoed down the pristine hospital corridor.

Donavan Raymond strode toward the maternity ward. His suit jacket was unbuttoned, his tie ripped loose. His eyes were wild. He had just received the news of the accident at the Pierce estate.

Before Donavan could reach Carlota's door, Dr. Silas Blackwood, the Chief of Medicine, stepped into the hallway, blocking his path.

"Mr. Raymond, please, step into my office," Dr. Blackwood said, his voice grave.

Donavan grabbed the doctor by the lapels of his white coat and shoved him into the office, slamming the door shut.

"Where is she? How is the baby?" Donavan roared, his voice shaking the glass windows.

Dr. Blackwood adjusted his glasses. Deep in his pocket sat a cashier's check for two million dollars, paid by Chesnee Cantu an hour ago.

"Mr. Raymond, I am so sorry," Dr. Blackwood lied smoothly, pulling a forged medical file from his desk. "When Ms. Hall arrived, she had already suffered severe placental abruption."

Donavan's breathing stopped. His hands slowly released the doctor's coat.

"The fetus was a five-month-old premature boy," Dr. Blackwood continued, looking Donavan dead in the eye. "It was a stillbirth. There was nothing we could do."

Donavan felt like a sledgehammer had just crushed his ribs. He stumbled backward, hitting the edge of the desk.

"Five months?" Donavan whispered. The words tasted like ash.

Seven months ago was the charity gala. Five months ago, he was in London. The timeline was impossible.

"Yes," Dr. Blackwood nodded solemnly. "To be frank, her body was in terrible condition. It is common for women with... chaotic personal lives to suffer such complications."

Donavan's fists clenched so hard his knuckles popped. The wood of the desk groaned under his weight.

The agonizing pain in his chest instantly morphed into a violent, burning humiliation. He had rushed here, ready to tear the hospital apart, ready to steal her back from Jared, believing the child was his flesh and blood.

He was a fool. She had played him.

Donavan turned around and walked out of the office. His movements were stiff, robotic.

He walked down the hall and stopped outside Carlota's room. Through the small glass window in the door, he saw her. She was curled into a tiny ball on the bed, looking like a broken, discarded doll.

Donavan grabbed the metal door handle. The cold metal bit into his skin. His heart screamed to go to her, to hold her, but his pride and the burning betrayal demanded blood.

He took a sharp breath of sterile air. He violently pushed the door open, bringing a freezing storm into the room.