Too Late, Billionaire: The Doctor's Comeback
Aimee sat in the sprawling Manhattan penthouse, waiting for her billionaire boyfriend to return from a business trip.
Then a breaking news notification popped up. It was a paparazzi photo of Hamilton holding a prominent socialite, announcing their upcoming corporate marriage. The medical records Aimee saw confirmed the worst: the woman was already twelve weeks pregnant with his child.
When confronted, Hamilton didn't show a single ounce of guilt. He casually dismissed the baby as a mere "business arrangement" required by his family.
He pinned Aimee against the wall and threatened to completely destroy her medical career. He swore to cut off her research funding, blackball her from every hospital in the city, and force her to live in the slums if she dared to walk away.
He even sent his assistant with a Cartier diamond necklace, fully expecting her to accept the bribe and quietly play the role of his obedient mistress.
Aimee felt a thick wave of nausea. She couldn't believe the man she had loved for years saw her as nothing more than a clueless toy whose dignity could be bought with filthy money.
She took off his platinum necklace and placed his limitless black credit card on the marble vanity.
"I would rather dig through the trash than spend another day as your pet bird."
Aimee packed her faded medical scrubs into her old canvas suitcase and walked out into the freezing night, heading straight for the chaotic front lines of a public ER.
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Chapter 2
Aimee pushed through the heavy glass doors of the lobby and stepped out into the biting chill of the Manhattan night. The wind whipped her hair across her face. She dragged her suitcase to the curb, raising her hand to hail a passing yellow cab.
The taxi didn't slow down. It sped past, its tires hitting a pothole and sending a spray of dirty, freezing water onto the pavement.
Aimee jumped back to avoid the splash. As she did, a sleek, black Maybach glided silently out of the traffic and stopped exactly inches from her boots.
The tinted rear window rolled down with a soft hum. Hamilton was sitting in the back seat. His jaw was clenched tight, and his dark eyes were fixed on the cheap canvas suitcase by her leg.
Aimee's heart hammered against her ribs. She pretended not to see him. She grabbed the handle of her suitcase, turned on her heel, and started walking fast in the opposite direction.
A heavy curse echoed from inside the car. "Stay exactly where you are!" he barked at his driver. The heavy door swung open. Hamilton stepped out, his expensive leather dress shoes splashing directly into a puddle.
He closed the distance in three long strides. His large hand shot out and clamped down on her slender wrist. His grip was bruising, his fingers digging into her skin.
Aimee gasped at the sudden pain. She twisted her arm, throwing her weight backward to break his hold. But the difference in their physical strength was absolute. She was forced to stop and spin around to face him.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Hamilton hissed, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He towered over her, his presence suffocating. "Why did you block my number?"
Aimee stared at the crisp collar of his tuxedo shirt. "Was the charity gala fun?" she asked, her voice dripping with ice.
Hamilton's eyes flickered with a fraction of surprise. He quickly smoothed his expression into mild irritation. "It was a mandatory PR event for the board. It means nothing."
Aimee's lips curled into a bitter sneer. "Is the baby growing in Celeste's stomach a PR event too?"
Hamilton's pupils dilated instantly. His entire body went rigid. The hand holding her wrist loosened just a fraction in his shock.
"That..." Hamilton stammered, his smooth composure shattering. He quickly recovered, his tone turning urgent. "That is a business arrangement. It's complicated, Aimee. You don't understand how my family operates."
The nausea hit Aimee again, twisting her insides into a tight knot. She used his moment of distraction to violently yank her wrist free. She stepped back, rubbing the red marks his fingers had left on her skin.
"I understand perfectly," Aimee said, looking dead into his eyes. "I will never be your dirty little secret. I am not playing this disgusting game with you."
Hamilton's face darkened with fury. His authority was being challenged on an open street. "If you walk away from me right now," he warned, his voice dropping an octave, "I will cut off every cent. Your research funding, your credit cards, everything."
Aimee let out a harsh, humorless laugh. "I left your black card on the vanity. Take your filthy money and go to hell."
Hamilton's jaw ticked. He reached out, aiming to grab her by the shoulders and physically force her back toward the building.
Aimee's survival instinct flared. As his hands came toward her, she shifted her weight. She lifted her right leg and drove the hard heel of her ankle boot directly into Hamilton's shin with all the force she could muster.
"Fuck!" Hamilton grunted in pain. He doubled over, clutching his lower leg, his eyes wide with absolute shock. He stared at her as if he had never seen her before.
Aimee didn't waste a second. She grabbed her suitcase and sprinted toward the intersection just as a yellow cab stopped at a red light.
She yanked open the back door, practically throwing her suitcase onto the floorboards. She dove into the backseat and slammed the door shut behind her.
Hamilton straightened up, limping heavily as he took two steps toward the car. He slammed his open palm angrily against the trunk of the taxi.
Aimee looked at him through the smudged glass. "Drive," she yelled at the driver. "Brooklyn. Now."
The light turned green. The driver slammed on the gas. The taxi lurched forward, leaving Hamilton standing in the exhaust fumes under the glow of the streetlights.
Inside the cab, Aimee sank back against the cracked vinyl seat. The adrenaline was slowly draining from her veins, leaving her limbs shaking.
She pulled out her phone and opened her banking app. The screen loaded to show her current balance: two thousand dollars. It was nothing in this city.
She took a deep breath, the smell of old air freshener filling her nose. "Change of plans," she told the driver. "Take me to the old medical dorms near the university."
As the cab merged onto the bridge, Aimee's phone buzzed again. Another unknown number. This time, it was a voicemail. She pressed it to her ear and heard Hamilton's voice, low and venomous: "You think running to Brooklyn will save you? I own that building, Aimee. Sleep tight."
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9.3
My father ordered me to marry into the cursed Vaughn family.
Their heirs were rumored to die young from a mysterious genetic agony. My sister Kayden laughed, saying she wasn't going to waste her youth planning a funeral. So, I became the sacrificial lamb.
When I refused, my father slammed his hand on the table and threatened to throw my dead mother's ashes into the city dump.
"You are a struggling actress with no money and no power. You have no choice," he told me coldly.
To make matters worse, my own agent drugged my drink at a business dinner, trying to sell my body to a sleazy investor just to secure project funding.
I was completely cornered, suffocating under the weight of their cruelty. I couldn't understand how my own flesh and blood could be so vicious, treating me like a worthless pawn to be traded and discarded.
But none of them knew that while escaping the drug-laced dinner, I crashed directly into the terrifying Vaughn heir, Algot.
When his glowing crimson eyes locked onto me during a violent episode of his cursed pain, we discovered an impossible truth: my physical touch was the only cure for his agony.
Looking at the dark bruises he accidentally left on my neck, I chose not to run. Instead, I pulled out the private business card he gave me and dialed his number.
"You need me," I whispered to the dangerous billionaire. "And I am going to use you to destroy them all."
8.0
I sat at a table for two in the center of Le Coucou, clutching a gift box that had cost me two months of savings. It was our three-year anniversary, and I was waiting for Gavin to finally ask the big question.
But when the heavy oak doors opened, Gavin didn't walk toward me with a ring. He walked in with a polished blonde heiress tucked under his arm, her hand resting protectively over a small baby bump.
"This is Tiffany Stone. My fiancée," he said, his voice devoid of any warmth. He didn't apologize for being late or for the three years we'd spent together. Instead, he pulled out a checkbook, scribbled a number, and slid a ten-thousand-dollar check across the white tablecloth.
"Consider it severance for your time," he added, as Tiffany mocked my cheap drugstore dress. "Don't contact me again. Tiffany doesn't need the stress." I was the entertainment for the entire restaurant—the pathetic girl dumped for a better model. By the time I walked out into the rain, I had lost my boyfriend, my home, and the funding for my secret medical research project.
I was an orphan with no safety net, facing an eviction notice and a ruined career. I had given Gavin everything, and he had discarded me like a broken tool. The injustice burned in my chest, a hot, sharp rage that replaced my tears.
Desperate and freezing, I ducked into a coffee shop where I met Colton Bentley, a reclusive billionaire in a wheelchair. After I defended him from a cruel date, he offered me a contract: a marriage of convenience and a seven-figure payment to act as his shield. I signed the papers that night, ready to use his wealth to rebuild my life. But as I watched my new husband navigate his penthouse, I noticed his "paralyzed" legs tense with a strength that shouldn't exist.
8.0
Finley's stepfather gave her a sickening ultimatum: marry her predatory stepbrother Shane tonight, or he would throw her fragile mother out on the street.
To escape this hell, she used a matchmaking agency and hastily married a complete stranger. Garrison Strickland claimed to be an ordinary data analyst making $95,000 a year, driving a beat-up Honda Civic, and needing a wife in name only. They got their marriage license at City Hall that very afternoon.
But when Finley returned home to pack her bags and threw the certificate on the table, her family just laughed. Dozier ordered Shane to drag her into the bedroom to "teach her a lesson" and trap her forever.
"Come on, little sister," Shane crooned, lunging at her. "Don't fight it."
Finley's own mother just stared at the floor, blaming Finley for ruining the family, watching blindly as Shane cornered her.
Terrified and desperate, Finley smashed an ashtray over Shane's head and frantically dialed her new husband's number. Shane snatched the phone, mocking the "imaginary husband" before the line went dead. Finley felt a bottomless despair. Garrison was just a normal guy; he would never risk his life against her violent family. She was completely on her own, waiting for the end.
Suddenly, deafening bangs echoed through the house, and Garrison stepped into the living room radiating a cold, terrifying fury. This supposedly "frugal data analyst" effortlessly snapped Shane's wrist, leveled a ruthless death threat that made Dozier tremble, and whisked Finley away in a waiting Bentley. Looking at the powerful man beside her, Finley's heart raced: just who exactly had she married today?
8.3
Hovering as a translucent soul in the freezing cemetery, I watched Corbin Mendez—the ruthless billionaire I had spent my entire life despising—violently smash open my tomb.
I thought he had come to desecrate my corpse. Instead, he collapsed to his knees, reverently kissed my dead lips, and swallowed a lethal bottle of pills without a drop of water.
In my past life, I was betrayed by my ex-fiancé, framed by my vicious step-family, and trapped in a suffocating marriage with Corbin. I thought he was a paranoid, abusive monster who only wanted to control me. I fought his madness every single day until I died sick, exhausted, and utterly defeated.
But watching him climb into my casket, wrapping his massive arms around my cold body to die beside me, my non-existent heart shattered.
Why hadn't I seen the truth? He wasn't a monster; he was a deeply traumatized man suffering from severe PTSD, and his obsessive love for me was his only tether to sanity.
The regret and agony tore my soul to pieces.
"My love, I'm too late."
Those were his last words before his heart stopped.
When I opened my eyes again, I wasn't floating in a dark tomb. I was lying in Corbin's bed, exactly two years in the past.
This time, I wouldn't run away. I would heal the broken beast who died for me, and I would personally put a bullet in everyone who ruined us.
9.0
I died on the cold delivery table, bleeding out while the heart monitor flatlined.
Through the blinding surgical lights, I heard my husband Damon's cold, final order to the doctors.
"The child is the priority."
He didn't care about my life. To him, I was just a vessel to produce an heir, a tool to fulfill his prenuptial clause and secure his billionaire empire.
While I took my last agonizing breath, he was already planning his future with his fragile, theatrical mistress, Jasmin.
In my past life, when he first brought her into our home claiming she was a helpless victim, I shattered.
I screamed, threw vases, and played the hysterical wife perfectly.
My desperate pleas for his affection only gave him the exact weapons he needed to ruin my reputation, isolate me, and ultimately force me onto that fatal delivery bed.
Until my very last moment, the suffocating pain in my chest wasn't just physical.
I couldn't understand how the man I loved could treat my death like a simple business transaction.
Why was my absolute devotion rewarded with a carefully calculated execution?
But then, my eyes snapped open.
I was sitting on the edge of my king-sized bed, exactly three years before my death.
From downstairs, I heard Damon's voice echoing in the foyer, bringing Jasmin into our home for the very first time.
This time, the scream building in my chest turned to ice.
I didn't cry or throw a fit.
Instead, I calmly swallowed a secret birth control pill, smiled at his mistress, and dialed the most ruthless divorce lawyer in Manhattan.
7.2
For ten years, Aurora was abandoned by her wealthy family to rot in the countryside.
When she finally returned, there was no warm welcome. The Lott family only brought her back to replace her adopted sister in an arranged marriage with Damian Yates, a notoriously violent, crippled billionaire, just to save their bankrupt company.
Her grandmother mocked her as uneducated trash. Her fake sister feigned disgust at her very presence.
When her biological father desperately tried to stop them from sending his daughter to her death, the family turned on him.
Her grandmother struck her father across the face, kicked the three of them out of the manor into the freezing rain, and arrogantly declared they would starve on the streets by nightfall.
They thought Aurora was just a helpless, pathetic hillbilly who would quietly accept being sold as livestock.
They had no idea that over the past decade, she had survived the darkest corners of the world, becoming a lethal operative with unimaginable power.
Standing in the cold rain, Aurora didn't shed a single tear.
She calmly pulled out her encrypted phone, personally canceled the billionaire's marriage contract, and ordered her hacker to completely freeze the Lott family's accounts.
"Total financial annihilation. Burn them to the ground."
But as she watched her abusers' legacy crumble, a classified file arrived on her phone, revealing that the very billionaire she just rejected was tied to her mother's unsolved murder.
The real hunt was just beginning.