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 8
The red numbers on the oxygen monitor flashed violently. 68%. 65%. The old man's organs were suffocating.
"It's not going in!" the younger EMT shouted, his hands shaking as he squeezed the plastic bag.
The senior EMT dropped the mask and grabbed his radio. "Dispatch, we need an ALS unit with a medical director on scene immediately! Patient is coding!"
"If you wait for ALS, his brain will be dead," Aimee snapped. She reached out and grabbed the senior EMT's wrist, her grip like a vise. "Get me a laryngoscope and a 7.0 endotracheal tube. Now."
The EMT froze. He looked at Aimee's plain scrubs. "No way, lady! I can't let you do that! Without a doctor here to sign off, I'll lose my license!"
"If he dies because you followed a piece of paper, that is on you!" Aimee roared, her eyes blazing with terrifying authority. "I am a licensed MD. I assume all legal liability. Give me the damn tube!"
Leo let out a heartbreaking whimper. "Please save my grandpa."
The sound broke the EMT's resolve. He cursed under his breath, ripped open the trauma bag, and handed Aimee the metal laryngoscope handle and a sealed plastic tube.
Aimee snatched the equipment. She snapped the curved metal blade into the handle. With a sharp click, the cold, bright light at the tip illuminated.
She dropped to her knees directly behind the old man's head. She adjusted her posture, aligning her eyes perfectly with the axis of his throat.
Holding the heavy metal scope in her left hand, she slid it into the right side of his mouth, sweeping his tongue to the left.
She gently lifted the blade upward, looking for the vocal cords. But the view was a nightmare. The tissue was a swollen, angry mass of pink flesh. The airway was completely invisible.
The younger EMT leaned over, his eyes wide. "You can't see the cords. You can't tube that."
Aimee blocked out his voice. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes for exactly one second. She visualized the anatomy in her mind, relying entirely on years of muscle memory.
She opened her eyes. She took the plastic tube in her right hand. Without hesitating, she fed the tube blindly into the swollen mass, feeling for the subtle resistance of the tracheal rings.
She felt a slight pop. She twisted her wrist a millimeter and pushed. The tube slid in.
She immediately yanked the metal blade out. "Attach the bag! Squeeze!" she ordered.
The EMT attached the bag and squeezed. Aimee grabbed her stethoscope and pressed it to the man's stomach. No gurgling. She moved it to his left lung, then his right.
Clear, symmetrical breath sounds filled her ears.
"I'm in," Aimee exhaled, a drop of sweat falling from her chin onto the grass. "Secure the tube."
As the pure oxygen flooded his lungs, the numbers on the monitor began to climb. 75%. 85%. 96%.
The horrific purple color faded from the old man's face, replaced by a pale, living hue.
The crowd of bystanders erupted into cheers and applause. Several people were recording her on their phones.
The senior EMT looked at Aimee with absolute awe. "What hospital are you an attending at, Doc?"
Aimee wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. She gave a tired, small smile. "I'm currently unemployed."
Fifty feet away, parked illegally by a fire hydrant, Brennan Wheeler sat in the driver's seat of his black sedan. He had rolled the window down to watch the commotion.
His jaw was practically touching his chest. He had just watched the quiet, submissive woman his boss kept in a penthouse perform a brutal, life-saving medical procedure on the concrete.
Brennan swallowed hard. He picked up his phone and hit speed dial.
"What?" Hamilton barked into the phone.
"Sir," Brennan said, his voice trembling. "Miss Simpson... she just shoved a pipe down a dying man's throat on the street and brought him back to life. The whole block is cheering for her."
There was a long pause on the other end. Then Hamilton spoke, his voice low and dangerous: "I want her followed. Everywhere. And find out who that old man is. If he has connections, I want to know before she does."
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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.