From Broken Wife To Billionaire Power

Lying in the hospital bed, I clutched my empty stomach, the doctor' s words about my miscarriage still ringing in my ears.

I called my husband, desperate for comfort, but he sounded annoyed.

"Allison, not now," Erik snapped. "Barbie' s dog is throwing up. She' s hysterical. Just get a cab and stop being so dramatic."

He hung up on his wife who just lost their child to comfort his mistress' s Pomeranian.

When I dragged my broken body home, he didn't hug me. He forced me to apologize to the dog.

Then came the final blow: I watched on TV as he gifted my entire photography portfolio to his mistress, claiming it was her work, while handing me a bottle of perfume he knew I was deadly allergic to.

Broken, I went to a radical clinic to have my memories of him erased forever.

But the procedure didn't leave me blank. It unlocked a door I didn't know existed.

I wasn't the orphan Allison Day.

I was Allison Woodward, the missing billionaire heiress.

And I was done apologizing.

Chapter 1

Allison Day POV:

The world swam into focus, a blurry kaleidoscope of white. White walls, white sheets, the crisp white uniform of the nurse bending over me. But the starkest white was the blank space where hope used to be. The doctor' s words echoed, cold and clinical, twisting my insides.

"We did everything we could, Mrs. Day."

My breath hitched. "My baby?" It wasn't a question, more a choked plea.

The nurse, a woman with tired eyes and a practiced gentleness, avoided my gaze. She adjusted the IV drip, the plastic tubing a cold snake on my arm. A doctor, young and unfeeling, stepped forward. His voice was flat, devoid of any warmth.

"The blood loss was significant, the trauma to your abdomen too severe. He was too small to survive the impact. And given the prolonged exposure to the blizzard conditions… we lost him."

Lost him. The words were a hammer blow, shattering the fragile shell of my reality. My hand instinctively flew to my stomach, a flat, empty landscape now. The small, hopeful bump, the fluttery kicks I' d only just begun to feel-gone. Just like that. A tear trickled down my temple, hot against my cold skin.

"And your injuries," the doctor continued, oblivious to my agony. "The internal bleeding is under control, but the scarring will be extensive. You're lucky to be alive, Mrs. Day."

Lucky. The word tasted like ash. I twisted my neck, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the dark hospital window. A pale, drawn face stared back, eyes hollow, framed by tangled hair. A deep crimson stain peeked from beneath the edge of my gown, a cruel reminder of what I'd lost. My whole body ached, a deep, bruising pain that went beyond the physical. It was a hollow ache, an emptiness that echoed the one inside me.

Despair, thick and suffocating, wrapped around me. I was alone here,