My Billionaire Husband's Deadly Betrayal

My husband, tech billionaire Amir Carter, was a god in Chicago. For five years, he was the perfect husband, and I, a pediatric doctor, believed I had finally tamed the infamous playboy.

But when my brother Keon needed an urgent heart transplant, everything fell apart. The donor Amir found was a young singer-exactly his type.

On the day of the surgery, as my brother was dying, I found my husband comforting her.

"Don't pressure her, Blake," he said. "She's delicate."

Then the call came. My brother was dead. Amir didn't even notice, annoyed that I was stressing out his new project.

He pushed me down a flight of stairs, crashed his car into my taxi to protect her, and gave her the last gift my brother ever made for me.

He saw me bleeding on the floor and walked right past, his only concern for the woman who let my brother die. My fairy tale was a lie. I was just another one of his seasonal projects, now completed and discarded.

He took everything from me. So I signed the divorce papers, refused his millions, and vanished. Now, he's left alone with the truth: he killed my brother, and he didn't even know it.

Chapter 1

My brother died because my husband chose another woman over him. That was the raw, unvarnished truth that clawed at my insides, a truth more brutal than any surgical incision I' d ever made.

Amir Carter was a god in Chicago, or at least, that' s what the headlines said. Tech billionaire, visionary, charisma that could charm the clothes off a senator. But beneath that polished veneer was a man who saw people as projects, particularly young, impressionable women with untapped talent.

He built them up, molded them, sometimes even loved them-for a season. Then he moved on, leaving a trail of broken dreams and shattered careers in his wake. I' d seen the whispers in financial rags, the hushed gossip at charity galas. There was the indie film director he' d bankrolled and then discarded, the fashion designer whose label he' d launched and then let crash. They all had the same wide-eyed ambition, the same youthful vulnerability that Amir seemed to gravitate towards. He called them "muses." I called them victims.

I was different, or so I thought. I was Blake Franklin, a pediatric resident with calloused hands and a heart full of empathy. My world was sick children and late-night shifts, a stark contrast to Amir's high-flying empire. We met when I was twenty-seven, just young enough, I now realize, to fit his pattern. But I wasn' t an artist. I was a doctor, grounded and practical.

He pursued me like a predator, relentless and charming. Flowers filled my tiny apartment until it smelled like a funeral home. Limousines appeared at the hospital entrance after my shifts, whisking me away to dinners where he knew my favorite dish before I even ordered it. He memorized my coffee order, the exact shade