The Billionaire's Genius Wife's Ultimate Cold Revenge

The rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Upper East Side penthouse, a violent, rhythmic drumming that matched the frantic pounding of Emelie's heart.

Inside the nursery, the air was thick with the scent of lavender and sickness.

Emelie stared at the digital thermometer in her hand. The backlight glowed an angry red.

104F.

"Mommy..." Lily whimpered. The sound was small, wet, and terrified.

Emelie dropped the thermometer on the nightstand and scooped her five-year-old daughter into her arms. Lily's skin was burning, radiating a heat that felt unnatural, dangerous.

"I've got you, baby. I've got you," Emelie whispered, her voice trembling.

She fumbled for her phone with her free hand. She dialed Clifton.

One ring. Two rings. Three.

Click.

"You have reached the voicemail of Clifton Wilder. Please leave a-"

Emelie ended the call and dialed again.

She needed him. She needed the car. She needed to not be alone in this cavernous, empty house while her daughter burned up in her arms.

The call went straight to voicemail this time. He had declined it.

Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in her chest. She opened her text messages and typed rapidly to Gavin, Clifton's executive assistant.

Lily is sick. Fever 104. Going to NY-Presbyterian. Tell Clifton. NOW.

The status changed to Read instantly. No reply.

Suddenly, Lily's body went rigid in Emelie's arms. Her eyes rolled back, showing only the whites, and her small limbs began to jerk rhythmically.

A febrile seizure.

"No, no, no! Lily!" Emelie screamed.

She didn't wait for the nanny. She didn't wait for the driver.

Adrenaline flooded her system, sharpening her vision. She hoisted Lily onto her hip, grabbed her purse, and ran.

Down the marble staircase. Through the grand foyer.

Mrs. Higgins, the housekeeper, was moving at a glacial pace near the coat closet. "Madam, it is pouring outside. Shall I locate an umbrella?"

"Open the damn door!" Emelie roared, her voice unrecognizable to her own ears.

Mrs. Higgins flinched, her eyes widening, but she pulled the heavy double doors open.

The wind hit Emelie like a physical blow. The rain soaked her silk blouse in seconds, plastering it to her skin. She didn't feel the cold. She felt only the terrifying heat of her daughter's convulsing body.

She fumbled with the keys to the SUV, her fingers slick with rain. She threw Lily into the car seat, buckling only the chest clip, and jumped into the driver's seat.

The engine roared to life. Emelie peeled out of the driveway, the tires screeching against the wet asphalt.

The wipers slashed back and forth, fighting a losing battle against the deluge. The city lights blurred into streaks of neon and gray.

Emelie hit the speed dial on the dashboard screen. Clifton.

"The subscriber you are dialing is currently busy."

"Busy," Emelie spat the word out, hitting the steering wheel. "Busy."

She swerved around a taxi, running a red light at Park Avenue.

Ten minutes later, the bright red "EMERGENCY" sign of New York-Presbyterian