The Heiress' Secret: Ex-Husband, Meet The Real Me

"I tried everything I could," Deanna Carter said, her voice weighed down with fatigue.

Thirteen grueling hours in the operating room had passed, yet she still hadn't been able to save the baby in Gillian Dixon's womb.

Before her words even settled in the air, a wave of anguished sobs burst from the hallway outside.

"My great‑grandchild..." Susan Dixon wailed before collapsing on the spot.

Gillian was wheeled out on a gurney moments later, pale and unconscious. Relatives rushed forward, their cries and murmured attempts at comfort filling the corridor and brushing against Deanna like cold wind.

The sound hollowed her chest.

She lifted her head just enough to catch sight of her husband, Connor Dixon, leaning over Gillian. His hands clutched the sides of the gurney, and his expression was so full of worry it might as well have been for his own wife.

Everyone trailed after the gurney as it disappeared into a hospital room.

Deanna remained alone in the hallway, mask dangling from her fingers, shoulders heavy from the endless hours at the operating table. People hurried past her, but not a single person paused to ask if she needed some rest.

When she finally returned home, the servants parted like she carried a plague, their stares cold and accusing.

Kristina Dixon, Connor's younger sister, snatched a broom from a nearby butler and swung it sharply against Deanna's leg. "Get out of here, you murderer!"

Bristles scraped across Deanna's calf, carving a stinging red welt that made her flinch.

Kristina's sneer deepened. "What are you so proud of? You think marrying my brother makes you important? The only reason you're here is because Gillian's health is fragile and you happen to be the doctor with the right blood type. You're nothing but a tool. A walking blood bank. And now that Gillian's baby is gone because of you, let's see how you plan on facing Connor."

Kristina finished with a scornful spit, barely missing Deanna's shoes.

After three years married to Connor, Deanna knew her place in the Dixon family well enough. To them, she was nothing but a tool—good for blame, good for use, never for kindness.

There wasn't a soul in the house who felt the need to hide their contempt.

Arguing would only make things worse, and she was too tired to care. Quietly, she climbed the stairs, keeping her eyes low.

Thirteen hours in the operating room had left her body wrung out. Donating blood for Gillian during the worst of it left her shaky and burning up with fever.

She had barely settled onto the bed when rough hands jerked her upright.

Her head struck the headboard with a dull, jarring thud.

Pain flared and her vision blurred, but as her eyes opened, she saw Connor's face twisted above her. Tears stung her eyes. "Connor, you're home. I swear I really did my best to save Gillian's baby."

Connor leaned over her, his grip unrelenting, cold anger in his eyes. "You did