Too Late, Billionaire: The Doctor's Comeback

The harsh glare of the smartphone screen was the only light in the sprawling Manhattan penthouse bedroom. Aimee Simpson lay on the massive king-sized bed, her thumb scrolling mindlessly through social media, waiting for Hamilton to return from his supposed business trip to Chicago.

Then a breaking news notification from Page Six dropped down from the top of her screen.

She tapped it out of boredom. The network lagged for a fraction of a second. Then a high-definition paparazzi photo loaded, filling the entire display.

Her breath caught in her throat.

In the photo, Hamilton Reed IV was stepping out of a charity gala—wearing the custom Tom Ford tuxedo she had picked up from the dry cleaners for him last week. His arm was wrapped possessively around the waist of Celeste Robinson-Vanderbilt, a prominent socialite.

Aimee's fingers began to tremble. She swiped down, her eyes hunting desperately for a date that would prove this was an old photo.

It wasn't.

The article detailed how this public appearance was the precursor to a massive corporate merger between their two families. Below the text was a screenshot of Celeste's official Twitter account. She had liked the article less than an hour ago.

Then Aimee's gaze locked onto a second photo—a side profile of Celeste in a skin-tight silver gown. The curve of her stomach was undeniable. A distinct, rounded bump.

A wave of ice-cold water crashed over Aimee, chilling her from scalp to toes. Her stomach violently contracted. The past three months of Hamilton's late nights, his sudden need to take calls in the other room, his unexplained weekend absences—the logic snapped together in her brain like a steel trap.

She slammed the phone face-down onto the velvet mattress. A thick, acidic wave of nausea rose in her throat. She clamped her hand over her mouth, fighting the urge to vomit.

Then she squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to take three deep, shuddering breaths. The oxygen burned her lungs, but it pushed the panic down.

She threw off the heavy velvet comforter. Her bare feet hit the freezing hardwood floor. She didn't bother looking for slippers. She walked straight into the massive walk-in closet.

The left side of the closet was lined with thousands of dollars' worth of haute couture—gowns, designer heels, silk blouses that Hamilton had bought for her. She ignored all of it.

Aimee stood on her tiptoes and reached for the very top shelf. She grabbed the handle of a plain, black canvas suitcase—the exact same cheap luggage she had brought with her five years ago, carefully preserved—and yanked it down. The rusted zipper let out a harsh, metallic shriek as she forced it open.

She pulled open the bottom drawer of the dresser. She grabbed the faded cotton scrubs and plain T-shirts she had bought with her own medical school scholarship money. She shoved them roughly into the canvas bag.

She walked over to the marble vanity. She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her