My Divorced Wife Is A Zillionaire

The call came in just past midnight.

Cora Beaumont was pulling a double shift in the ER when the alert flashed across her pager-mass casualty incident, five-alarm fire at the Grand Regency Hotel downtown. All available medical personnel report immediately.

She grabbed her kit and ran.

It wasn't until the ambulance was screaming through red lights that the name hit her like a physical blow.

*Julian.*

Julian Vance had a business meeting at the Grand Regency tonight.

The blood drained from Cora's face so fast the paramedic beside her asked if she was going to pass out. She couldn't answer. Her throat had closed around a knot of pure, primal terror.

The hotel was a inferno when they arrived. Smoke billowed into the night sky, orange flames licking from shattered windows on the upper floors. Guests stumbled out in bathrobes and bare feet, some coughing, some screaming, some terrifyingly silent.

Cora launched herself toward the lobby doors.

A firefighter caught her around the waist. "Ma'am, you can't-"

"My husband is in there!" She fought against his grip, eyes wild, tears cutting tracks through the soot on her cheeks. "Please. *Please.* I have to find him."

"Ma'am." His voice was firm but not unkind. "The structure is unstable. I can't let you through."

She stood there, trembling, praying to every god she'd never believed in. *Please let him be alive. Please.*

Time warped into something thick and viscous. Minutes felt like hours. The fire roared. Water arced from hoses. Someone was sobbing nearby.

Then the doors opened.

A firefighter emerged from the smoke, guiding a figure toward the triage zone. A man. Tall. Familiar shoulders. That particular way he carried himself, even now, like the world owed him something.

*Julian.*

Relief crashed over Cora so violently her knees nearly buckled. He was alive. Thank God, he was-

She took one step forward.

And stopped dead.

Julian wasn't alone.

His arm was wrapped around a woman in a white hotel bathrobe, her blonde hair artfully tousled, her body pressed against his side like she belonged there. His free hand cradled the back of her head with a tenderness Cora had never once felt directed at herself.

Today was Cora's birthday.

They'd planned to have dinner together-a rare commitment from a husband who was perpetually too busy. But Julian had texted at the last minute. *Meeting ran late. Rain check?*

A meeting. Right.

If not for this fire, she would never have known.

Cora's body went numb. Behind her surgical mask and protective goggles, her face had drained to the color of bone.

She should walk away. She should turn around and let some other medic deal with him. Her feet wouldn't cooperate.

And then Julian was striding toward her, blood streaking from a gash at his temple, his shirt torn and smoke-stained. He looked terrible. He looked like a man who'd nearly died.

He looked straight at her and saw nothing.

"You." His voice was ragged, urgent. "She needs medical attention. Now."

Cora's heart seized. He didn't recognize her. Her own husband, three years of marriage, and a mask was all it took to render her invisible.

"Julian-" she started, the name scraping past the lump in her throat.

"*Julian, it hurts.*"

The woman in his arms let out a delicate, trembling whimper. Tears spilled down cheeks that were artfully flushed, clinging to lashes that were somehow still perfect. Tiffany Reed. Even through the chaos, Cora recognized the name. The face.

"I'm here, Tiff." Julian's voice dropped to something soft. Protective. A tone Cora had never heard from him, not once, in a thousand days of marriage. He turned back to Cora, and his expression hardened to cold command. "What are you waiting for? She's in pain. *Do your job.*"

Cora's training kicked in before her heart could shatter completely.

"Bring her to the ambulance," she said, her voice flat. Professional. Dead.

Inside the rig, under the harsh fluorescent lights, Cora got her first clear look at the woman who had destroyed her marriage.

Tiffany Reed was younger than her-mid-twenties, maybe. Petite. Delicate in that way men seemed to find irresistible. And around her throat, catching the light with every breath, hung a diamond necklace that probably cost more than Cora's annual salary.

But it was the face that made Cora's hands freeze over the medical kit.

Tiffany looked like *her*.

Not identical-the bone structure was softer, the eyes wider, the mouth more pouty-but the resemblance was unmistakable. Especially the eyes. They had the same shape. The same tilt.

Cora stared at a gentler, more fragile version of her own face, and understanding hit her like a freight train.

*This* was why Julian had married her. A glance, three years ago, and he'd proposed. She'd thought it was fate. Destiny. The universe rewarding her for years of silent, hopeless love.

She'd been a stand-in. A replacement. A *substitute*.

The antiseptic swab had barely touched Tiffany's scraped elbow when she flinched and let out a theatrical cry. "Julian! It stings-am I going to be okay?"

Julian's jaw tightened. He pulled Tiffany closer with his uninjured arm, pressing her face into his chest. "Be more gentle," he snapped at Cora. "You're hurting her."

The words landed like a blade between Cora's ribs.

Before she could respond, Tiffany reached up and tugged at Julian's collar with trembling fingers. "Don't be mean to her, Julian. I'm sure she didn't mean to hurt me on purpose."

God. Even the voice was a breathy, saccharine imitation of her own.

Julian looked down at Tiffany like she'd just offered him a kidney. "You're too kind. Always thinking of everyone else first."

Cora watched her husband-*her husband*-melt into a man she didn't recognize. Julian Vance, the ice-cold CEO who barely smiled at his own reflection, was gazing at another woman with open adoration.

In three years, he'd never once looked at Cora that way.

She finished dressing Tiffany's nonexistent injuries on autopilot, biting the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. The physical pain was grounding. It gave her something to focus on besides the scream building in her chest.

"Thank you, doctor." Tiffany beamed up at her with saccharine sweetness. "He's just protective of me. Don't take it personally."

Cora dropped the used swabs in the biohazard bin. "It's fine."

Her voice could have cut glass.

"I'm used to it."

She turned to Julian's head wound, pulling out a suture kit with mechanical efficiency. He was already on his phone, barking orders.

"Dexter. It's my wife's birthday. Order a cake and have it delivered to the house."