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 face was chalky white, but her brown eyes were hardening into something resembling shattered glass.

Aimee reached up to the back of her neck. Her fingers fumbled with the clasp of the diamond necklace Hamilton had given her for their anniversary. The clasp was tight. She yanked it hard. The platinum chain dug into her skin, leaving an angry red welt across her pale neck before it finally gave way.

She placed the diamonds dead center on the marble countertop. Next to it, she placed the limitless black titanium credit card he had given her.

She walked back to the bed and picked up her phone. She dialed Hamilton's private number.

The line rang. Once. Twice. Five times.

"Hello?" Hamilton's deep, slightly annoyed voice finally came through. There was a brief rustling sound, as if he was stepping away from whoever he was with.

In the background, Aimee could hear the soft, elegant notes of a cello playing. Woven through the music was the distinct, breathy laugh of a woman.

"Why are you still awake?" Hamilton asked, his tone dripping with the casual authority of a man who believed he controlled every aspect of her existence.

Aimee didn't scream. She didn't ask about the photo. She didn't mention the baby.

"We are done," Aimee said. Her voice was completely flat.

Dead silence stretched over the line for a full second.

Then Hamilton let out a low, mocking chuckle. "Are you throwing another tantrum because I couldn't fly you out to Chicago with me? Grow up, Aimee."

Aimee pulled the phone away from her ear. She pressed the red end-call button.

She immediately opened her contacts, selected his name, and hit block. She severed the connection completely.

She grabbed the canvas backpack, slung it over her shoulder, and zipped up the cheap suitcase. She looked around the opulent bedroom one last time. She was leaving with exactly what she had brought into this relationship. Nothing more.

She walked down the hallway to the grand foyer. Doloris, the head housekeeper, was just stepping out of the kitchen with a silver tray.

Doloris stopped, her eyes widening at the sight of Aimee's faded clothes and cheap luggage. "Miss Aimee? Where are you going at this hour?"

Aimee reached into her pocket. She pulled out the heavy brass key and the magnetic keycard to the penthouse. She placed them gently onto the silver tray in Doloris's hands.

"Thank you for everything, Doloris," Aimee said quietly.

"But Mr. Reed will be home soon," Doloris protested, her voice laced with genuine panic. "You can't just leave."

Aimee shook her head. She pressed the down button for the private elevator.

The brass doors chimed and slid open. Aimee stepped inside without a backward glance. She hit the button for the lobby.

The metal doors slowly closed, cutting off the sight of the luxurious penthouse. Aimee watched the digital numbers tick downward. She let out a long, shaky exhale.

But as the elevator descended, her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. She opened it and froze.

The message contained a single photo: Hamilton, holding Celeste's hand at the charity gala. And written across the bottom in elegant script: "You were always just the placeholder, darling.."