Forty-eight hours.
I stood at the sink, scrubbing the scent of blood, bleach, and sterile alcohol from my skin. I had just dragged a mysterious tycoon back from the very gates of hell in a classified underground operating room.
There was a reason the dark web called me the 'Living Yama'. Death himself didn't get to take a soul without my permission.
Exhausted to my bones, I walked into the VIP hospital corridor. All I wanted was to go home and fall into the arms of my husband, Julian Thorne.
Instead, I found him right there in the hallway.
He was carefully wrapping his bespoke suit jacket around a weeping woman, his eyes filled with a tender panic I hadn't seen in years.
It was Chloe. His secretary.
"Julian?" I called out, my voice hoarse.
Julian snapped his head toward me. The tenderness in his eyes vanished, replaced instantly by blazing disgust.
"Where the hell have you been?!" he roared, his voice echoing down the hall. "Chloe was bleeding, and my so-called wife—who claims to know basic first aid—was completely unreachable! Do you have no heart, Elara?!"
I blinked, my exhausted brain trying to process the situation. I looked at Chloe. She was clutching her index finger, tears streaming down her perfectly made-up face.
A paper cut.
It was a literal paper cut.
I had just spent two grueling days reattaching severed arteries and restarting a stopped heart, and my husband was screaming at me over a paper cut.
"Julian, it hurts..." Chloe sniffled, leaning weakly against his chest. "But please, don't yell at Elara. I'm sure she was just busy... doing whatever housewives do."
Her words were a masterclass in manipulation. Julian's face darkened further. He reached into his briefcase and slammed a thick folder onto the nearest table.
"Sign it."
I looked down. The bold black letters screamed at me: DIVORCE AGREEMENT.
"I'm done pretending," Julian said coldly, adjusting his cuffs. "You're a boring, penniless woman who smells like cheap bleach and cooking oil. You can't help me in the business world. Chloe is delicate. She needs my protection. You'll never understand our world."
He tossed an expensive pen onto the paper. "I'll give you a hundred thousand dollars. Take it, pack your cheap clothes, and disappear."
I stared at the pen.
For three years, I had hidden my trillion-dollar inheritance. I had suppressed my identity as the world's most legendary surgeon. I washed his clothes and cooked his meals, all because he had offered me an umbrella on a rainy night when I was hiding from my family's assassins.
I thought it was love.
Turns out, it was just a pathetic joke.
I didn't cry. I didn't beg. The exhaustion vanished, replaced by an icy, terrifying calm.
I picked up the pen and signed my name. Elara Vance. The strokes were sharp, merciless, and final.
"You're right," I said, tossing the pen back at his feet. I looked at Julian, my gaze so cold it made him instinctively take a step back. "I don't belong in your world. Because your world is far too cheap for me."
Without waiting for his response, I turned and walked toward the exit.
"Arrogant bitch!" Julian yelled behind me, his pride clearly stung by my lack of tears. "Don't come crawling back to me when you starve on the streets!"
I pushed open the heavy glass doors of the hospital and stepped into the cold night air.
I wasn't going to starve.
Because waiting for me at the curb was a fleet of six identical, bulletproof Rolls-Royces.
The moment my foot touched the pavement, dozens of men in tailored black suits stepped out of the shadows, bowing at a perfect ninety-degree angle.
A silver-haired butler stepped forward, his eyes shining with tears of relief. He held out a diamond-encrusted black card with both hands.
"Welcome back, Heiress Vance," Sebastian said respectfully, his voice ringing clearly in the quiet night. "Should we proceed with cutting off the three-billion-dollar funding to Julian Thorne's company?"
I took the card, a wicked smirk playing on my lips. "Bankrupt him by morning."
"Yes, My Lady."
I was about to step into the car when the air around me suddenly plummeted in temperature. A heavy, oppressive aura suffocated the street.
A man stepped out of the shadows.
He was dangerously handsome, standing at 6'3", dressed in a dark, blood-stained shirt. His eyes were obsessive, predatory, and radiated absolute, ruthless power.
He was the mafia king of the city. The man every billionaire, including Julian, groveled to meet.
He slammed his hand against the door of my Rolls-Royce, trapping me between his muscular arms.
"I finally found you, Living Yama," he whispered, his voice a lethal, intoxicating rumble against my ear. "Save my life... and my entire empire is yours to command."