My Surgeon Husband Demanded a Divorce for His Pregnant Fellow at the Hospital Gala — Until I Discovered My Family Secretly Owns 85% of His Medical Empire
The sudden, complete darkness was jarring. My phone light, a feeble beacon against the oppressive black, felt like a spotlight on me. I instinctively froze, clutching the heavy binder tightly against my chest. The faint smell of ozone hung in the air from the dying lights.
I heard a soft click from the archive door. Someone was trying to get in. My mind raced. The security guard? Had he changed his mind? Or had Mark sent someone else?
I ducked behind the nearest row of metal shelves, pressing myself against a cold, dusty column. My heart pounded so hard I thought it would give me away.
The door creaked open. A thin beam of light sliced through the darkness, dancing across the shelves. It was a different flashlight than the guard’s, a smaller, more focused beam.
Then I heard a voice, low and muttering, laced with frustration. “Where is it? He said shelf D-14. Bloody hell, Mark, clean up your own mess for once.”
It wasn’t the guard. The voice was unfamiliar, sharp and precise. I risked a peek from behind the shelves.
A man in a impeccably tailored dark suit stood in the aisle, his face illuminated by his flashlight. He was thin, with slicked-back gray hair and a nervous energy that made him twitch constantly. He ran a hand over a row of binders, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Lyle Simms. The name hit me like a cold spray. Apex Health’s senior insurance adjuster. I’d seen him at a few hospital functions, always hovering around Mark, always looking a little too eager. He was Mark’s go-to man for navigating the labyrinthine world of insurance claims.
He was looking for something specific. “The financial ledgers. The ones before the 2020 restructure. Before the auditors come sniffing around…” he muttered, his voice trailing off as he scanned the shelf.
My breath hitched. Auditors. Mark’s paper trail. This wasn’t just about my divorce anymore. This was about something much bigger, much dirtier. Lyle Simms was actively involved in covering something up.
He moved methodically, pulling out boxes, flipping through documents, his irritation growing with each empty find. The air around him seemed to crackle with tension. He was desperate.
“He swore it was here,” Simms hissed, slamming a binder back onto a shelf. “The one detailing the surgical equipment liabilities. The phantom purchases.”
Phantom purchases. The phrase hung in the air like a noxious fume. My father’s 85% ownership was just the tip of a much uglier iceberg. Mark wasn’t just a philanderer; he was a criminal, using the hospital as his personal piggy bank, with Lyle Simms as his accomplice.
I glanced down at the binder in my hands. The 85% stock certificate. The $14 million syndicate loan. Had Simms been sent to retrieve this, too? Was he working for Moretti, or for Mark trying to cover his tracks?
Simms stepped closer to my hiding spot, his flashlight beam momentarily sweeping past me. I pulled my head back, pressing harder against the cold metal, barely breathing. The scent of his expensive cologne, a sharp citrus, was suddenly overpowering.
He was less than ten feet away. I could hear the rustle of his movements, the soft click of his watch. He pulled out another box, this one labeled “Surgical Payables – 2019.”
“This must be it,” he mumbled, a note of triumph in his voice. He began to open it.
This was my chance. He was distracted. I had to move.
Carefully, meticulously, I began to shuffle my feet, trying to make no sound on the dusty concrete floor. Each movement felt amplified in the silence. The leather binder felt heavy, a damning weight in my arms.
I edged away from the shelves, trying to find the stairwell exit I’d seen earlier. The darkness, which had felt like a threat, now felt like my only ally.
A small metal cart, piled high with empty archival boxes, stood in my path. I tried to maneuver around it, but my foot snagged on a loose wheel. The cart scraped loudly against the concrete.
Simms froze. His head snapped up, his flashlight beam swinging wildly toward the sound.
“Who’s there?!” he yelled, his voice laced with panic. “Show yourself!”
My heart leaped into my throat. I stood absolutely still, hoping he wouldn’t pinpoint my exact location in the vast, dark space.
He took a cautious step, then another, his flashlight cutting through the gloom like a searching eye. He was moving toward me.
I made a split-second decision. I ran.
I pushed past the cart, sending it careening with a clang, and bolted toward the faint outline of the stairwell door. My mind screamed at me to get out, to protect the evidence.
“Hey! Stop!” Simms shouted, his voice echoing through the archive. I heard his frantic footsteps behind me, closer than I expected.
I burst through the stairwell door, not daring to look back, and started climbing the cold, concrete steps two at a time, the stock certificates and the syndicate ledger clutched tightly against my racing chest.
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