His Unwanted Wife Is A Genius Healer

"Don't even think about getting comfortable."

The heavy mahogany door slammed open, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the massive master bedroom.

Elizbeth flinched. She sat on the edge of the massive bed, her fingers nervously rubbing the lace cuff of her wedding dress. The mattress beneath her was covered in a thick layer of red rose petals.

Carlton strode into the room. He brought a wave of freezing air with him. His dark eyes locked onto hers, devoid of any warmth.

Elizbeth stood up immediately. A hopeful smile stretched across her face, making her cheeks ache. She took a step toward him.

"Carlton," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "It's me. Do you remember what we talked about eight years ago? Under the rubble?"

Carlton stepped sideways, dodging her outstretched hand as if she carried a disease.

Elizbeth's hand froze in mid-air. The smile on her face stiffened. Her stomach dropped, a cold weight settling in her gut.

She quickly turned to the bedside table. Her hands shook as she picked up a glass of warm water. She held it out to him, desperate to ease the harsh lines of exhaustion on his face.

"You must be tired," she whispered.

Carlton let out a harsh breath. He swatted his hand through the air impatiently.

His knuckles struck the glass. It flew from her hands and shattered against the hardwood floor. The sharp crack of breaking glass made Elizbeth jump backward.

Water splashed onto the hem of her white gown. She stared at the jagged pieces on the floor, her vision blurring. The back of her throat burned.

Carlton didn't look at the mess. He yanked at his silk tie, loosening it with rough, jerky movements. His jaw clenched as his eyes swept over the bed covered in red roses.

He marched to the side of the bed. He grabbed the edge of the silk bedsheet and ripped it upward.

Hundreds of red petals flew into the air and rained down onto the floor, landing in the spilled water. He tossed the sheet aside, his upper lip curling in disgust.

Elizbeth bit down on her lower lip so hard she tasted copper. The tears she had been fighting finally pooled in her eyes.

Carlton walked over to the leather armchair and picked up his black briefcase. He snapped it open and pulled out two thick stacks of paper.

He threw them onto the glass coffee table. The heavy thud made Elizbeth flinch again.

"Sign them," Carlton ordered. His voice was flat, mechanical, and completely empty.

Elizbeth walked over on trembling legs. She picked up the top document. The bold black letters at the top read: Prenuptial Agreement and Non-Disclosure Agreement.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. She flipped to the second page. Her eyes scanned the harsh clauses. Relinquishment of all rights to the Wilkinson family trust. Permanent ban from entering the West Wing of the estate.

She looked up at him, her chest tight. It felt like someone was squeezing her lungs.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, her voice cracking. "I didn't come here for your money. We had a promise-"

Carlton let out a dark, humorless laugh. He stepped closer, his tall frame casting a shadow over her.

"Save the fairy tales," he interrupted, his tone dripping with venom. "You spun a pathetic little story about a rescue to get your hands on the Wilkinson trust. You think I don't know exactly what you are?"

The contempt in his eyes felt like a physical slap. A hot tear spilled over her eyelashes and tracked down her cheek.

Carlton didn't blink. He pulled a silver Montblanc pen from his inner jacket pocket and held it out to her. The pressure radiating from him was suffocating.

Elizbeth lifted her chin. She kept her hands firmly at her sides, refusing to take the pen. Her fingernails dug into her palms.

Carlton leaned in closer. He smelled like expensive cologne and cold anger.

"If your signature isn't on those papers in the next ten seconds," he said softly, "I will pull every cent of funding from your grandfather's clinic tomorrow morning. They will lock the doors by noon."

Elizbeth stopped breathing. The blood drained from her face, leaving her skin ice-cold.

Her grandfather's clinic was his life's work. It was the only thing she had left of him.

Her jaw trembled. She snatched the heavy pen from his fingers. She flipped to the signature lines and pressed the nib into the paper, signing her name so hard the paper nearly tore.

Carlton watched her. When she finished, he smoothly slid the documents out from under her hands. He checked the signatures, his face impassive, and put them back into his briefcase.

He turned his back to her and pointed a long finger toward the bedroom door.

"Get out," he commanded. "The guest room is down the hall."

Elizbeth's hands balled into tight fists. The humiliation burned in her chest like acid. She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, swallowing the sob that threatened to break out.

She reached up and unpinned the heavy veil from her hair. She threw it onto the sofa, the white tulle looking like a discarded ghost.

She walked over to the corner and grabbed the handle of her battered suitcase. She dragged it toward the door, her heels clicking sharply against the floorboards.

When she reached the doorway, she stopped. She didn't turn around.

"You're going to regret this," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

Carlton scoffed. He didn't even look in her direction as he unbuttoned his shirt and walked toward the master bathroom.

Elizbeth stepped out into the hallway. The heavy mahogany door slammed shut behind her, the click of the lock sealing away the last eight years of her foolish dreams.