I Faked An Injury To Escape My Abusive Billionaire Husband. But The Er Doctor Just Revealed A Dark Secret About My Husband’s First Wife. How Do I Go Back To That House Now?

The Ghost from the Past

Outside the curtain, I heard Preston’s voice on the phone. His tone was low, a whisper but full of emphasis.

“Yes, clean the bathroom now. Don’t leave any trace of the soap. Just say she slipped on some water. And don’t let anyone else into the master bedroom.”,

That devious man. Even when his wife was lying unconscious, as far as he knew, his brain was busy fabricating a cover-up to keep his image pristine. He was more afraid of his reputation being tarnished than of me having a concussion.

I wanted so badly to sit up and shout his lies through a megaphone but I knew it wasn’t the right time. “Be patient Ellie,” I told myself. “Play it smart. Let him dig his own grave.”

A short while later, the curtain to my bay was drawn back with a firm authoritative motion. A small breeze brushed against my face. Through my slightly parted eyelashes, I saw a man in a long white coat enter.

It wasn’t the young nurse but a senior doctor. His hair was graying at the temples and a pair of glasses hung around his neck. He held a clipboard with my medical chart.

His aura was different. If Preston had the aura of an oppressive ruler, this doctor had a calm profound presence like a deep river hiding many secrets. He stood beside my bed, observed my face for a moment, then began to check the pulse in my neck with fingers that were cool but steady,.

“Excuse me doctor. How is my wife?” Preston’s voice suddenly cut through the quiet of the bay.

Apparently, he had finished his call and was back to playing the role of the devoted husband. He had slipped past the curtain without permission, his face once again set to maximum anxiety mode.

He was breathing a bit heavily, perhaps from running back from the waiting room or from running from the truth. He stood at the foot of my bed looking at the doctor with the same demanding gaze he used when the service at a five-star restaurant was too slow.

“Please explain doctor, why isn’t she conscious yet? Are there any broken bones? I need to know.”

The senior doctor didn’t answer immediately. He calmly finished his examination first, placed his stethoscope back around his neck, and then slowly turned to face Preston. His movements were deliberately slow as if creating a dramatic pause in a thriller.

When the doctor finally lifted his head and met Preston’s eyes, time seemed to stand still in that small room. The background noise of the ER suddenly felt distant and faint. Preston’s reaction was the most satisfying thing I had ever witnessed in my life,.

His face which had been flushed from his feigned anxiety suddenly turned a pale sickly gray, the color of wet cement. His eyes went wide not with anger but with sheer terror. His mouth fell slightly open but no sound came out as if his vocal cords had just been snapped.

His legs buckled. I could see his knees trembling violently beneath his expensive trousers. He took a step back bumping into the IV pole behind him with a loud clang.

He looked like a thief caught red-handed by the homeowner. Only this time the homeowner was holding a shotgun.

“Good evening Mr. Davenport,” the doctor said.

His voice was flat, cold, and pierced right through you. There was none of the standard friendly tone a doctor uses with a patient’s family.

“It’s a small world isn’t it? Do you remember me?”

The Confrontation

The doctor gave a faint smile but it didn’t reach his eyes. His gaze was sharp, aimed directly at Preston’s core. On the name tag pinned to his white coat, the name was clearly visible: Dr. Miles, MD.

Preston swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing with difficulty. Beads of sweat the size of corn kernels started to form on his temples. He tried to speak but his voice was caught in his throat, only a small squeak escaping like a mouse caught in a trap.

“Doc… Dr. Miles,” he stammered.

Preston’s usual sky-high arrogance shattered into a million pieces on the hospital floor all from a single look from this middle-aged doctor. Lying there still pretending to be unconscious, I wanted nothing more than to open my eyes wide and grab a bucket of popcorn.

Whoever Dr. Miles was, he had just turned the monster in my house into a soggy cracker. The atmosphere in the room suddenly became incredibly tense and awkward. Dr. Miles didn’t break his gaze for a second.

He took one step closer to Preston, causing my husband to stumble back in panic until his back was against the curtain.

“I will be handling your wife’s case tonight doctor,” Miles said slowly, emphasizing each syllable with a deep hidden meaning. “I will make sure she receives the justice… I mean the care that my sister never had the chance to get.”

That sentence hung in the air like a storm cloud before a downpour. His sister? Whose sister? My mind raced even with my eyes closed.

There was a dark history between these two men. A history that involved someone’s life. And somehow I felt that this history was now my only weapon for survival.

Preston was still frozen, his breathing short and ragged. He looked like he wanted to bolt, to run out of that room, but his feet seemed nailed to the floor. Tonight in this ER bay that smelled of antiseptic, the wheel of fate had begun to turn.

The hunter had now become the hunted. The air inside the small bay suddenly felt as heavy as concrete pressing down on the chests of everyone within. Preston, usually as fierce as a hungry lion, had shrunk into a drenched kitten in the presence of Dr. Miles,.

The doctor didn’t need to shout or slam his fist on a table. He simply stood tall, his hands in the pockets of his white coat.

“Mr. Davenport,” Dr. Miles said again, his tone polite but firm like a principal reprimanding a delinquent student. “Please wait outside. Medical procedure requires me to examine the patient without family interference, especially when the patient is unconscious. You’re blocking the oxygen in this room.”

That last sentence was a subtle but sharp jab implying that Preston’s very presence was toxic to anyone near him. Normally if anyone dared to order Preston around like that they would have been verbally eviscerated until their ears rang. But this time Preston just nodded jerkily like a broken robot.

His face was still ashen, his eyes not daring to meet Dr. Miles’s gaze.

“Fine doctor. Please take care of my wife,” he mumbled, then quickly turned and fled the bay.