Dear Billionaire, I'm Not Your Wife Anymore! - Chapter 1: Chapter 1

New York City, on a night of torrential rain.
I dialed my husband Braden Kingsley's phone—
No answer.
I held my feverish daughter in my arms. Her temperature had spiked to 104°F, and she was deliriously calling out: "Daddy, daddy, I want daddy..."
I rushed downstairs and said to Mary: "Mary, we're going to the hospital."
She hesitated and asked: "Should we wait for Mr. Kingsley to come back?"
"No need," I answered almost without thinking.
Tonight was his first love's birthday. He wouldn't be coming home.
My heart was colder than this stormy night. My daughter's cheeks were flushed with fever, making distressed whimpers, yet her father was celebrating with another woman.
On the way to the hospital, rain poured down in sheets. I was so nervous I didn't dare ease up on the gas pedal. Suddenly, a car cut in front of us aggressively. I quickly turned on my hazard lights to warn them, but they charged ahead without any reaction.
I jerked the steering wheel to one side, and the front of the car crashed into the roadside safety barrier.
Mary in the back seat screamed in fright, holding my daughter tightly.
Fortunately, I braked in time. The car only lightly hit the stone pillar without serious damage. But I couldn't hold it together anymore—tears burst forth like a dam breaking.
All the grievances, anger, and sadness accumulated over these years crashed through all my defenses like this torrential rain.
I collapsed over the steering wheel, crying uncontrollably. Mary called from behind: "Ma'am, we still need to get to the hospital! Mia's fever is getting worse!"
Yes, I still had my daughter.
I reversed the car and continued driving to the hospital.
At the hospital, I carried my daughter out of the car and rushed inside.
During the blood test, Mia was unconscious, struggling and refusing to let them prick her finger.
I had to hold her hand down firmly, watching her cry heartbreakingly. My heart felt like it was being torn apart.
The doctor said it was a viral infection—not just one, but at least seven explosive viruses. The chest CT showed both lungs were infected, developing into white lung syndrome.
"The child's condition is very serious. We recommend immediate lung lavage surgery," the doctor said gravely.
Mary beside me was terrified: "What? Can such a small child undergo lung lavage?"
I took the CT scan from the doctor and examined it carefully.
The doctor looked at me with some surprise: "Miss, you can understand this?"
I nodded and made the decision: "Once her fever breaks, please arrange the lung lavage surgery immediately."
Mary asked quietly: "Ma'am, shouldn't we discuss this with your husband?"
I looked down at Mia burning with fever in my arms, stroking her forehead, my voice firm: "No need."
I had already made my decision.
Three days later, Mia had just finished surgery. I stayed by her bedside constantly, watching her pale little face, my heart clenching repeatedly.
Then my phone lit up with a message.
"Something wrong?"
Just two words, cold and aloof, as if everything had nothing to do with him.
I didn't reply.
In the water room, Mary's phone rang. It was him.
"Is something wrong at home?" His voice was as calm as always.
Mary paused: "No... nothing wrong, sir. Are you in the country?"
"Yes."
"Then... you carry on with your work. Nothing's wrong at home, don't worry."
After hanging up, Mary muttered quietly, not understanding why I wouldn't let her tell him what had happened these past few days—when he was clearly in the country.
I held my daughter's small hand, my eyes red and painful. Even when I closed them, I couldn't sleep.
Suddenly, Mia seemed to have a nightmare, her little hands flailing: "Daddy... Aunt Linda, I'm scared, I'm scared..."
I quickly grabbed her little hand and soothed her gently: "Mommy's here."
But when Mia woke up and saw me, she huffily turned away: "I don't want Mommy. I want Aunt Linda."