Divorced: The Hidden King Rises

Ch. 3 - Unless He's Dead, Don't Bother Me

The night wind cut like a blade of ice.

Ryan walked down the street, his shadow stretching long and desolate under the yellow glow of the streetlights.

He instinctively reached into his pocket.

Aside from a pack of cigarettes soaked in sweat, there was only an old, battered wallet.

He opened it. A few crumpled bills lay inside, along with a photo of him and Elise on their wedding anniversary.

In the picture, the girl was radiant. The light in her eyes was so pure it made his heart ache.

Ryan's lips curled into a self-deprecating smirk.

Rip.

With a sudden jerk of his fingers, the photo tore in half. He let the pieces go, watching the wind sweep them into the dark abyss of a sewer.

He didn't even have enough for a decent hotel.

This month's salary hadn't come in yet.

And his previous paychecks? They had all been deposited directly into Elise's card.

He pulled out his phone, intending to call an old friend for a place to crash, but his gaze was caught by a towering red glow in the distance.

The city center.

The "Starshine Hyatt."

The entire skyscraper looked like a massive piece of burning charcoal, roaring against the backdrop of the night.

It was a flash fire. The firefighting forces on the scene were clearly overwhelmed. Even from two blocks away, the screams were deafening.

Adrenaline surged through Ryan. It was an instinct carved into his very bones.

He didn't hesitate.

Gripping his tattered duffel bag, he sprinted toward the towering wall of flame.

…..

Outside the presidential suite on the top floor of the Hyatt, the smoke was so thick he couldn't see his hand in front of his face.

Nicholas Wells, one of the capital titans who held the city's lifeblood in his hands, slumped against the end of the hallway.

His secretary had been knocked unconscious by a collapsing chandelier. Nicholas himself was pinned under a fallen beam, his leg crushed. He couldn't move.

"Is this it?" he whispered, a bitter smile touching his lips. "Is Nicholas Wells going to die here?"

Thick smoke surged into his lungs. His consciousness began to drift.

Suddenly, a dark figure burst through the haze.

Ryan wasn't wearing an oxygen tank. He had only a wet towel pressed against his face.

Seeing the trapped man, Ryan's eyes narrowed. His muscles coiled like springs, exploding with sudden, terrifying power.

"Heave!"

He roared. Veins bulged in his arms as he forced the heavy beam upward, just enough to create an opening.

"Move! Now!"

Ryan hoisted the man onto his back.

The sheer effort caused the burns on his own back to split open again. Blood instantly soaked through his scorched uniform.

The stairwell had collapsed. Amidst the thunderous roar of explosions, Ryan shielded the man's head with his own body and leaped from a second-story window.

The moment they hit the ground, Ryan acted as the man's cushion.

Thud.

The massive impact forced a spray of blood from Ryan's mouth. His vision began to blur.

In the final second before he blacked out, he caught a glimpse of the man's face.

He looked familiar. Like the Nicholas Wells he had seen from a distance once.

The head of the Wells family—one of the four Great Houses of the city.

…..

St. Mary's Hospital. Outside the emergency room.

Nicholas had escaped with only minor scratches. He didn't even care about his own bandages; his eyes were glued to the closed operating room doors.

"Doctor, how is he?"

"The patient has several fractures, but those aren't the main concern. He'll recover from them," the doctor said, his expression grim as he stepped out. "The real issue is the massive blood loss. We need to operate immediately."

"But he has no ID on him. We need a family member to sign the consent forms. Furthermore, his blood type is extremely rare. Our blood bank is running dry. We need a relative for an immediate directed donation."

Nicholas's face darkened. He barked an order to his men: "Go! Go through his phone! Find his closest contact!"

A bodyguard quickly handed over a phone with a shattered screen.

In the contact list, there was only one name pinned at the top. Two words: [Baby].

Nicholas took a deep breath and dialed the number himself.

It rang for a long time before someone picked up. Elise's voice came through, dripping with impatience. In the background, smooth blues music played softly.

"Ryan, I told you, this trick is pathetic."

Elise's voice was like frost, filled with a contempt that suggested she had seen through everything.

"Giving in already, Ryan? Then get your ass back here. I thought you could last until morning, but it's only been a few hours. Typical."

Nicholas froze. He glanced at the emergency room, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly low pitch.

"Are you Ryan Sinclair's wife? He saved my life and is currently in critical condition. He's in surgery. We need you here to sign the forms and donate blood."

"Critical condition? In surgery?"

Elise paused, surprised that it wasn't Ryan on the other end.

Then, she let out a cold, mocking laugh. He could even hear her turning to speak to someone next to her.

"Justin, look at this. Just to make me feel guilty, he actually made up 'critical condition.' Do men these days even try to make their lies believable? He even got a friend to play along."

Elise's voice returned to the phone, sharp with loathing.

"Tell Ryan to stop acting. He's tough as nails. He didn't die in the fire, so why is he faking weakness now?"

"You want me to come over? Only if he's actually dead. Otherwise, this kind of self-harm stunt for attention only makes me despise him more."

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The call was cut off.

Nicholas's hand trembled as he gripped the phone. His eyes, usually as calm as still water, were now burning with fury.

"A self-harm stunt?"

Nicholas looked at the bags of blood-soaked clothes being wheeled out of the operating room. His voice was hoarse with rage.

"He nearly gave his life to save people, and his wife says he's acting?"

At that moment, several fully geared firefighters rushed in. The captain grabbed the doctor's arm.

"How's Ryan? He's the hero of our squad! You have to save him!"

The doctor sighed and began checking the patient's file.

"Ryan Sinclair. Twenty-eight years old. Hometown..."

"Wait, where is he from?" Nicholas caught the word instantly.

"The records show he transferred here from the Capital Twenty years ago. Due to a non-disclosure agreement, we haven't cleared his full background yet..."

Nicholas's pupils contracted. A memory, buried for twenty years, exploded in his mind.

Twenty years ago. The most powerful clan in the Capital...

Calculated by age, he would be exactly twenty-eight!

The name. The structure of his jaw. That calm, indifferent look in his eyes even in the face of death.

Nicholas's hand began to shake violently. He reached into his coat and pulled out a cherished, ancient photograph.

In the photo, a woman of extraordinary grace held a small boy.

The boy's eyes matched the blood-covered man on the hospital bed perfectly.

"It's him... could it really be him?!"

Nicholas spun around, his gaze so intense it frightened the doctor.

"Save him! Save him at any cost!"

He became suddenly, wildly emotional.

The doctors and firefighters watched in shock as tears actually began to stream down the tycoon's face.

"No wonder... no wonder you carried that innate nobility..."

"And that selfless spirit... you have to be the one I've been looking for."

"Contact every other hospital immediately! Transfer blood from everywhere! There has to be some!"