The Arrogant Billionaire Ignored His Wife's Desperate Cries for Help — Until He Found the Ultrasound Sitting Next to the Bloody Bathtub

For forty-eight agonizing hours, Marcus paced the blood-stained penthouse like a caged animal. He refused to sleep. He refused to eat.

Finally, the Security Chief walked into the room, holding a decrypted tablet.

"We found her, sir," the Chief announced. "She didn't use a commercial airline. She used the bearer bonds to charter a completely off-the-books private jet from a small airfield in New Jersey. The plane landed four hours ago on a remote, private island in the Caribbean. We have the exact coordinates of the villa."

Marcus didn't hesitate. "Prep my jet. Arm the men. We leave in twenty minutes."

Twelve hours later, under the cover of a warm, tropical night, Marcus’s tactical team surrounded a stunning, heavily guarded luxury villa overlooking the ocean.

Marcus walked up to the heavy wooden front doors. He didn't knock. He kicked the door open with massive force, stepping into the beautifully lit, breezy living room.

He had his gun drawn, expecting to find Natalie injured, weeping, or surrounded by heavily armed mercenaries.

Instead, he froze.

Sitting on a plush white sofa, bathed in the moonlight streaming through the open balcony doors, was Natalie. She was wearing a beautiful, flowing white silk dress. She didn't look pale. She didn't look injured. She looked incredibly healthy, radiant, and perfectly calm.

She was casually sipping a cup of warm tea.