Obsessed with My "Model" Billionaire Hubby

The midnight bell had long since tolled.

Ella Carter, an M1 medical student, was on the grim final leg of her journey home after a soul-crushing shift at the hotel.

The last bus and subway had quit hours ago, and to spare herself the outrageous taxi fare, she was taking the only option left: a shady shortcut through a few rarely traveled back alleys.

Her life was a predictable, exhausting triangle: campus, hotel, home.

Tired and broke—that was her brand.

All she wanted was to ditch her scrubs, collapse onto her pathetic mattress, and let the sweet oblivion of sleep take her.

Then, just as she rounded the final, pitch-black corner, a sticky, warm hand suddenly snatched her ankle.

“Agh!”

A scream died in her throat. Her heart was a frantic drum, ready to pound its way through her chest.

She instinctively looked down.

In the feeble, sickly yellow light of a distant lamppost, she saw him: A man, sprawled out, covered in blood.

The hand that had grabbed her was now weakly sliding away.

But all her attention instantly fixated on his face.

Even slathered in grime and crimson, his features were stunning.

Deep-set eyes (currently closed), a blade-straight nose, and eyebrows that looked like they were sculpted for a Roman statue.

A man so handsome he made you forget to breathe... or, you know, call 911.

But he was dying.

The dark shirt covering his abdomen was entirely soaked through, and a small, viscous pool of deep red was blooming beneath him.

This sight snapped Ella out of her sudden, inappropriate celebrity crush.

"H... help me..."

The man's groan was barely a whisper.

Ella's first instinct was pure medical ethics. Her thumb hovered over the emergency dial button on her phone.

"No... don't call the police..."

He must have sensed her intention. He strained, tightening his grip on her ankle.

"If you call them, we... will both die."

What in the midnight movie plot does that even mean?

Her brain screamed, "SOS."

Danger! Leave him!

Pretend you saw a particularly handsome pile of trash and walk away!

He was a life-threatening, apartment-cluttering problem with great cheekbones.

But if she abandoned him, this man would be dead from blood loss by sunrise.

And she was the sole, inconvenient witness.

How would she explain ignoring a human being bleeding out in the street?

Logic was fighting her inherited Dumb Hero Gene.

Time ticked. His breathing grew shallower.

"Fine. Conscience, you win this round." Mom didn't raise her to be a heartless monster.

With a sigh of utter defeat, her medical training took over.

She dropped to her knees, tore off a strip of her own (now probably ruined) shirt, and wrapped it tight around his bleeding abdomen. Then, she hoisted his arm over her slender shoulder, straining to haul his high, heavy body.

He was all muscle and sheer bulk.

She half-dragged, half-carried him, every step threatening to dislocate something vital in her own frame.

The old building her apartment was in had no elevator. Three flights of stairs suddenly felt like an unclimbable Mount Everest.

She gritted her teeth, inching up, level by agonizing level.

His body thudded repeatedly against the narrow railing, and each dull knock made Ella's heart race, terrified of rousing a grumpy neighbor.

By the time she fumbled the key into her apartment door, she was an emotional and physical wreck.

THWUMP.

She dumped the man onto the wooden floor, collapsing right beside him, gasping for air.

Sweat, and possibly a few stress-induced tears, tracked paths down her temples.

The apartment was a pitiful shoebox—one bedroom, one cramped living area.

The man's massive frame now fully occupied the narrow corridor, leaving her almost nowhere to stand.

After less than sixty seconds of recovery, Ella scrambled up.

She grabbed the ancient first-aid kit her mother had left her from the closet, knelt down, and finally felt a tiny flicker of professional calm at the sight of the familiar surgical tools.

She took the scissors and sliced open his blood-drenched shirt.

The sight of the wound, when fully exposed, made her suck in a sharp breath.

It was a jagged, messy, everted edge—unlike any cut she'd ever seen.

The tissue surrounding it was a horrifying mess of damage.

She used a swab to carefully clean the edges, but the blood kept relentlessly welling up from the deep center.

This is too much. I can't handle this. I need a hospital.

She fumbled across his body, desperately searching for ID, a wallet, a phone—anything. Nothing. He was utterly devoid of documentation or cash.

Sending a John Doe to the ER was a non-starter.

Then, that demonic voice returned. "If you call the police, we will both die."

The hospital would call the police.

Would she be implicated? As an accomplice?

Ella was frantic.

Marcus!

She snatched her phone and dialed the number she knew by heart.

Dr. Marcus Bennett—her father's best friend, the Chief of Emergency Medicine at a public hospital, and a part-time professor at her own medical school.

He was the one elder she could trust, no questions asked.

The phone quickly connected.

"Ella? It's late. What's wrong?"

Dr. Marcus's familiar, gentle voice came through the receiver.

"Uncle Marcus, I… I have a problem. A huge problem. Could you possibly come to my apartment right now?"

The trembling and tears in her voice were undeniable.

He heard the panic. Without a single follow-up question, his tone became instantly professional and steady. "Wait for me. I'm on my way."

Those twenty minutes were the longest of Ella's entire life.

She paced, checked the man's pulse, and held her breath, convinced he was going to expire before Marcus arrived.

Finally, the bell rang.

Dr. Marcus, carrying his heavy professional kit, walked in and stopped dead.

His perpetually jolly face froze at the sight of the man on the floor and the sheer quantity of blood. But decades of clinical experience kicked in. He calmly rushed over, kneeling beside the man.

"Gunshot," he stated after one quick glance.

"A gunshot?!" Ella gasped.

She'd foolishly assumed a knife, a baseball bat—something pedestrian.

This was real-life, honest-to-God bullet trauma.

The kind of thing that only happened in gritty dramas, not her tiny, overpriced apartment.

"Luckily, the bullet seems to have passed through. It's a clean exit, or he wouldn't be with us."

He finished, peeled off the bloody gloves, and pulled Ella aside, dropping his voice to a serious whisper.

Gloves, suture kit, disinfectant—his movements were quick, practiced, and efficient. Clean, stitch, sterilize, and bandage. Done.

He finished by checking the man's other injuries.

"He has multiple impact contusions, and... based on the look of it, he was also nearly drowned. The hypoxia and direct trauma to the eye area will cause temporary blindness."

"Ella, you have to tell me where you got this man.

A target of a gun attack? Bringing him here—do you have any idea how much danger you're in?"

Before Ella could even begin her explanation, a slight rustle of fabric came from the living room.

Both of them snapped their heads around. The man, now on the bed, was awake.

He instinctively reached up to tear off the thick gauze wrapped around his eyes.

"Don't move!"

Ella shot across the room, gently but firmly restraining his hand.

"You're safe. Your wounds have been treated. Your eyes are temporarily blind, but you will recover. Just stay calm."

Her voice was soothing and professional.

He stilled. His impossibly handsome, bandaged face turned directly toward the sound of her voice.

Even sightless, Ella felt the weight of an invisible, predatory intensity fall over her, making it hard to breathe.

His lips moved. His voice, dark and husky, was the first thing he'd uttered since she'd dragged him in.

"Who are you?"

The man she had just saved—exhausting herself and risking a visit from an actual murderer—had the audacity to demand who she was?

“Who am I? You’re asking me who I am?!”

Ella was so angry, she laughed. “I’m the person who just saved your life, you ungrateful…!”

All the pent-up fear, exhaustion, and righteous indignation from the night finally exploded.

“You heartless piece of shit! Do you know how much effort it took to drag your entire existence out of that dark hole? My bones are practically dust.”

“I treated your wounds, found a doctor, gave you my bed, and I haven’t even had a sip of water all night! And the first thing you do is ask who I am?!”

“I am your savior! Got that? Savior!”

Ella finished her tirade, her throat burning and her eyes smarting with tears of pure frustration.

Facing her hurricane of accusations, the man on the bed remained silent.

It was true. He had no idea where he was or who this woman was.

His mind was already back in the bloody hellscape of a few hours ago, reliving the moments just before he lost consciousness.

His grandfather’s confidant had revealed that his uncle, Theodore, taking advantage of Elias's long absence abroad and the older man's hospitalization, had been systematically siphoning off family assets.

Theodore, clearly, had been waiting to pounce on the family inheritance.

An encrypted message had urgently summoned him from overseas. He was the designated heir, rushing back to take over domestic operations.

Only yesterday, he had been sitting in his grandfather Hugo Astor's study, accepting a file of the family's secret affairs.

"Elias, you are the Astor family's last hope."

His grandfather's words still echoed in his mind.

Today, he had walked out of the corporate tower and into the familiar black armored sedan.

Until a black van smashed into them suddenly from the side and rear.

The impact sent the car lurching. Old John wrestled the wheel, the tires screaming in protest.

"Hold tight, Master!"

The van stayed glued to their tail, tearing recklessly through the busy city streets.

Eitel, the bodyguard in the passenger seat, yelled, "It's a trap! They're trying to corner us on the bridge!"

Before the words were out, “BANG!”

A heavy thud.

A bullet struck the armored rear window, instantly spreading spider-web cracks.

Then, a flurry of rapid gunshots.

Eitel reported. "They're using armor-piercing rounds, Master Elias. The glass won't hold!"

Eitel leaned out and returned fire.

Elias's heart sank.

Military-grade armor-piercing rounds—they weren't trying to capture him. They were trying to kill him.

BAM!

A deafening roar. Eitel slumped, taking a direct hit.

Then, a second shot, another BAM!

"Get down, Master Elias!"

Liam, the other bodyguard, reacted instantly, tackling him and shielding him completely.

"Run, Master Elias! Go!"

Old John, the driver, glanced back, his eyes full of resolute loyalty.

The next second, the bulletproof glass finally failed. A round pierced the rear shield and tore into the back of Old John.

The car spun wildly, completely out of control, before slamming into the guardrail.

The car door blew open, and Liam, the bodyguard lying over him, roared with his dying breath, "Stay alive!"

He was kicked out of the wreck by Liam.

The sound of a bullet ripping through Liam's flesh exploded in his ears.

His body arced through the air, and a searing pain erupted in his abdomen.

He'd been hit.

Elias plunged into the raging river below.

Yet, even as he hit the water, he'd caught a familiar name from the hitmen's comms.

—Nathan.

His cousin. The one his father had always described as "the poor boy whose father died young."

Of course. His uncle Theodore had allied himself with his cousin Nathan, who had ties to overseas black-market organizations.

The agony of the gunshot wound and the suffocating panic of drowning nearly destroyed his will to live.

Operating purely on instinct, he allowed the current to carry him downstream until he crawled onto the bank—and clamped onto a warm, slender ankle.

Betrayal.

Hunted.

Death.

The brutal reality made him tremble.

No. He couldn't stay here.

Theodore and Nathan had tried to kill him once; they wouldn't stop.

If they couldn't find him, their next move would be to threaten his grandfather!

The thought was enough to shatter Elias Astor's composure.

He had to get back!

Groping around, he tried to swing his legs over the side of the bed.

A bolt of pain made him gasp, but he clenched his jaw and pushed through it.

His foot hit the floor, landing squarely on something soft, lumpy, and unstable, making him stumble.

“What are you doing! Stop moving!”

Ella jumped, rushing forward to steady him.

“You're going to rip your stitches!”

“What is this thing?”

Elias’s voice was clipped with irritation. He hated this lack of control. "Why is it just lying on the floor?"

His entitled, demanding tone instantly reignited the anger Ella had just managed to suppress.

“What thing? My stuffed toy, thank you very much!”

She snapped back, "It's because of you! You're so tall that your enormous body takes up my whole bed! I had to put all my precious babies on the floor, and now you, you cruel, ungrateful man, have stomped on one of them!"

Growing more indignant, Ella bent down to pick up the squashed, crown-wearing frog plushie, tenderly dusting off the filth.

Elias was speechless.

A stuffed toy?

This... object...

"Apologies," he managed stiffly.

Elias's resolve to leave was firm.

"I have to go now." He braced himself against the edge of the bed.

"Leave me your contact information. When this is over, I will give you a substantial amount of money. You will be compensated."

The high-and-mighty tone—the one that solved all problems with cash.

Ella curled her lip.

"Please. Like I'd take money from a half-dead..."

She was going to say 'hobo,' but decided that was too mean, and swallowed the rest of the sentence.

As they stood there, frozen in mutual irritation, the old television set in the corner—which Ella had forgotten was on—cut in with an emergency news flash.

"Breaking news: A serious shooting incident occurred three hours ago in the city's western riverfront district. Police have sealed off the scene..."

Riverfront district?

That was practically her backyard.

Ella's heart thumped hard. She instinctively glanced at the man on her bed.

The screen switched to a reporter standing outside the crime tape, with flashing blue lights and busy officers in the background.

The man's body gave a visible start.

Before Ella could process that, a second news alert immediately popped up.

"The Astor family announced today the mysterious disappearance of their sole designated heir, Mr. Elias Astor, shortly after his discreet return to the country. The Astor family is offering a massive reward for information leading to his whereabouts."

The announcer paused, seemingly stunned by the number himself.

"The reward amount is... Ten Million US Dollars."

Ten million... dollars?

Ella's brain went completely blank. She was stunned.

She slowly walked to the bedside, looked down at his pale face, and sighed, half to herself, half in jest.

"Hey, listen..."

"I'm just saying, if you were that mysteriously missing heir, Elias Astor, that would be amazing."

Having said it, she immediately burst into laughter at the ridiculous notion.

The atmosphere instantly became bizarrely charged.

He knew the truth.

She, and only she, was blissfully oblivious.

She entirely missed the almost imperceptible clench of his fingers on the bedsheets after she spoke.

Ella was still deep in her fantasy, counting on her fingers and muttering.

"Ten million dollars..."

"Send you back, and that reward money is enough for several lifetimes. No more med school, no more horrible jobs!"

Her eyes shone with the purest form of desire—an unconcealed yearning born of poverty.

"I could buy a deluxe penthouse downtown, sleep in every day, eat whatever I want, and never have to walk through a terrifying alley again just to save bus fare."

She was so lost in the vision, a goofy, dreamy smile spread across her face.

"Or..." she pivoted, hitting on an even more practical idea.

"Or, the Astor family could just make me a hotel manager. That works too."

The Hillman Hotel where she worked was, after all, an Astor property.

She was completely sick of the housekeeping manager who constantly talked down to her.

"Yes! Manager it is!"

She pumped a fist in the air. "The first thing I'd do is fire that asshole manager!"

Elias listened silently.

She spoke so candidly about selling him, about using that absurd reward to fund her meager little future—it was almost amusing.

Absurd. Ridiculous.

He didn't know why, but the tension that had kept him on edge all night seemed to melt away at that moment.