She followed him for seven years out of gratitude, feeling lucky to marry him. When his mistress claimed she had cancer and only six months to live, he handed her divorce papers. "It's only for show. We'll remarry in six months." Her heart died. She resolved to make the fake divorce real and restart her life.
=====
"Let's get a divorce. She has stomach cancer and has only six months left to live."
After their in**mate encounter, Brandon Watson sat up and said in a detached voice.
Millie Bennett, still breathing hard from the encounter, turned to him slowly, a wild look of disbelief in her eyes.
They had been married for a year. What did he mean by suddenly saying he wanted a divorce?
"Her final wish is to be my wife," Brandon added, almost offhandedly.
He said, lighting a ci**rette. The sm**e rose in slow spirals around his face.
Millie gawked at him, stunned. Silence spread across the room like mist.
The bedside lamp glowed faintly, casting long shadows across the wall, making them seem farther apart than they were.
Brandon glanced at her and gave a faint frown.
"It's only to comfort her," he explained. "We'll remarry after six months. She won't be here long, Millie."
His voice was steady, almost detached, like someone passing along a message that didn't concern him.
Millie watched Brandon wordlessly, her eyes fixed on his profile.
He spoke like his words were instructions, not suggestions.
Their relationship had always been one-sided. She had chased it from the start, drawn in by youthful affection.
She had stayed by his side for years, moving through each rough season without letting go.
Millie still remembered that day, under the heavy rain that soaked them both, Brandon had stood between her and her stepfather, gripping a cracked stick, and said with fire in his voice, "Touch Millie again, and you'll regret it."
That moment had etched itself into her heart. Even when she was weak and bl**ding, she saw him--unmoving, protective, fierce.
From that point on, she was his.
She loved him without pause, met his requests with everything she had, carrying them out more flawlessly than anyone else ever could.
He would always pat her head, light and warm, and say in a low voice, "You did so well, Millie."
But Brandon's praises never lasted, his ki**es barely stayed, and whatever affection they shared always felt just out of reach. But Millie told herself it was just how he was.
Even when others called her naive, she stayed--devoted and trusting.
She had given seven years of her life to him.
A year earlier, Brandon's grandfather, Derek Watson, had fallen into poor health. The family, hoping to lift his spirits, decided Brandon should marry.
Perhaps the joy of a wedding would give the old man something to hold on to.
So Brandon went on to marry Millie.
She thought it was finally their moment. But after the vows, something changed. He began to pull away. Sometimes, he looked at her like she was a stranger.
"Millie, are you listening?" Brandon scowled as he caught the far-off look in Millie's eyes.
"Does it have to be like this?" she asked softly.
He didn't answer. Instead, he said, "She's going through so much, Millie."
Millie's ch**t tightened. "And what about me?"
Brandon didn't answer right away. His eyes, dark and steady, flickered with a trace of impatience.
Then, after about three seconds, he said, "Millie, she's dying. Maybe you don't know, but she's in love with me. Because we were married, and she didn't want to hurt you, she never let things go too far between us. Even when I tried to make it up to her, she never let me. She's a good person. Please, let her have this. Don't make me think you're being heartless."
His words, spoken so calmly, pierced her more than if he had shouted.
So in Brandon's eyes, a woman in love with a married man, who promised to hold back but never really let go, was a saint.
And a wife who simply wanted to keep her husband to herself was heartless.
Millie stared at his face. The same face she had fallen for--intense eyes, prominent nose, beautiful lips.
When had things started to crumble?
Maybe it was the day the woman showed up.
"Are you sure this is what you want?" Millie asked, steadying herself.
Brandon said nothing, pursing his lips.
Finally, he opened his mouth to respond. "Yes, you--"
"Alright." Millie cut him off before he could finish.
Brandon looked up, clearly surprised. He frowned, studying her closely.
"Millie, you're getting clever," he said, a flicker of irritation in his voice. "You know I need your consent to go through with it. Are you thinking of using it to get under my skin?"
Millie didn't answer. She just stared at the white wall, watching how their shadows stretched.
Brandon put out his ci**rette andsaid no more, pulling on his clothes quickly and storming out.
He didn't stop to consider how she felt. Nor did he pause to acknowledge how humiliating or painful his request was.
He knew she couldn't leave him.
He was utterly sure about that.
The door slammed shut behind him.
And just like that, Millie was alone.
She sat motionless by the bed, staring at the door as if it might open again.
Her phone buzzed beside her.
A message lit up the screen.
She picked up the phone.
It was from a familiar number. "He came to see me again."
The text came with a photo. Brandon's face was captured in the reflection of a glass door, a soft smile playing on his lips, eyes warm in a way Millie had never seen.
She froze. Then, slowly, she scrolled upward through the previous messages. "He said he has feelings for me."
"Rainy nights aren't lonely for me because he's here with me. What about you?"
"The one who isn't loved is truly the other woman. Millie, you were never his first choice; you were just the one he settled for. He sees beauty the way I do, shares my taste in things, and he loves me."
The messages continued that way, proving Brandon's betrayal.
The man who had always treated her with distance these past seven years had apparently mastered tenderness for someone else.
Millie kept scrolling until she reached the very first message. "You should know who I am. Do you like the flowers in your living room today? I sent them. He said they were beautiful."
Of course, Millie knew who it was.
Vivian Simpson, the famous floral designer known for filling her wealthy clients' grand villas and lavish parties with carefully and beautifully arranged blooms.
Millie had shown Brandon the messages before. He'd brushed them off and said there was no proof they were from Vivian.
He had even said maybe Millie sent them herself just to stir trouble. Most of the messages didn't have pictures, and the few that did were vague--taken from afar, hard to pin down.
But not today's. Today's was clear.
Millie thought about showing him the photo. Then her eyes drifted toward the bedside drawer. She reached down and pulled it open.
There it was. The pr**nancy test result she'd gotten earlier that day.
She was pr**nant with Brandon's child. At the worst possible moment.
Her tears fell, soaking the paper and smudging the ink.
But what did it matter anymore? Brandon's heart had been gone for a long time.
Millie wiped her face dry and picked up the lighter he'd left behind. Flames flickered as she held the test result to the fire.
Brandon had no idea that saying yes to the divorce would be the final thing she'd ever do for him.
She had given him back what she owed--not in money, but in seven full years of her life.
She would never love him again.
Chapter 2 Terminate The Pregnancy
The next day, parked just outside the courthouse, Brandon sat in his Maybach, quietly tapping the steering wheel with his left hand.
"Brandon, you and Millie have been married for a year now. Don't you think it's time to start planning for a baby?" An elderly voice drifted from the phone's speaker.
Brandon's face softened, a trace of frustration flickering through, but his patience didn't waver.
"Grandma, we're still young. There's no need to rush. You and Grandpa should focus on staying healthy. He..."
"What do you mean by 'There's no need to rush'?" The elderly voice rose in annoyance.
"Your grandfather's condition might have improved, but we're not getting any younger. We don't know how much time we've got left."
"Grandma..."
"Don't give me that! I've heard things, Brandon. Whatever's going on, be good to Millie."
Silence fell over the line for a few seconds.
"Brandon, did you hear me?" the elder asked.
Brandon rubbed his forehead in frustration. "I understand, Grandma."
They exchanged a few more words before he ended the call.
Brandon resumed tapping the steering wheel with his fingers, this time slower, more distracted. He stared through the windshield toward the courthouse.
He clenched his jaw. Then, he opened the messaging app on his phone.
His thumb hovered over a familiar profile picture--a simple floral image, tagged "My Love." He skipped past it and opened the thread with Millie.
The last message he'd sent her simply reminded her of the time and place to meet for the divorce.
She still hadn't shown up.
With a scowl, Brandon sent a new message. "Where are you?"
A knock on the window followed almost instantly. He turned to see Millie standing outside, her face a little pale.
She opened the door and slipped into the passenger seat, giving him a blank look.
He hadn't changed out of yesterday's clothes--the same ones she had picked out for him.
Through the years, it had always been her--choosing his ties, picking his cologne, arranging every detail down to the fit of his tailored shirts and suits.
"Why are you late?" Brandon asked.
Millie looked away.
"I'm not late," she said quietly.
She was simply no longer the girl who would always arrive early and wait for him without thinking.
Brandon's fingers stilled against the wheel. His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied her.
Millie looked a little pale, maybe from a sleepless night after he mentioned the divorce last night.
Still, she looked fine.
"My grandma called earlier," Brandon muttered, looking away. "Don't tell them about the divorce. They're too old to handle something like that."
Millie didn't respond right away. Instead, she asked, "What did your grandma say?"
"She wants us to have a baby," Brandon said flatly, a flicker of irritation slipping into his voice.
Silence settled in the car.
After a while, Millie let out a small soft laugh.
Brandon curled his hand into a fist and turned his face to the window.
There were moments when he used to imagine what their child might look like.
He remembered holding her from behind, pressing a hand gently over her belly, whispering, "Millie, when will you give me a baby?"
But it hadn't happened.
Anyway, they could always remarry in six months and start planning for a baby. There would still be enough time.
Vivian, however, only had six months left.
Outside, passers-by came and went.
Then Millie spoke up. "Just once more, Brandon. Are you completely sure you want to go through with the divorce?"
"Having second thoughts?" Brandon barked, looking genuinely upset.
Vivian was still waiting for him at the studio.
After confirming once more, Millie didn't say another word. She reached into her bag, pulled out a document, and handed it to Brandon.
He took it with a frown, flipping through the pages. It was a property division agreement.
"If we're getting divorced," she said, "we should make everything clear. I'll only take what I'm entitled to from the Watson family. And from this moment on, anything either of us earns belongs to us individually."
Then Millie pulled out a pen and placed it beside him.
"If that's okay with you, just sign it."
Brandon's eyes stayed on the document, but his frown deepened as he read.
The agreement was too simple. She really wasn't asking for much. And her signature was already there.
He didn't get it.
What was she trying to do? It was basically just a fake divorce.
Vivian only had six months left. He planned to spend those months by her side. After that, he'd return to Millie--no one else needed to know the divorce ever happened.
To him, Millie had always seemed blindly loyal.
Brandon had never thought of her as someone with pride or boundaries.
There was a time he'd grown bored of her, pushing her into things that chipped away at her pride on purpose.
But Millie never declined.
She'd still return with a soft smile, holding out the results like a trophy. "Brandon, look--I did it. Isn't it great?"
She was a good wife. Meek. Obedient. For seven years, he'd seen it play out over and over.
If it weren't for Vivian, their marriage probably would have gone on like that.
But...
A flash of memory--Vivian, weak and coughing bl**d, still trying to smile--stabbed at his ch**t. The pain was raw and unshakable.
Brandon looked outside the car window again.
Millie's reflection stared back at him--blank, expressionless.
Was this her way of threatening him?
After all, she had once faked messages to frame Vivian.
She hated Vivian.
Chuckling dryly, Brandon picked up the pen and signed his name.
No one could force his hand. Not even her.
There were two copies of the agreement.
Millie calmly took her copy after he signed both.
They both stepped out of the car and headed into the courthouse. Together, they filed for divorce.
Next time they came back here, they would finalize everything and collect the official decree.
Once all the formalities were done, the two of them stepped out of the courthouse together.
The sun was already blazing, and the warmth settled on Millie's skin.
Brandon scanned the people moving about.
It wasn't hard to tell the couples getting married from those getting divorced. Some people chose to have their weddings at the courthouse.
A couple walked by, hand in hand.
The woman's smile triggered something in Brandon. He remembered that same look on Millie's face a year ago, when they first got married.
Brandon glanced over at Millie, but her face was blank.
"I'll keep transferring money to your account during the next six months," he said. "And don't say anything to my grandparents."
He didn't wait for a reply. Just turned and walked off.
Millie stood there quietly, watching his car disappear around the corner.
Her cab arrived not long after.
And then, the two cars went opposite directions.
One turned toward Vivian Floral Design.
The other headed for Crobert Hospital.
Brandon walked into Vivian's studio, where she greeted him with a gentle smile.
He told her, "It's done. She didn't make a scene."
Meanwhile, Millie stepped into the ob-gyn wing and quietly sat opposite the doctor.
The doctor reached over and pulled the curtain
"Millie... are you sure you want to terminate the pr**nancy?" Her best friend and doctor, Alexia Hussain, looked at her with concern.
"You were so determined to have a baby. You even worked so hard to get yourself ready for co**eption..."
Millie reached into her bag and placed the divorce filing receipt on the side table.
"Yes," she replied calmly. "Let's terminate it. I don't want it anymore."
Chapter 3 Signs Of Miscarriage
Alexia stared at the filing receipt, surprised.
She and Millie had been close friends for more than ten years, and in all that time, Alexia had seen just how hard Millie loved Brandon.
There was a time Millie could have died for him, and nobody would have questioned it.
They got married a year ago. Alexia had smiled at the wedding, even though something about their pairing felt off.
But still, Millie had gotten what she wanted. That had been enough for Alexia.
Now this...
What had happened?
"I don't love him anymore," Millie said, before Alexia could ask.
She looked over and gave a small, calm smile.
In that smile, Alexia caught a glimpse of the old Millie--the one from before everything collapsed, before grief carved deep lines into her, before her father's death and the fall of the Bennett family changed her.
It brought Alexia a strange sense of calm.
"Brandon doesn't know I'm pr**nant," Millie said calmly. "And before the divorce becomes final, I don't want to take any risks. It's better if he doesn't know."
If either party changed their mind before the divorce was finalized, they could take back the application, and the procedure would no longer go through.
And that was when Alexia knew that Millie wasn't playing around about divorcing Brandon.
After taking it all in, Alexia did what needed to be done: she booked Millie's medical tests and then advised carefully, "Wait a few days before the surgery."
Millie frowned in confusion. "Why?"
"You know your bl**d type--Rh-negative. It's rare. We need time to prepare bl**d, just in case. I've already contacted the bl**d bank. They said it might take a week."
Millie went quiet. The sadness in her eyes was unmistakable.
She had gotten that bl**d type from her father. And now she missed him all over again.
If he were still here...
"Okay." Millie nodded slowly. A smile tugged at her lips, but her eyes turned red.
"You also have early signs of mi**arriage. You need to be careful these next few days," Alexia added, her voice full of concern.
They'd grown up together, and Alexia knew Millie's sadness too well.
She held Millie's hand. "Wait for me. My shift's almost over. I'll go home with you."
Millie nodded, and then went to wait in the hallway.
She looked down at her stomach.
Early signs of mi**arriage.
Did the baby know what she'd decided and want to leave first?
Pursing her lips, Millie walked toward the lab for the tests.
Her phone buzzed. It was a bank notification.
She had opened a new account--one that Brandon wouldn't know about. She was keeping her money cleanly separate before the divorce was finalized.
Every cent she earned from now on would live in that account.
A second message followed. "Payment for composition and lyrics has been completed. Finance has sent the transfer. Kindly confirm."
Before she married Brandon, Millie had worked quietly as an anonymous songwriter.
Music had always been her first love. Back when her father was alive, life had been generous, and she lacked nothing.
As the Bennett family's only daughter, she had the freedom and the means to grow her gift.
The turns her life had taken had taught her things she hadn't known she needed to learn.
Maybe her father never thought that the pastime he once encouraged would one day be the very thing keeping her afloat.
Millie paused, and then typed back, "Money received. Thank you."
The reply came quickly. "It's what you deserve. You've written a lot of hits over the years. Why don't you return? There's a new show coming up. It fits you perfectly. I've sent details to your email. Reserved a contestant slot just for you."
Millie opened her email. A new message sat at the top, inviting her to join a music competition show.
The format was familiar, like others she had seen before, but this one wanted something original.
She typed out a quick reply. "I'll think about it."
Then she set her phone down. A light cramp curled in her lower belly.
She thought of her father again.
The second time today.
...
Meanwhile, the Internet was buzzing with updates.
#VivianSimpsonStomachCancer
#FloristVivianSimpsonCountdown
#LastSixMonths
The most trending post was a video featuring a reporter summarizing the news about Vivian.
"Sources confirm that the well-known floral designer, Vivian Simpson, has been diagnosed with stomach cancer. She's been given six months to live. But instead of retreating, she's choosing to document her remaining time--she wants to share her life with the world as it winds down."
The video cut to Vivian. She looked at the camera with a sad smile.
"In these last six months, I'll be posting updates about my life. I'm not doing it for attention. I just want to offer some comfort to others going through the same thing. I hope you all stay strong."
Then the reporter came back on screen.
"There have long been whispers about Miss Simpson and Mr. Brandon Watson, CEO of Watson Group. But Mr. Watson is married. It remains to be seen if he'll reconnect with Miss Simpson during her final months."
In the background, Vivian seemed to have heard that part. She stepped forward, stopped beside the reporter, and gently cut in.
She faced the camera.
"I'm not ashamed to say I like Brandon. He's an incredible man," she said. "I'm sure I'm not the only one who feels that way. But I want to make it clear--I'm not going to break up someone's marriage. That's not who I am."
Having said that, she walked off, leaving the reporter behind.
She wove through the small crowd with a smile and climbed into a waiting car.
The foreign caregiver from Flaville passed her a glass of water, hand paused in midair, unsure.
"You look like you want to say something," Vivian said, her voice cold. "Go ahead. The driver's one of ours."
The caregiver leaned in and lowered their voice. "Miss Simpson, your diagnosis... it's a stomach ulcer. Having our facility change that into cancer is already risky. But now you're sharing it with the public online?"
Vivian gave a sharp laugh, startling the caregiver.
"Your facility--is it a licensed medical facility?" she asked.
The caregiver nodded.
"And does it manage my medical record privately?"
The caregiver gave another nod.
"Is that what my medical record says--that I have six months left because of terminal stomach cancer?"
The caregiver hesitated before nodding again.
"Exactly!" Vivian leaned back with a smile. "It's official, then. No one can question it."
"But you don't actually have stomach cancer. What happens later..."
"There are two ways out," Vivian said, cutting in. Her voice was sharper now, her eyes harder. "One: I make a miraculous recovery during treatment at your facility or somewhere else, maybe because of all the love I've received. Two: your facility gets blamed for a diagnostic error and months of wrong treatment."
She turned her face fully to the caregiver, looking more intimidating. "Which option do you prefer?"
The caregiver looked panicked but forced out the words. "I'm sorry, Miss Simpson. I understand. You've already thought everything through."
Vivian gave a short, cold smile.
"Where should we go next, Miss Simpson?" the caregiver asked in an attempt to lighten the mood.
Vivian glanced at her phone. "Crobert Hospital."
The caregiver stiffened. "But--"
"Relax. I'm only going in for pain relief with my medical record," Vivian said, and then reached for her phone and sent Brandon a message, telling him to meet her at the hospital later.
Almost instantly, he replied, "Sure."
Meanwhile, Millie stood in the hospital restroom, a steady ache pulling at her lower stomach. In her hand was a tissue, the smear of bl**d clear against the white.
It was an early sign of a mi**arriage.
Chapter 4 She Would Have No Ties With Brandon
As Vivian made her way to Crobert Hospital, the Internet was filled with comments about her diagnosis. Her name appeared across countless threads.
"To be honest, I think Vivian's brave. She's clear about her feelings as well as boundaries. Quite impressive, actually."
"Exactly. A lot of people like Brandon. As long as she's not wrecking his marriage, her feelings are her own business."
"Her older videos and that livestream from Crest Villa gave me a glimpse into rich people's lives. It's sad she won't be around much longer."
"Who's Brandon's wife, though? She should just let him be with Vivian. The girl has only six months left."
"I know her. It's Millie Bennett, a musician. She stopped working after she got married and became a full-time housewife."
...
At Crobert Hospital, Millie's phone kept buzzing. Calls and messages came one after another.
Some people acted concerned. Others wanted information. A few tried to mock her. All of it was about Vivian and Brandon.
Millie had read just enough of the headlines to understand what was going on with Vivian's illness.
She didn't click on anything else.
It didn't matter anymore.
Once the divorce was finalized, Brandon would no longer be a part of her life.
She checked the time. When she looked up, she saw Alexia walking toward her.
"How are you feeling?" Alexia asked, concerned. "Any pain?" She saw the strain on Millie's face and, without needing to be asked, reached out to help her rise.
Millie gave a small smile and shook her head.
She had made up her mind. Some things simply had to be faced.
Alexia understood, but she just sighed and helped Millie up. They took the elevator.
The elevator doors soon opened at the ground floor.
The hospital was packed. Even more than usual. Millie noticed a few reporters scattered in the crowd.
"So many people today. Probably another celebrity here for a check-up," Alexia said.
"They always bring this kind of attention..." She stopped at once, her face changing. She had seen something and quickly tried to lead Millie in the other direction.
But there was no point. Millie had already spotted them.
Brandon stood tall, striking in a way that drew attention without effort.
The noise and movement around him didn't touch him--his hair perfectly in place, his suit smooth and sharp, like the chaos didn't dare come close.
Vivian stood beside him. She looked small and weak, her face pale, which made her seem even more fragile.
She lost her balance slightly. Brandon stepped in to catch her, shielding her from the cameras and the crowd.
"Don't look," Alexia said quickly, stepping in front of Millie, her tone sharp with anger.
"Alexia, let's go," Millie said, her voice calm. She had made up her mind; Brandon didn't need to know she was there, and she had no interest in crossing paths with him now.
"Why should we go?" Alexia snapped, growing more furious. "You're not divorced yet. He's still your husband. And he's here holding another woman like it's nothing. It's shameless."
Husband...
Millie looked away, sighing.
There was a time she had secretly smiled just thinking about Brandon being her husband.
But not anymore.
"I don't feel well, Alexia. Let's just go," Millie said, changing the topic.
Alexia gave her full attention now and stopped looking in Brandon and Vivian's direction.
They left. Across the lobby, Vivian glanced over. A flicker of pride passed through her face.
"I'm sorry, Brandon. I didn't mean to drag you into this mess," she said, a tinge of remorse in her voice. "I know you hate being in the spotlight..."
"It's fine," Brandon replied. "Let's go see the doctor first." His face stayed calm, but something stirred in his thoughts--something brief, hard to name.
They stepped into the consultation room.
Vivian handed over her medical record to the doctor.
The doctor read through it, slowly, and frowned.
"This looks serious," he said.
Vivian gave a faint smile. "I know," she said quietly. Then she took a slow breath. "Please prescribe something strong for the pain."
"In your current condition, I suggest you stay in the hospital and begin treatment," the doctor said. "You should try. There's still a chance we can extend your life."
"What's the point?" Vivian gave a sad smile.
She brushed away the tears building in her eyes, and then said quietly, "I don't want treatment."
Brandon's fingers curled tighter around hers.
She gave a small shake of her head.
"Doctor, I just want to spend the last phase of my life with some dignity," she said. "So, please prescribe some strong painkillers."
The doctor sighed deeply but finally nodded in understanding.
Outside, reporters were taking photos and recording videos without pause before posting them online.
People watching were emotional.
"Good heavens, this is a real person whose life is ending."
"I cry when I'm in mild pain. I can't imagine what late-stage cancer feels like. But she still manages to smile. She's really strong."
"I couldn't hold back tears when she said she wouldn't go through treatment. Only people who've faced serious illness understand this feeling."
Public sympathy for Vivian reached its highest point.
...
Vivian soon got her medicine, and as she and Brandon walked out of the hospital, Millie was sitting on a bench nearby. She was waiting for Alexia, who had gone to get the car.
Before Millie could respond to what was happening, paparazzi noticed her and rushed over.
The camera flashes came all at once.
Brandon saw her too. He frowned and asked, "What are you doing here?"
Millie stood up, glanced at Brandon, and then at Vivian's hand resting on his arm.
She didn't speak yet. The crowd didn't give her the chance.
"Mrs. Watson, did you come because of what's online? Are you trying to catch them together?"
"What do you think of your husband being out in public with someone else?"
"Mrs. Watson, what are you planning to do about Vivian?"
People quickly decided that Millie had shown up on purpose--to face Vivian directly, to start something.
Even Brandon thought the same.
He looked annoyed.
"Vivian is sick. Didn't you know?" he barked.
Brandon's voice was brimming with menace.
Millie felt like laughing.
So that was what he believed--that she was picking a fight on purpose with someone who was ill.
Brandon really didn't know her.
Seeing Millie didn't answer, the reporters turned to Vivian, asking questions about breaking up someone's marriage.
Brandon looked at Millie again. "Millie!" he called. He wanted her to defend Vivian.
Like always, he expected her to do what he wanted.
But the will to please him was gone.
She was walking away from him--there was no reason left to obey.
Millie placed her right hand over her stomach. The dull ache was still there.
"I came to visit a friend," she said finally.
She didn't want to say more. Her pr**nancy wasn't something she wanted to share--not before the divorce was finalized, not with all eyes on her.
Her reply to his question earlier was simple.
Having answered Brandon, Millie turned to leave.
But the reporters didn't back off. They crowded in around her.
"Mrs. Watson, people online are asking you to step aside and let Mr. Watson be with Vivian. What do you say to that?"
"Vivian doesn't have long. Are you still going to fight her?"
"Mrs. Watson--"
Millie didn't bother responding; she just wanted to get away.
The crowd, thrilled to see the three of them in the same place at last, had no intention of letting it end.
Brandon stood still, saying nothing, and that silence gave someone the boldness to shove Millie with force.
She staggered, her arms moving at once to shield her stomach.
Chapter 5 To Let Go Of The Past
Millie landed hard, her back hitting the ground first.
Cameras flashed wildly, capturing the fall from every angle.
She looked toward Brandon by instinct. But his face gave nothing--just a cold, still stare.
And in that moment, she understood what he wanted her to do, and it stung her heart.
He wanted her to speak for him. To tell the press it was all a misunderstanding. That Vivian was ill, and he had only come out of concern. That it was kindness, not betrayal.
Clutching her belly, Millie lowered her head and let a faint smile slip across her face.
The sky above was clear, and sunlight streamed through gaps in the crowd. But none of it touched her.
She steadied herself and rose slowly.
Then, without looking back, she said calmly, "I feel sorry for Miss Simpson. But that's all."
Someone nearby, unaware, asked, "So, are you friends with her?"
Millie gave a short laugh. "Friends? No. I wouldn't call someone clinging to my husband a friend."
She turned and waved to Alexia, who had just pulled up.
"Millie!" Brandon called after her, his face red with rage.
But she didn't turn around. She stood tall and kept walking.
Alexia got out and moved quickly toward her friend, scoffing as they left, "You'd think they were the married couple confronting the home-wrecker. Absolutely ridiculous."
Vivian's lips parted to respond. "You..."
But Alexia cut in before she could say a word. "What? Tell me I'm wrong. If you're planning to use the press to scare me, go ahead. I've got nothing to hide."
Vivian's face turned even paler, looking as if she might faint.
Reporters scrambled, voices rising all at once.
Alexia ushered Millie into the car, not sparing another glance behind them.
"Don't worry," she said. "She's definitely faking it. I've seen enough of these cases to tell in a second."
Millie gave her a small smile. "I'm not worried about her. I'm worried about you. What if this mess affects your job?"
At a red light, Alexia grinned and nudged her. "Don't forget my dad's the hospital director."
Millie raised an eyebrow. "The same dad you swore you'd never speak to again?"
Alexia shrugged. "You never know when a connection comes in handy. Honestly, sometimes I wish all the powerful people out there were my dads."
They both laughed, the tension slowly easing from Millie's face. As the light turned green, the car moved forward again.
"I've got the afternoon free," Alexia said, stretching. "Whatever you need, I'm ready."
Playing along, Millie turned to her with a sly grin. "Great. I need help with something."
"What is it?" Alexia asked curiously.
"Help me move." She grabbed Alexia's wrist. "You can't back out now."
Alexia gr**ned but gave in.
Before long, the two of them arrived at the house Millie had shared with Brandon, along with a team of movers and organizers.
The house had come together quickly after their rushed wedding.
Everything--furniture and layout--had felt temporary at first. But over the year, Millie had made a home out of it, filling it with warmth.
At least, she tried.
Alexia directed the workers while Millie moved quietly around the room, her hands light on every object. On a shelf, she spotted a bottle of Chanel No. 5.
The first gift Brandon ever gave her. He'd brought it back from a business trip.
He came straight to her from the airport.
He had pulled her into his arms. His ki**es were quick, urgent. They had been just like any young couple in love back then.
She opened the bottle and sprayed it once. The scent filled the room.
She remembered how he had ki**ed her lightly after spraying it on her skin.
"Should I pack this too?" Alexia asked, seeing the perfume.
Millie glanced over and shook her head. "Leave it."
She slipped off the wedding ring Brandon had picked without thought, placing it gently on the table.
But as the movers shuffled back and forth through the space, she paused. Then, quietly, she opened a drawer and put both the perfume and the ring inside.
Soon, the house had been cleared of every trace of her. Only that bottle and that ring remained.
Packing up had been tiring, but once the decision was made, it moved quickly.
It was the same with her feelings.
The wind moved softly through her hair as the car headed toward her new place. Behind her, the mansion faded in the rearview mirror.
Sometimes, to move forward, one had to leave parts of oneself behind.
Millie had things to do.
The fall of the Bennett family, the unanswered questions around her father's sudden death--she was going to find the truth.
Her life had always been shaped by what others needed.
Now it was time to live for herself.
She decided to begin with the music show. It would bring in money, and more importantly, might reconnect her with people linked to her father's past.
She pulled out her phone, found the right contact, and typed her message. "I'm joining the music program."
...
Vivian was still crying.
Brandon sat beside her, muttering words of comfort. But his thoughts were filled with the image of Millie standing with her back to him, saying those words.
She had known exactly what he wanted her to say. And she had chosen not to.
He had sent her message after message. She hadn't replied any of them.
She had been acting strangely lately.
The change in her was too sharp, too sudden. She was provoking him on purpose.
She had done it when they filed for divorce. And again at the hospital.
Brandon remembered the look in her eyes the night before, when she asked if he truly made up his mind about the divorce.
She had been sad but also calm.
An unexpected fear filled his heart.
"Brandon, don't be angry at Millie," Vivian said through tears. "I know she's upset. After seeing the videos online, she must've come to confront us. And I understand."
She burst into tears. "After all... I'm the one who took something from her. I'm taking six months from your marriage--what's left of it. If she lashes out at me, I deserve it..."
As she spoke, she started coughing--hard.
A second later, she spat bl**d into her hand.
"Vivian!" Brandon jumped up, reaching for his phone to call for an ambulance.
As for Millie's sudden change, he brushed it off as moodiness. In his mind, she wouldn't dare walk away.
Vivian reached out and stopped him, still smiling faintly. "It's the cancer. It's late-stage. This happens. Don't worry."
Her caregiver helped her lie back down.
Brandon turned away, already thinking of confronting Millie. As soon as he left the room, Vivian calmly wiped her mouth and pulled out a small bl**d bag hidden in her cheek.
She laughed. "What do you think he'll say to Millie now?" she asked the caregiver. "I'm honestly looking forward to it."
Then she began to go through the news reports excitedly.
The entire online community seemed against Millie.
"Vivian didn't even go for life-saving treatment--she just wanted pain meds. Millie really made a scene for no reason."
"Vivian's dying, and Millie still wants to pick fights?"
"Mr. Watson and Vivian look perfect together. Like a real power couple."
"Millie's fall was so embarrassing. I cringed."
"Millie, just step aside already!"
"Millie, divorce Brandon!"
"Yeah, divorce Brandon!"
"Divorce!"
Vivian chuckled as she read the comments. Then she sent a message to a contact and gave a few instructions.
"Today's move was perfect. Keep the pressure up. Make sure Millie stays where she is--down. Oh, and find out why she went to the hospital today."
......
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&3&
I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved.
He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again.
"Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion.
That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports.
For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian.
In return, he treated me like furniture.
He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey--her favorite drink--forgetting that I despised the taste.
I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home.
So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco.
I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage.
But I underestimated Dante.
When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat.
He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.
Chapter 1
Elena Vitiello POV
I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved.
He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half the criminal underworld in New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again.
"Done," he said, his voice devoid of any emotion.
That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. The Reaper. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports.
I sat across from Mia in the high-security cafe, watching the rain streak against the bulletproof glass. My hands were folded in my lap, perfectly still. I was trained to be still. I was the Caged Canary, the silent Moretti wife.
"He signed them?" Mia whispered, her eyes wide with horror and a twisted sort of impressed disbelief. "Just like that?"
"He was distracted," I said softly. "Sofia was having a crisis about a broken heel or a chipped nail. I don't remember which."
Mia slammed her coffee cup down. "He is a monster, Elena. A blind, arrogant monster. You've been scrubbing his blood out of his shirts for three years. You saved his family's alliance when that little brat ran off with a civilian. And he treats you like furniture."
"Furniture is useful," I corrected her, taking a sip of my tea. It tasted like ash. "I am less than that. I am merely ornamental. A placeholder."
I looked out the window. A convoy of black armored SUVs glided to a precision halt at the curb. The pedestrians scattered like pigeons. They knew that formation. They knew who was inside.
Dante Moretti didn't just walk into a room; he conquered it. He was the most lethal predator in the city, a man who had taken over the New York Outfit's enforcement division at twenty-two and turned it into a machine of absolute terror. He had killed men for looking at me the wrong way, yet he couldn't look at me himself.
"He's here," I said.
Mia reached for my hand. "Do you have the exit plan?"
"San Francisco," I breathed. "Isabella secured the apartment. The flight is in two weeks. Until then, I play the part."
The cafe door opened. The air pressure in the room seemed to drop. Two soldiers walked in first, scanning the perimeter with cold, dead eyes. Then Dante entered.
He was wearing a charcoal suit that cost more than this building. His dark hair was swept back, revealing a face that was beautiful in the way a thunderstorm is beautiful-destructive and captivating. He walked straight to my table, ignoring everyone else.
"Elena," he said. It wasn't a greeting. It was a command.
"Dante," I replied, standing up smoothly.
"We are leaving. My mother expects us for dinner."
He didn't look at Mia. He turned and walked out, expecting me to follow. I always followed.
I gave Mia a small, sad smile and walked into the rain. A soldier held an umbrella over me, but Dante was already inside the SUV. I slid onto the leather seat beside him. The car smelled of expensive cologne, gun oil, and the faint, cloying scent of vanilla perfume.
Sofia's perfume.
The convoy started moving. The silence in the car was heavy, suffocating. Dante was typing on his phone, his brow furrowed.
"That file I signed weeks ago," he said suddenly, not looking up. "The vendor contract for the shipping lines. Did you file it?"
My heart slammed against my ribs. "Yes," I lied. "It's being processed."
He hummed, a low vibration in his chest. "Good. I don't want any loose ends before the transition."
He was becoming Don soon. He wanted a clean slate. I was giving him the cleanest slate possible-a life without me.
His phone rang. The ringtone was specific. It pierced the quiet like a siren.
Dante answered immediately. "Sofia."
I looked out the window, counting the raindrops.
"Slow down," Dante said, his voice shifting from cold command to something softer, something urgent. "Where are you? Who is there?"
He listened for a moment, his jaw tightening. The temperature in the car dropped ten degrees.
"I don't care who his father is," Dante snarled into the phone. "If he touched you, he loses the hand. Stay there. I'm coming."
He hung up. He tapped the partition glass. "Change of plans. Go to the Meatpacking District."
"Dante," I said quietly. "Your mother."
He finally looked at me. His eyes were like ice, blue and impenetrable. "Sofia is in trouble. Some street trash cornered her."
"She is a Capo's daughter," I said, my voice steady. "She has her own guards."
"She called me," he said, as if that explained everything. As if that justified stranding his wife in the middle of the city.
The car pulled over to the curb. It wasn't the estate. It was a street corner five blocks from our home.
"Take the second car back," Dante ordered. "I need the team with me."
He was kicking me out. To go save the woman who had left him at the altar, the woman whose mess I had cleaned up for three years.
I opened the door. The rain was coming down harder now.
"Dante," I said, pausing with one foot on the pavement. "You signed the papers."
He looked at me, impatient, his mind already on her. "I know, Elena. You told me."
"I just wanted to make sure you remembered," I said.
I stepped out. The door slammed shut behind me, and the convoy sped away, tires spraying dirty water onto my shoes. I stood there for a moment, watching the taillights disappear, realizing that for the first time in three years, I didn't feel the sting of tears. I just felt cold.
Chapter 2
Elena Vitiello POV
The penthouse was silent. It was a sprawling glass cage in the sky, overlooking a city that looked like a circuit board of gold and darkness.
My phone buzzed on the marble counter. A text from Dante.
Won't be back. Handling the situation. Don't wait up.
I didn't reply. I deleted the thread. Then, I went into my contacts and deleted his number. I didn't block him-that would draw attention-I just removed the name. He was nothing more than a string of digits now.
I went to the master closet, a mausoleum filled with designer gowns, silk blouses, and shoes that cost more than a mid-sized sedan. I walked past them to the small safe in the back. I punched in the code and took out a burner phone and a flash drive.
This was the real Elena. The rest was just a costume.
I sat on the floor and began the digital scrub. I logged into the joint accounts and removed my authorization. I cancelled the recurring orders for his favorite Barolo. I unlinked my email from the estate's security notifications. Piece by piece, byte by byte, I was erasing myself from the Moretti infrastructure.
My finger hovered over the Instagram icon on my personal phone. I shouldn't. I knew I shouldn't.
I opened it.
Sofia's story was at the top. Of course it was.
I tapped it. A photo of a yacht deck. A bucket of crystal-chilled champagne. And in the corner of the frame, a hand resting on the railing. I knew that hand. I knew the scar on the knuckle, the heavy gold signet ring bearing the Moretti crest.
Safe and sound, the caption read. My hero.
He wasn't handling a crisis. He was drinking champagne on a boat while his wife sat alone in an empty apartment.
It was my birthday.
I closed the app. I walked to the kitchen, the silence amplifying the click of my heels on the tile. The staff had left for the night; I had dismissed them early. I opened the fridge. There was nothing prepared. Dante usually ordered from the best Italian restaurant in the city on Fridays, but he wasn't here to order.
I found a box of dried pasta and a jar of sauce. I boiled the water. The steam hit my face, hot and damp, mimicking the tears I refused to shed.
The front door beeped.
I froze. He wasn't supposed to be back.
Dante walked in. He looked disheveled, a rare state for him. His tie was loose, his top button undone, his sleeves rolled up to reveal the forearms I used to cling to. But as he moved closer, the scent hit me. He smelled of sea salt and that cloying vanilla perfume.
He stopped when he saw me standing over the stove. He held a small white box in his hand. A bakery box.
"You're cooking?" he asked, frowning.
"I was hungry," I said, my voice flat as I stirred the pasta.
He walked over and placed the box on the island. "I picked this up. On the way back."
He opened it. It was a small vanilla cake. Generic. No writing. It looked like something an assistant would buy at a grocery store five minutes before closing.
"Happy birthday," he said. The words felt heavy, forced.
I stared at the cake. He remembered. Or rather, his calendar reminded him, and he felt a twinge of obligation strong enough to stop at a bakery but not strong enough to stay home.
"Thank you," I said.
He looked at the pot of boiling pasta, bubbling violently. "That's dinner? For a birthday?"
"It's fine, Dante."
"It's pathetic," he muttered. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "Get dressed. We'll go out."
"I saw the photo," I said.
He paused. His hand fell to his side. "What photo?"
"The yacht. Sofia's story."
He didn't even flinch. "She was shaken up. We needed to get her away from the city for a few hours until the threat was neutralized. It was protocol."
"Protocol involves champagne?"
His eyes narrowed, the gold flecks hardening. "Don't start, Elena. I am tired. I spent the last four hours cleaning up a mess so the Family doesn't look weak. I came home to spend the last hour of your birthday with you. Don't make me regret it."
Make him regret it. As if my existence was a burden he graciously tolerated.
"I'm not hungry anymore," I said. I reached out and turned off the stove. The bubbling died instantly.
His phone rang again. The sharp trill cut through the tension. He looked at the screen and sighed-a sound of pure, unadulterated exhaustion.
"I have to take this," he said. "It's the Consigliere. It's about Sofia's security detail."
"Go," I said.
"Elena-"
"Go, Dante. It's fine."
He hesitated. For a second, I thought he might see me. Really see me. See the woman who had loved him since she was sixteen, the woman who had written his name in journals and prayed for his safety when he went to war.
But he just nodded. "I'll make it up to you."
He turned and walked out.
I stood in the silence of the kitchen. I looked at the cheap vanilla cake with its waxy white frosting. I reached into the drawer and pulled out a single match. I struck it against the box. The flame flared, bright and hot, consuming the oxygen.
I stuck the match into the center of the cake like a candle.
"I wish," I whispered to the empty room, watching the flame burn down towards the frosting. "I wish to stop loving you."
I blew it out. Smoke curled into the air, grey and vanishing, just like us.
Chapter 3
Elena Vitiello POV
The heavy thrum of the music pulsed through the floorboards of the VIP lounge. It was a private club, supposedly neutral ground for the Families, but tonight the Morettis had rented the entire top floor.
I sat next to Dante on the crushed velvet sofa. His arm was draped along the back of the seat behind me-never touching me, but aggressively claiming the space.
It was a territorial display. This is mine. Do not touch.
The room was thick with smoke and the sharp clink of expensive crystal. The Capos were laughing, while the soldiers stood like statues by the doors. It was a celebration of the alliance anniversary.
"Alright, bring it out!" someone shouted over the noise.
A heavy wooden box was heaved onto the central table. The Time Capsule.
Five years ago, during a truce party, the younger generation of the Families had written letters to their future selves. It was a stupid tradition, something Sofia had insisted on back when she was the center of Dante's world.
I felt a prickle of cold sweat break out on my neck. I had forgotten about this.
"Let's see who predicted the future!" Marco, one of Dante's soldiers, laughed as he cracked the seal.
He pulled out a folded piece of paper. "Sofia... wants to be a movie star."
Laughter rippled through the room. Sofia wasn't here yet. She was always late.
Marco reached in and pulled out another one. He unfolded it, and then he froze.
He paused. He looked at me, then at Dante. The drunken grin faded from his face.
"Read it," Dante commanded, taking a slow sip of his whiskey.
Marco cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. "It's... it's from Elena."
Dante glanced at me. I stared straight ahead, my nails digging crescents into my palms.
"Read it," Dante repeated, his voice lower, leaving no room for argument.
Marco unfolded the paper completely. His voice was hesitant. "I don't know if he will ever see me. I am just a shadow in the corner of the room. But today, he looked at me. He saved me from the riot in the East End. He doesn't know my name, but I know his. I love him. I love Dante Moretti. I pray that one day, I can be the one to wash the blood from his hands, even if he never loves me back."
The silence in the room was absolute. It was heavier than the bass, louder than the shouting had been moments before.
I felt stripped naked. Five years ago, I was a naive girl with a diary. Now, those words hung in the air like a confession of a crime.
Dante slowly set his glass down. He turned his head to look at me. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were wide, stunned. It was the first time I had ever seen him look truly struck, like he had been punched in the gut.
He opened his mouth to speak. "Elena..."
My phone didn't ring. His did.
It shattered the moment like glass. Dante flinched. He looked at the screen.
He didn't answer it immediately. He looked at me again, searching my face, looking for the girl who wrote that letter.
The phone rang again. And again.
"Boss," Marco whispered, the tension palpable. "It might be urgent."
Dante answered. He put it on speaker.
"Dante! Help me! Please!" Sofia's voice shrieked through the quiet room. "They have guns! I'm at the warehouse district! They're going to kill me!"
The shock vanished from Dante's face. It was replaced instantly by the mask of The Reaper. The beast woke up.
He stood up so fast the table shook. "Marco, get the team. Now."
"Dante," I said, my voice barely a whisper.
He didn't hear me. He was already moving, checking the clip in his handgun. He was a blur of lethal motion.
"Stay here," he barked at me over his shoulder. "Don't move."
He ran out the door, his soldiers swarming after him. The room was suddenly empty, save for a few confused waiters.
I walked to the balcony. The rain had stopped. I looked down at the street.
I saw Dante burst out of the club entrance. I saw him pistol-whip a bouncer who was too slow to get out of his way. He jumped into his car, tires smoking as he peeled out.
I watched him go.
He had heard the depth of my soul, the raw, bleeding truth of my love for him. And the moment another woman cried wolf, he left me in the silence.
He didn't rush out to save family. He rushed out because he couldn't breathe if she wasn't breathing.
I took the letter from the table. I tore it in half. Then in half again.
I dropped the pieces into an ashtray and lit them on fire.
"Goodbye, Dante," I whispered.
&1&
"He finally remembered the woman waiting for him at home, only to face her divorce papers. Confident she'd regret it, he signed. But post-divorce, she blossomed, turning heads everywhere. Defeated, he begged to win her back!
=====
In the bustling, weathered heart of Orkset, flames erupted violently within an ancient apartment building. Propelled by gusts of wind, the fire devoured the structure, belching dense smoke and bright, searing tongues of flame.
"Saved! They've been saved." The words echoed amidst the chaos.
Firefighters emerged from the smoldering inferno, carrying Carrie Campbell to safety at the roadside.
Her features, usually refined and expressive, were now smeared with soot; her sparkling eyes dimmed to a vacant gaze, hollow and lost.
As reality seeped back into her consciousness, Carrie felt a rush of gratitude overpower her usual composure. Her voice, hoarse and weak, conveyed a profound "thank you" to her rescuers. Shaking, she fumbled for her phone, her fingertips quivering as they found the familiar number.
"Hello, the person you are trying to reach is currently unavailable. Please try again later..."
The automated message played after a few rings, leaving her with a lump in her throat, her unvoiced frustrations and sorrow welling up inside her.
Bang!
With a deafening roar, the explosion abruptly silenced the cold, mechanical voice echoing through the line. Carrie's head snapped upwards, shock painted on her face as she witnessed the apartment she had just exited erupt into flames.
Chunks of debris were hurled into the air by the force of the blast, scattering across the sky.
Panic engulfed the crowd as survivors, freshly rescued, screamed in terror. They huddled together, seeking solace in each other's arms, their cries piercing the tumultuous scene. In stark contrast, Carrie lay alone on a stretcher, her isolation magnified amidst the chaos.
"Kristopher..." Fighting the dread creeping up her spine, Carrie pressed her lips together tightly and dialed her husband's number again, her resolve unwavering.
Yet, the call disconnected after a few short rings, leaving her with a haunting silence.
Just then, a Twitter notification flickered on her phone screen.
The gossip feed was alive with the latest gossip: #LiseNash #MysteriouBoyfriend.
According to the tweet, a producer from a well-known variety show had invited the renowned star Lise Nash to a dinner, which had quickly soured when she declined to partake in a toast.
This act of defiance had sparked a confrontation, only to be interrupted by Lise's domineering boyfriend. He stormed into the private dining room, dismissing the producer with a dismissive wave and escorting Lise away.
The tweet described the scene vividly, painting a picture of a powerful man defending his beloved partner.
Yet, perhaps due to his prominence, only the back of the man was visible in the accompanying photos, preserving his anonymity. Meanwhile, Lise, donning an oversized suit jacket, beamed a smile, reaching out to clasp his hand as they departed together.
Carrie's eyes were glued to the screen, her stare intense and unblinking as she absorbed the image before her.
There he was--Kristopher Norris!
The suit jacket draped carelessly over Lise was a dead giveaway.
Every piece of clothing Kristopher owned had been meticulously tailored by a master craftsman abroad, a detail Carrie knew all too well.
Her grip on her phone tightened, her knuckles blanching to a stark white, as if her very soul were being squeezed by an invisible hand, the pain sharp and acid-like in its intensity.
In her most desperate moment, Kristopher had coldly disconnected their call, choosing instead to be at Lise's side.
What was the worth of their two-year marriage?
The tears she had been holding back now overwhelmed her, streaming down her face.
Even as she tilted her head back in a futile attempt to stem the flow, the tears continued to escape.
Lise had always been Kristopher's first love, a fact whispered and gossiped about among their circles. The Norris family had never approved of Lise, seeing her ordinary background as unfitting.
Forced apart by family pressures, it had been Lise who ended things, but the past, it seemed, was not easily left behind.
Kristopher had diligently pursued the leadership of the Norris family, harboring dreams of finally being with Lise.
Yet, when he reached his goal, he discovered that Lise had already chosen another.
In defiance of his family's expectations and perhaps out of bitterness, Kristopher turned to Carrie, a woman equally devoid of wealth or status, to become Mrs. Norris, thereby blocking any matchmaking attempts by his relatives.
At that time, Carrie faced immense pressure from her father, Tristan Campbell, who was pushing her towards a marriage with a playboy, the son of a business associate, to cover her grandmother's steep medical expenses.
Both Kristopher and Carrie, driven by their personal motives, consented to a marriage of convenience.
Originally set for just one year, their contractual marriage stretched beyond its term, sustained by a shared understanding between them.
Over time, Carrie began to believe in the authenticity of their union, never suspecting that it was merely an extension of her hopes.
Just moments ago, a fire had nearly claimed Carrie's life. In that critical moment, she reached out to Kristopher, only to be twice rebuffed as he spent his time with Lise.
This harsh reality shattered Carrie's illusions, revealing that her perceived transition from pretense to genuine relationship was nothing but a facade maintained by her own desires.
Carrie wasn't even a temporary substitute in Kristopher's life but merely a pawn used to spite his family.
After a poignant pause, tears welled up in Carrie's eyes, unstoppable and poignant.
It might be time for her to release herself from the shackles of her own hopeful delusions--to stop deceiving herself.
Chapter 2 Trending Topics
The overwhelming number of injuries from the fire was staggering, straining the already frantic doctors and nurses as they tried to provide aid.
Carrie had been merely grazed by a splintered clothes rack, which left a deep, jagged wound on her calf. In comparison to the chaos around her, her wounds seemed almost negligible.
She managed to get basic care--a brisk cleaning and a quick wrap of bandages--at a local hospital before catching a cab back to her house.
Bayview Villa, a grand property under Kristopher's name, was technically their matrimonial residence.
Living alone had become the norm for Carrie, as Kristopher was hardly ever around. She had bid farewell to the housekeeper, discovering that her life could be quite adequately maintained with just takeout, deliveries, and the occasional visit from a part-time cleaner.
Now, she found herself the sole occupant of the sprawling living room, sinking into the sofa, her gaze drifting across the empty space.
The stark, monochrome decor did nothing to imbue warmth into the atmosphere.
A chilling realization crept up on her: this vast, elegant space felt more like a colossal tomb, a silent grave for her lost years of youth and a love that had quietly slipped away.
In this cold, echoing house, would anyone even notice if her breath ceased one day?
Carrie exhaled a weary sigh, her frame heavy as she leaned against the cold wall for support, struggling up the stairs to her bedroom on the second floor.
Each step was a battle, sending stabbing pains shooting through her from the surface of her skin down to her aching bones.
The house, stark and hollow, echoed even the smallest sounds, magnifying her sense of isolation.
It was today, amidst this profound silence, that Carrie truly grasped the all-encompassing nature of her loneliness--it was almost tangible, enveloping her senses with its texture and mournful whispers, tightening around her heart like a vice, producing a dull, relentless ache.
Upon reaching the sanctuary of her bedroom, she collapsed onto the bed, the very embodiment of exhaustion, feeling it both physically and spiritually.
Just as she surrendered to this weariness, the sharp ring of the phone pierced the silence.
"You reached out to me earlier. What do you need?" Kristopher's voice cut through the line, cold and distant as ever.
Carrie was caught off guard by his unexpected call. Words failed her as she parted her lips to respond, but before she could collect her thoughts, a soft, feminine voice floated through from the other end. "Kristopher, will you join me to..."
A surge of emotions tightened Carrie's grip on the phone, her heart thumping louder with each second. Overwhelmed and unable to contain her rising panic, she demanded, "Who's there with you?"
Kristopher gave no answer, merely stating in a flat, disinterested voice, "If there's something you need, let's catch up when I'm back. I have pressing engagements right now, so I must disconnect."
He promptly ended the call, cutting off any chance for Carrie to reply.
As the harsh beep of the disconnected line filled her ears, Carrie's lips twisted into a rueful grin. How utterly foolish she felt! Deep down, she knew his response all too well, yet she had clung to the hope of hearing his voice confirm it.
With a sense of self-inflicted irony, Carrie activated her tablet and scrolled through the day's hot topics.
One headline caught her eye: "A female star shielded from harassment at a dinner by her formidable partner." A wry smile twisted her lips.
Carrie knew all too well what it was like to face harassment at those kinds of dinners.
She vividly remembered her first major audition after her entering the showbiz; her agent had escorted her to a dinner with the influential director and producer of the drama series "Serene Sighs."
As a novice in the dizzying world of showbiz, Carrie had felt incredibly vulnerable, uncertain of how to navigate the murky waters of such gatherings.
The producer had eyed her shamelessly, sneering as he asked, "Is this the new talent you're introducing? She appears presentable, but I'm curious to see how she fares with a drink. Here's the deal, if you can gulp down this bottle in one go, I'll secure you an audition for the lead role."
Carrie was inclined to decline, but under the relentless pressure from her agent, she found herself compelled to consume the entire bottle.
As the evening wore on, she was hurriedly taken to the hospital suffering from a severe stomach ailment.
Her agent, fretful about the prospect of the role slipping away to another, quickly settled the hospital charges and departed.
At that time, Carrie found herself isolated in a hospital bed for several long days.
Yet, even before Carrie could be released from the hospital, the media was abuzz with the announcement that Lise had secured the lead role in "Serene Sighs."
Subsequently, her agent rebuked Carrie for her lack of ambition, complaining, "You are more appealing than Lise, so why can't you show more drive? She cozied up to Mr. Norris and hardly had to make an effort. She's surrounded by people eager to cater to her every need. I've heard that Mr. Norris personally orchestrated her landing the lead role in this production!"
When the show premiered, Lise was catapulted into stardom, swiftly ascending to the elite echelons of the acting world.
From that moment forward, Carrie let her acting aspirations wane and chose instead to devote herself entirely to supporting her husband, Kristopher.
After all, no matter her efforts, she could never get the same career opportunities that Lise seemed to receive effortlessly with Kristopher's offhand remarks.
At that time, Carrie had believed she was filling the role that was meant to be Lise's as Mrs. Norris, which meant she owed Lise.
By giving up the career opportunities to Lise, Carrie thought they would settle their unspoken debt.
However, Carrie hadn't foreseen that Lise would claim both the coveted career and Kristopher's affections.
As Lise's professional and love life blossomed, Carrie came to the painful realization that she had been overly consumed with her romantic pursuits, at the expense of her career, and now, she found herself bereft of both love and professional fulfillment.
With tears streaming down her face, Carrie viewed her past two years as tragically misguided.
Given another opportunity, she resolved she wouldn't be so unguarded, letting her heart recklessly fall captive to Kristopher's charm.
"Ms. Spencer, the new copyright contract is prepared. Please review it for any discrepancies."
Her phone buzzed with the alert, snapping Carrie out of her reverie. She gazed at the PDF file attached in the message, her mind briefly overwhelmed.
Under the pseudonym Katrina Spencer, Carrie had once made a name for herself as a budding screenwriter, selling numerous scripts in her early days.
During her early career as Katrina, Carrie often sold her work for a pittance, compelled by her urgent need for immediate cash.
Over the years, these scripts transformed into blockbuster films and hit series, catapulting Katrina's reputation to new heights.
By this time, Carrie had married Kristopher and was no longer plagued by the financial woes that had once driven her to desperation--her grandmother's hefty medical bills were a thing of the past. With her financial crises resolved, Carrie's life had pivoted to domestic responsibilities, striving to be an exemplary wife to Kristopher. Amidst these changes, her pseudonym, Katrina Spencer, gradually receded into the background.
However, her past as Katrina wasn't ready to be shelved just yet. Recently, an interested buyer had come forward, ready to pay a handsome sum for one of her old scripts.
Carrie, however, was hesitant to sell. She raised several concerns about the contract presented to her, and to her astonishment, the buyer was genuine enough to revise it accordingly.
Holding the revised contract in her hands, Carrie inhaled deeply, her resolve hardening. She seemed to have reached a crucial decision.
Her fingers danced over her phone's keyboard with swift precision, typing out a firm command. "Create a divorce agreement following my terms and ensure it reaches Kristopher Norris at the Norris Group."
Without pausing for a response, she placed her phone aside and limped toward the bathroom, each step echoing a blend of determination and newfound independence.
Chapter 3 Exchange Of Conveniences
Thirty minutes had passed, Carrie finally heaved herself up from the bathtub, her limbs feeling heavy and uncooperative. As she lifted her gaze, her own image in the mirror halted her movements--her skin appeared as smooth and impeccable as fine porcelain, glowing with an unblemished radiance.
Her eyes, deep pools of allure, sparkled with an enchanting, soft warmth, inviting anyone who dared meet her gaze.
Despite edging into her late twenties at twenty-five, she reveled in the fact that time had yet to etch its marks upon her flawless complexion.
Surely, a woman with such a visage had no place for self-pity.
Absorbed in her contemplation, Carrie carelessly extended her right leg onto the cold floor, forgetting it was the very limb she had injured. Wrapped excessively in cling film to shield it from moisture, the tight encasement had stifled her circulation, rendering her leg eerily numb. As her foot touched down, it betrayed her, slipping forward unexpectedly.
"Ah!" Carrie gasped, her arms flailing in a frantic ballet, searching for a lifeline in the void.
Just as she teetered on the brink of a painful rendezvous with the floor, the bathroom door burst open.
Kristopher stood at the entrance, his suit immaculately tailored, creating a striking figure. As their eyes locked, he paused, visibly taken aback, then quickly closed the distance with brisk strides.
Carrie's breath caught as Kristopher swept her up in a graceful bridal style, an unexpected tightness wrapping around her waist. Caught off guard by his sudden appearance, Carrie realized with a jolt that she was completely bare. A flush of embarrassment washed over her as she instinctively clutched her hands over her chest.
This was their first moment of such intimacy since their wedding, and the discomfort made her toes curl inward, her skin blushing a delicate shade of pink.
Kristopher looked down at her with a mischievous grin. "Let's be honest, there's not much to see," he teased gently.
Feeling both mortified and slightly irritated, Carrie snapped back, "Oh, Mr. Norris, after all you've seen, I suppose nothing can impress you anymore."
She carried her C-cup curves with understated charm, a touch of sensuality that outshone Lise's painfully flat, almost awkwardly rigid build.
Yet Carrie knew well that without love, even the most perfect physique paled in comparison to the charm of one dearly cherished.
Nonchalantly, Kristopher reached for a bathrobe hanging behind the door and draped it over her. His frown deepened at her comment. "What are you talking about, Carrie?"
A thought seemed to strike him, and his expression grew even more impatient. "Tell me, did you send those divorce papers in the dead of night just to lure me back here--to catch you completely bare?" His tone was a mix of disbelief and annoyance. "I told you I was swamped with work. Was this dramatic display really necessary?"
Carrie's temper flared at his accusatory tone, reigniting the tension between them. He was always so quick to lose patience with her.
She wasn't the type to throw around words like divorce or breakups lightly. In fact, this was the first time she'd ever mentioned divorce in their two-year marriage, yet he seemed indifferent to her turmoil. He simply dismissed her concerns as if she were overreacting about trivial matters.
Despite the throbbing pain in her leg, Carrie mustered her strength and said, "Put me down."
Kristopher, however, paid no heed, his eyes scanning her leg swathed in bandages. His brow furrowed slightly. "What happened to your leg? Is this some elaborate ploy to lure me back?"
At his words, a bitter laugh escaped Carrie.
It seemed he viewed her as merely seeking attention, and in failing to capture it, she had likely concocted a story to draw him back, allowing her to dramatize her plight in his presence.
With a blank face, she replied untruthfully, "It's a beauty treatment that shouldn't get wet."
"Why did you suddenly decide to undergo such a treatment?" Kristopher inquired, his tone casual as he carried her outside, not pressing the issue further.
His frame was large, and through his thin shirt, she could distinctly feel the warmth of his body and the defined shape of his chest muscles.
The closeness created an uncomfortable tension for Carrie, who had resolved to end things once and for all.
Her voice climbed involuntarily, sharper this time. "Oh, since when have you been concerned with such minor things, Mr. Norris?"
For the first time, Kristopher witnessed her using biting sarcasm; it struck him as peculiarly amusing. With a calm demeanor, he responded, "You're my wife, it's only natural I'd be concerned about your well-being."
"Really?" There was a somber note in Carrie's voice now. "It seems like you've never really regarded me as your wife. I'm scared that if I were to die, you wouldn't even know until much later."
After all, at that very moment, Kristopher had been distracted, lost in moments with his first love, too consumed to lend an ear to her desperate pleas.
Caught off guard by her accusation, Kristopher's eyes widened with surprise before he let out a disbelieving chuckle. "Carrie, what's brought on this sudden outburst of anger? Just because I was tied up this afternoon and missed your call? Perhaps I've been too indulgent with you lately, and it's made you a bit too presumptuous?"
Carrie froze, startled. Was he accusing her of being too presumptuous?
She realized their marriage had always been lopsided. In his eyes, she was nothing more than a transactional partner, a woman who had bartered her freedom for financial security.
Their union was meant to be a mere exchange of conveniences, yet she had, quite foolishly, fallen deeply in love with him.
In the tricky terrain of romance, the one who fell first invariably found themselves at a distinct disadvantage.
Kristopher's dismissive reaction left Carrie reeling, her emotions dismissed as trifles, a tight knot of suffocation rising in her chest.
"I said to put me down this instant!" Carrie exclaimed, jerking her head to the side, her voice laced with a sharp edge of impatience.
Kristopher remained mute, effortlessly carrying her towards the bed before suddenly releasing his hold.
Carrie felt a jolt as the support vanished, her heart skipping a beat as she instinctively grasped for him.
Their bodies collided on the bed, her bathrobe teetering on the brink of decency, threatening to unravel with any minor shift.
Propped on one elbow, Kristopher gazed down at her, his lips curled into a sly, teasing grin. "You wanted to be let go, didn't you? So why cling to me now?"
His eyes, deep and sparkling like a midnight lake speckled with stars, captivated her.
In those celestial depths, Carrie caught a glimpse of her own reflection.
At times like this, she was misled into believing he harbored a deep affection.
Sadly, his heart was a fortress reserved for Lise, and all Carrie had left were empty fantasies.
"Boring!" she exclaimed, her voice devoid of any enthusiasm as she attempted to rise, her hand inadvertently brushing against something unexpected.
The following moment brought a noticeable shift in his cock pressing against her stomach.
"Don't move, or I can't promise what might happen next," he warned in a deep, gravelly voice.
With a frown, Carrie internally cursed upon hearing the statement.
It was an undeniable fact. Primal instincts steered the actions of men. Absence of affection didn't quell their basic desires.
Yet, she dared not agitate Kristopher. Angling her face away, her body remained rigid, frozen in place.
Carrie, feeling irked, shot back. "Didn't you say there's nothing here to see? What's with the reaction now, Mr. Norris? Are you really that easy to impress?"
No sooner had her words flown than she grasped the potential repercussions of her sharp tongue.
A wave of regret surged through Carrie, but instead of anger, Kristopher responded with a chuckle, "You are my wife, after all. Since that's something I can't alter, I might as well embrace it. Besides, it's been years since we became husband and wife--it would be a shame to neglect you completely."
Chapter 4 Are You Out Of Your Mind?
Kristopher slipped his hand beneath the folds of her bathrobe, his touch tracing the curve of Carrie's skin, as smooth and delicate as silk. He encircled her slender waist, drawing her closer with a gentle yet firm grip.
Her face, a captivating canvas of defiance and visible irritation, ignited in him an uncontrollable urge to claim victory over her resistance.
His breathing grew heavy, yet he remained composed, slowly removing his tailored suit.
The fabric of his suit brushed lightly against Carrie's cheek, releasing a mix of scents: a familiar woody aroma intertwined with an unexpected zesty twist of lemon. It was unmistakably Jo Malone's Blue Agava and Cacao--Lise's signature scent.
A surge of nausea overwhelmed Carrie at the realization.
As Kristopher's eyes, now shaded with a stormy intensity, drew nearer to hers, the proximity conjured unwelcome visions of him with Lise. Her stomach churned violently, and with a sudden movement, she pushed him away, propping herself up with a jolt and a dry retch.
"Ugh..."
Her stomach had been empty all day, leaving her with nothing to bring up.
The desire in Kristopher's gaze flickered out, replaced by a cold, detached expression as he withdrew slightly.
Observing the genuine distress and the reddening of Carrie's eyes, Kristopher perceived her reaction for outright disgust at their closeness.
He paused, fingers adjusting his shirt cuffs, his voice cold as he confronted her. "Carrie, is this reaction reserved only for me, or is it how you respond to all men?"
The air in the room turned frosty, thick with tension.
Carrie swallowed the sharp sting in her throat, her eyes widening in shock as she stared up at him.
Ever since their marriage, she had cut ties with nearly all her male friends, yet here was Kristopher, casually tossing out comments sharp enough to cut glass.
The years of love she had poured into their relationship now seemed utterly futile.
Heat crept up her neck, coloring her cheeks a bright scarlet as indignation took hold. Without thinking, her hand flew up and delivered a stinging slap across Kristopher's face.
All her suppressed grievances from the day ignited in that swift motion.
Her bathrobe, loosened in the heat of the moment, slipped from her shoulders. Ignoring the flush of exposure, she swiftly gathered the fabric and draped it around herself, her movements quick and firm.
The impact of her slap had left a light, crimson mark on Kristopher's cheek, marking him with her outrage.
His eyes, wide with disbelief, met hers. "Carrie, are you out of your mind?"
Out of her mind? Yes, she was clearly insane to ever fall for him in the first place.
Carrie fumed silently, her heart pounding in her chest.
Suddenly, the sharp buzz of the phone on the table cut through the mounting tension, its vibration bringing a brief respite from their standoff.
Kristopher cast a fleeting glance at the message, shut off the phone with a snap, and strode towards the door, his back rigid with tension.
Her voice, firm and unwavering, chased after him. "We're getting a divorce! Make sure you sign those papers before you walk out that door!"
Kristopher paused briefly and said sharply, "I have something to do now. When I return, do whatever pleases you." With that, he forcefully shut the door.
Carrie's eyes followed his unwavering exit, feeling an oppressive weight compressing her chest once again.
She disregarded the sharp sting in her leg and hobbled determinedly toward her tablet. Fingers trembling, she hastily navigated to Lise's Twitter page.
Lise had just uploaded a new tweet.
The photo showed her lying down with a fever patch adhered to her forehead, still enveloped in Kristopher's familiar jacket.
The caption read, "Being sick makes me extra clingy. Wishing I had someone here. Stay cozy and take care, everyone!"
The simultaneous timing of these two events made it almost impossible for Carrie not to suspect that Kristopher had dashed off to tend to Lise.
Carrie's instincts loudly proclaimed that this was no accident; Lise had deliberately sought to tug at Kristopher's heartstrings. It appeared her tactics were effective.
Not even Carrie's stark threat of divorce could overshadow Lise's theatrical display of vulnerability.
Seething with fury, Carrie quaked like a leaf swept into a storm.
She steeled herself against the heartache, forcefully ripping the plastic wrap from her aching leg.
After her lengthy soak, the bath's lingering moisture had infiltrated her skin, inflaming the wound until it was a vivid, angry red and painfully swollen.
She, too, could be clingy. Even in the harshest times back in the county, she had shown vulnerability, breaking down into soft sobs within the comforting arms of her grandmother, especially that one time she got burned by the scalding kettle.
But such vulnerability had its time and place, and it wasn't now.
The stark reality of Kristopher's exit forced Carrie to confront her need for self-reliance.
Biting down hard on her lip, Carrie cleaned the throbbing wound with a practiced hand before securely wrapping it anew.
She rose with a newfound resolve and yanked a black suitcase from the far end of her expansive walk-in closet--it held all the belongings she'd brought into this house as a hopeful bride.
She grabbed a fresh set of clothes to slip into and left a bank card neatly on the bedside table.
She had transferred every penny she'd earned over the past year onto that card, effectively settling her financial entanglements with Kristopher over the last two years and cutting him out of her life for good.
Dragging the heavy suitcase behind her, she limped painfully out of the opulent villa.
As she passed through the gate, she wrapped her baseball jacket more tightly around her slight figure, her silhouette hauntingly solitary in the enveloping darkness.
The night air of early spring was bitingly cold, devoid of any trace of warmth, a chill that seemed almost faint compared to the ice forming in Carrie's shattered heart.
She had arrived here with nothing but a suitcase and a heart full of dreams, and now she was leaving, dreams crumbled, utterly alone.
A bitter laugh slipped through her lips. If only she hadn't fallen so hard for him, if only she'd proposed an amicable separation at the end of their agreed year, maybe she wouldn't be wandering now, a lost soul in the shadow of her former self.
Lise didn't have to lift a finger, and Carrie had already fallen, utterly broken and beyond redemption.
Chapter 5 A Gathering
Meanwhile, in the Oasis Club, renowned as the priciest spot in Orkset, the air within the VIP room crackled with excitement. Under the spell of bright lights and thumping music, a diverse group of men and women lounged together, basking in the exclusivity of the setting.
Suddenly, the door burst open, revealing Kristopher in the doorway.
The karaoke session halted abruptly as the crowd turned to greet him in unison, voices mingling. "Kristopher..."
Before they could utter another word, a woman cloaked from head to toe stepped out from behind him.
Lise, with a fluid motion, removed her mask and slid her arm through Kristopher's. She addressed the room with a poised charm. "My assistant took a sudden leave, and I found myself without company. Not keen on spending the evening alone, I invited Kristopher to join me. I trust that's alright?"
Lise's beauty was without question. Her face was a delicate composition of cherry lips and a sculpted nose, framed by eyes that shimmered with a vulnerable allure, commanding a protective fervor from those around her--her presence, ethereal.
In contrast, Carrie's features were more pronounced, her beauty vivid and striking. Lise, by comparison, carried a softer, more understated elegance.
Yet, as it often goes, matters of the heart followed no simple paths.
While Kristopher and Carrie were married, it was in name only; Kristopher seemed detached and seldom included her in private social events.
The group didn't have much of a relationship with Carrie, leading them to feel no obligation to defend her.
Upon hearing Lise's comment, a moment of discomfort rippled through the air. Nonetheless, they quickly recovered, offering a congenial smile as they said, "We're all friends here; let's not bother with formalities."
Lise offered a subtle, knowing smile, as she gracefully accompanied Kristopher into the bustling room.
The event that evening had been meticulously planned to express appreciation for Kristopher's contributions.
As they stepped into the room, the crowd parted like the sea, making way for them to proceed to the seats of honor.
The group's leader handed Kristopher a glass of wine with a flourish, proclaiming with a broad grin, "We truly owe you a debt of gratitude, Mr. Norris! Your exceptional talents are the talk of the town, and witnessing them firsthand today only confirms it. Without your expertise, securing this contract would have been a fantasy!"
Their gathering marked the launch of a novel shopping platform, one that had been in negotiation with numerous local brands in Orkset. But the scenario changed dramatically when the tech giant JoyBuy dramatically entered the scene, stirring up the competitive landscape.
Competing with JoyBuy was akin to the classic David versus Goliath tale--hopelessly daunting. In a surge of desperation, they turned to Kristopher, reaching out through a network of connections for his renowned strategic prowess.
With his characteristic swiftness, Kristopher hatched an ingenious plan and swiftly secured the deal, snatching it from the clutches of JoyBuy right before the business association could ink their agreement--a masterful coup that reverberated success.
This remarkable turnaround only intensified the already deep respect everyone held for Kristopher.
Albin Murray, beaming with pride, couldn't help but boast, "Ah, just look at the caliber of his friends! They thought they could steal deals right under our noses, obviously underestimating Kristopher's clout!"
Albin, born into the wealthy Murray family, counted himself among Kristopher's closest friends. He was renowned for his sprawling social web--a network through which the desperate plea for help was channeled to Kristopher.
Meanwhile, Kristopher himself, the focus of all their discussions, reclined nonchalantly on the couch, bathed in the soft glow of the overhead lights.
He was well-versed in the art of receiving compliments; thus, his expression stayed calm and detached.
The ambient light sculpted his angular features, casting dramatic shadows that emphasized his high nose bridge and sharply cut jawline, as though he were a living masterpiece.
His natural grace and detachment eclipsed any terrestrial magnificence.
Following a sequence of celebratory toasts, when it became apparent that Kristopher merely touched his glass without truly drinking, the rest of the company toned down their conversation, allowing him a moment of repose with his eyes gently shut.
Lise, slightly feverish, opted not to indulge in the spirits, choosing instead to sit in serene silence next to Kristopher, her eyes lingering on him with a look of deep, unmistakable adoration.
Albin, captivated by the seemingly perfect pair, pondered the whims of destiny. He discreetly captured their image with his smartphone and nonchalantly shared it across his social networks.
As the evening progressed and the liquor dwindled, the room's door swung open anew.
Kristopher's personal assistant, Oliver Brooks, made his entrance, acknowledging the gathering with a courteous nod that bordered on respect but avoided groveling, swiftly positioning himself in front of Kristopher.
Silence hung in the air, yet Lise, unable to contain her curiosity, leaned in and whispered, "What's going on?"
Oliver, maintaining his focus on Kristopher, chose not to respond directly to her.
A flush of embarrassment tinted Lise's cheeks as she turned towards Kristopher, hesitatingly inquiring, "Should I leave?"
Kristopher adjusted his posture, his voice low and calm as he instructed, "Go ahead, speak."
A shiver of apprehension coursed through Oliver as he tentatively began, "Mr. Norris, Mrs. Norris has departed from Bayview Villa, and..."
&9&
Pendant trois ans de mariage, elle s'est dévouée corps et âme, mais a subi négligence et mépris. Lorsque son mari l'a forcée à choisir entre la carrière et le mariage, elle est partie sans hésiter, déterminée à reconquérir ses droits et à faire un retour en force en tant qu'héritière brillante d'un groupe médical.
=====
« J'ai fait tout ce que j'ai pu », a déclaré Deanna Carter d'une voix lasse, empreinte de fatigue.
Treize heures épuisantes s'étaient écoulées dans la salle d'opération, mais elle n'avait toujours pas réussi à sauver le bébé dans le ventre de Gillian Dixon.
Avant même que ses mots ne se soient dissipés dans l'air, une vague de sanglots déchirants a éclaté dans le couloir.
« Mon arrière-petit-enfant... », s'est écriée Susan Dixon avant de s'effondrer sur place.
Quelques instants plus tard, Gillian a été emportée sur une civière, livide et inconsciente.
Les proches se sont précipités vers elle, leurs cris et leurs murmures pour la réconforter remplissant le couloir et effleurant Deanna comme un vent froid.
Ce bruit lui a creusé la po**rine.
Elle a levé la tête juste assez pour apercevoir son mari, Connor Dixon, penché sur Gillian. Ses mains agrippaient les côtés du brancard, et son expression était si inquiète qu'on aurait dit qu'il s'agissait de sa propre femme.
Tout le monde suivait le brancard, qui a disparu derrière la porte d'une chambre d'hôpital.
Deanna est restée seule dans le couloir, son masque pendu à ses doigts, les épaules lourdes après les interminables heures passées à la table d'opération.
Les gens se pressaient autour d'elle, mais personne ne s'est arrêté pour lui demander si elle avait besoin de se reposer.
Quand elle est finalement rentrée chez elle, les domestiques se sont écartés comme si elle était atteinte de la peste, leurs regards froids et accusateurs.
Kristina Dixon, la sœur cadette de Connor, a arraché un balai des mains d'une domestique qui se trouvait à proximité et l'a balancé violemment contre les jambes de Deanna. « Va-t'en, me**trière ! »
Les poils ont froissé les mollets de Deanna, laissant une rougeur douloureuse qui l'a fait frissonner.
Le rictus de Kristina s'est approfondi. « De quoi es-tu si fière ? Tu penses que le fait d'épouser mon frère te rend importante ? La seule raison pour laquelle tu es ici, c'est parce que Gillian est en mauvaise santé et que tu es la médecin qui a le bon groupe sa**uin. Tu n'es qu'un outil. Une banque de s**g ambulante. Et maintenant que le bébé de Gillian est mort à cause de toi, voyons comment tu vas faire face à Connor. »
Kristina a terminé en crachant avec mépris, manquant de peu les chaussures de Deanna.
Après trois ans de mariage avec Connor, Deanna avait bien conscience de sa place dans la famille Dixon. Pour eux, elle n'était qu'un outil, bon à blâmer, bon à utiliser, mais jamais à aimer.
Personne dans la maison ne ressentait le besoin de cacher son mépris.
Se disputer ne ferait qu'empirer les choses, et elle était trop fatiguée pour s'en soucier. Silencieusement, elle a monté les escaliers, les yeux baissés.
Treize heures passées en salle d'opération avaient laissé son corps épuisé. Le don de s**g pour Gillian au pire moment l'avait laissée tremblante et brûlante de fièvre.
Elle venait à peine de s'installer sur le lit lorsque des mains rugueuses l'ont tirée brusquement vers le haut.
Sa tête a heurté la tête de lit avec un bruit sourd et discordant.
La douleur la submergeait, et sa vision devenait floue. Quand elle a ouvert les yeux, elle a vu le visage déformé de Connor au-dessus d'elle.
Des larmes lui piquaient les yeux. « Connor, tu es rentré. Je te jure que j'ai vraiment fait de mon mieux pour sauver le bébé de Gillian. »
Connor s'est penché sur elle, son étreinte implacable, une colère froide dans les yeux.
« Tu as fait de ton mieux ? Et le dernier examen médical ? Tu m'as dit qu'il n'y avait aucun problème. Et maintenant, quelques jours plus tard, le bébé est mort. C'est ça, ta façon de faire de ton mieux ? »
Se mordant la lèvre, Deanna s'est forcée à soutenir son regard, les yeux vitreux de douleur. « J'ai fait tous les efforts possibles, Connor. Je le pense sincèrement. »
Gillian était née avec un cœur fragile, incapable de marcher sans être essoufflée il y a trois ans.
Pendant toute la durée de son mariage avec Connor, Deanna avait tout mis en œuvre pour que Gillian soit en assez bonne santé pour vivre comme tout le monde, et même participer à des activités dont elle n'aurait jamais osé rêver auparavant.
Tout s'était bien passé pour Gillian, à l'exception d'une crise cardiaque soudaine pendant sa lune de miel avec Andrew Dixon, le cousin de Connor.
Quelques jours auparavant, Deanna avait fait passer un examen complet à Gillian, et tous les résultats étaient parfaits. Rien ne laissait présager que quelque chose pouvait mal tourner.
Pourtant, dès que Deanna avait pris un jour de repos, le drame s'était produit. Gillian avait été transportée d'urgence à l'hôpital avec de violentes douleurs abdominales, et lorsque Deanna était arrivée, le bébé était déjà mort.
Malgré tout, elle s'était lancée dans l'opération, luttant pour sauver la mère et l'enfant, et donnant même son propre s**g lorsque celui de Gillian était tombé à un niveau dangereusement bas.
Elle savait au fond de son cœur qu'elle n'avait rien à se reprocher.
Mais Connor refusait de croire un seul mot de ce qu'elle disait. Son regard était froid comme la glace.
« C'est ce que tu veux me faire croire ? Alors comment expliques-tu que Gillian se soit réveillée en larmes, affirmant que tu lui avais donné un médicament qu'elle n'aurait jamais dû prendre ? »
Deanna a froncé les sourcils. « Je n'ai jamais fait une telle chose. C'est tout simplement impossible. »
Connor a serré la main de Deanna, la tirant vers lui, les yeux pleins d'accusation. « Dis ça à Gillian, pas à moi ! »
Il a interrompu la conversation sur-le-champ, refusant d'écouter une autre excuse.
Le corps de Gillian avait toujours été frêle, et porter un enfant était déjà un pari risqué.
Maintenant que le bébé était mort et que sa santé était encore plus affaiblie, les chances d'en avoir un autre étaient quasi nulles.
Andrew et Gillian avaient mis tous leurs espoirs dans cet enfant, et maintenant, ces espoirs étaient réduits à néant. Pour Connor, il n'y avait qu'une seule personne à blâmer : Deanna.
Susan était tellement en colère qu'elle s'était évanouie à plusieurs reprises, et chaque fois qu'elle reprenait conscience, sa première exigence était que Connor ramène Deanna à l'hôpital.
Au moment où Deanna est entrée dans la chambre, la famille Dixon l'a encerclée comme une meute se précipitant sur sa proie.
Soudain, quelqu'un l'a violemment poussée par derrière.
Affaiblie par la fièvre, elle n'a pas pu garder l'équilibre et s'est effondrée à genoux juste devant le lit de Gillian.
Elle a pris appui sur ses mains pour se relever, mais un coup de pied vi**ent l'a frappée dans le dos. Se retournant avec colère, elle s'est retrouvée face au regard glacial de Connor.
Elle a retenu son souffle. « Connor... »
Grand et mince, Connor se tenait au-dessus d'elle comme une statue sculptée, les lumières crues du plafond soulignant chaque trait de son visage et rendant son expression froide encore plus sévère.
Sa bouche s'est crispée en une ligne droite tandis qu'il la regardait, le genre de regard que l'on porterait sur quelque chose de jetable, quelque chose qui ne valait pas la peine d'être remarqué.
À cet instant terrible, Deanna a compris : trois ans passés à prendre soin de Gillian, trois ans passés à espérer que son dévouement l'adoucirait, n'avaient fait que la ridiculiser à leurs yeux.
« As**ssine ! Une femme cruelle comme toi devrait payer de sa vie pour celle de cet enfant ! », a hurlé Judie Smith, la mère de Gillian, depuis le chevet du lit, la voix tremblante de haine.
Elle a ponctué ses mots en jetant le verre qu'elle tenait à la main. Il s'est brisé sur le sol, et des éclats tranchants comme des rasoirs ont lacéré la paume de Deanna.
Sur le lit, Gillian a éclaté en sanglots, s'effondrant dans les bras de Judie, sanglotant si violemment qu'elle semblait sur le point de s'évanouir.
Deanna a perçu quelque chose que personne d'autre n'avait remarqué. Blottie contre l'épaule de Judie, Gillian avait les yeux qui brillaient d'une victoire si sombre que son estomac se nouait.
« Connor, je te jure que j'ai fait tout mon possible. Je ne sais pas pourquoi le cœur du bébé s'est arrêté, mais si tu me laisses un peu de temps, je trouverai exactement ce qui s'est passé. »
Toujours à genoux, Deanna s'est stabilisée et a essayé de se lever, la voix basse mais ferme, désespérée que quelqu'un, n'importe qui, l'écoute.
Cependant, les sanglots de Gillian ont étouffé chaque mot.
Elle a enfoui son visage dans ses mains, tremblante de façon incontrôlable, et a accusé d'une voix fragile, tremblante à la perfection et avec une intention délibérée : « Deanna, qu'est-ce que tu veux dire ? Que je ferais du mal à mon propre enfant ? C'était mon bébé. Mon unique chance de devenir mère. C'est toi qui m'as obligée à boire cette étrange potion à base de plantes. Je t'ai dit que ça me faisait mal... Je t'ai suppliée... mais tu m'as forcée à la boire. Tu as même dit... »
Elle a fait une pause théâtrale, essuyant ses larmes avant de jeter un regard à Susan, qui était assise comme un juge.
Susan a tapé du poing sur la table, faisant sursauter tout le monde dans la pièce. « Qu'est-ce qu'elle a dit ? »
« Deanna a aussi dit que si je ne lui obéissais pas, elle ferait en sorte que je fasse une fa**se co**he », a murmuré Gillian en levant ses yeux brillants de larmes dans un geste d'innocence des plus délicats.
« J'ai bu ce que tu m'as donné, Deanna. Alors pourquoi t'en es-tu quand même prise à mon bébé ? Fais-moi souffrir si tu veux, punis-moi si ça te fait du bien, mais pourquoi mon enfant ? Je sais que tu détestes l'attention que Connor me porte, mais lui et moi avons grandi ensemble. Ce lien, tu ne peux pas le briser. »
Les sanglots de Gillian résonnaient dans la pièce, bruts et déchirants, mais son regard restait rivé sur Susan, observant attentivement sa réaction.
Susan a serré plus fort sa canne et la colère a déformé ses traits.
Personne n'a remarqué le petit rictus de Gillian, personne sauf Deanna.
Un instant plus tard, Gillian s'est effondrée dans les bras de Judie, comme si le chagrin avait épuisé ses dernières forces.
La canne de Susan s'est abattue sur le dos de Deanna.
Celle-ci ne l'avait pas vue venir. La force du choc l'a fait trébucher en avant, sans que personne ne tende la main pour la retenir.
Son front s'est écrasé contre le rebord métallique du lit d'hôpital, dans un bruit sourd et répugnant qui a retenti dans toute la pièce.
Deanna a appuyé sa paume contre son front, du s**g chaud coulant entre ses doigts et brouillant sa vision.
« À partir d'aujourd'hui, tu démissionnes de cet hôpital et tu te consacres entièrement à t'occuper de Gillian. Tu lui dois toute une vie de soins après le chaos que tu as causé ! », a crié Susan.
Cette injonction a frappé Deanna comme un coup vi**ent, la laissant étourdie et désorientée.
« Impossible ! », s'est-elle écriée en se tenant la tête malgré la douleur, la voix ferme malgré les tremblements de son corps.
« Je me suis consacrée entièrement à la médecine. Je ne vais pas gâcher ma carrière pour qui que ce soit. Et j'ai fait tout mon possible pour sauver le bébé. Je ne sais toujours pas pourquoi son cœur s'est arrêté, mais ce n'est pas à cause de quelque chose que j'ai fait. Je n'ai jamais donné à Gillian quoi que ce soit de nocif. »
« Femme entêtée ! », s'est écriée Susan en abattant à nouveau sa canne, cette fois-ci sur le bras de Deanna.
« Connor, regarde la femme que tu as épousée ! Elle me réplique et a le culot de faire du mal à Gillian ! »
Deanna a ouvert la bouche pour se défendre, mais Connor l'a interrompue d'un ton glacial qui l'a figée sur place : « Tu as deux options. Quitter l'hôpital et passer le reste de ta vie à réparer ce que tu as fait à Gillian... ou mettre fin à notre mariage dès maintenant. »
Chapitre 2 Divorçons !
« Connor, vraiment ? », a murmuré Deanna, stupéfaite par ses paroles.
Depuis longtemps, elle savait que son mari ne se rangerait jamais de son côté. Malgré tout, elle avait toujours cru qu'il essaierait au moins d'être impartial.
lle n'aurait jamais imaginé qu'il croirait la version de Gillian sans chercher à comprendre ce qui s'était vraiment passé.
À présent, cette conviction s'effondrait devant elle.
Deanna a baissé les yeux, et un léger sourire moqueur est apparu sur ses lèvres.
C'était l'homme qu'elle avait tant dé**ré. C'était celui qu'elle avait insisté pour épouser même lorsque son père l'avait mise en garde contre cela.
Au cours des trois dernières années, elle avait clairement vu que le cœur de Connor avait toujours appartenu à Gillian, car ils avaient grandi ensemble et leur histoire était longue et compliquée.
Mais comme Gillian était déjà mariée à Andrew, Deanna s'était persuadée que Connor finirait par s'attacher à elle.
Alors, lorsque Connor lui avait proposé de l'épouser en échange de ses soins pour Gillian, elle n'avait hésité qu'un instant avant d'accepter.
Elle n'aurait jamais imaginé que trois ans plus tard, il lui proposerait le divorce avec une telle facilité.
Deanna a levé les yeux vers Connor, qui avait une fois de plus choisi Gillian sans hésiter.
Le regard froid de l'homme a croisé le sien. Ses traits sé**isants étaient indéchiffrables, et quand son regard s'est posé sur elle, elle avait l'impression de n'être rien de plus qu'une inconnue qu'il croisait par hasard dans un couloir. C'était tout comme au début de leur mariage.
À ce moment-là, elle a compris à quel point elle avait été naïve. Il ne tenait pas à elle, et il ne tiendrait jamais à elle, peu importe ses efforts.
« Deanna ! Tu n'as pas entendu Connor ? Démissionne ou accepte le divorce ! », a dit Susan d'une voix forte. Sa voix était empreinte de moquerie tandis qu'elle regardait Deanna droit dans les yeux.
Deanna s'est redressée. « Je vous l'ai déjà répété, j'ai vraiment fait de mon mieux. Si vous êtes convaincus qu'il y a un problème avec les médicaments, demandez à l'équipe d'inspection de l'hôpital de vérifier. Je ne vais pas renoncer à la carrière pour laquelle j'ai travaillé si dur. »
Abattant sa main sur la table, Susan a pointé son doigt vers Deanna et a éclaté d'un rire sec. « Tu as fait de ton mieux ? Tu as l'audace de mêler l'équipe d'inspection à ça ? Crois-tu que je ne sais pas ce que toi et tes collègues de l'hôpital êtes en train de faire ? Gillian m'a tout raconté sur la façon dont tu l'as maltraitée, et elle a quand même essayé de te couvrir. »
Elle a fait une pause avant de donner un ordre sec : « Très bien ! Si elle refuse de reconnaître ses torts, emmenez-la au sous-sol et enfermez-la. Elle sortira quand elle sera prête à avouer. Comme elle est si têtue, ne vous donnez pas la peine de la nourrir. Veillez simplement à ce qu'elle ait assez d'eau pour rester en vie ! »
Deanna la fixait avec incrédulité. Était-ce vraiment en train de se passer aujourd'hui ? Comment pouvaient-ils parler de l'enfermer dans une cave et de la laisser mourir de faim comme si ce n'était rien ?
Au lieu de répliquer, elle a tourné les yeux vers Connor.
Elle ne pouvait s'en empêcher. Une partie d'elle-même voulait toujours savoir ce qu'il pensait vraiment.
Quand Connor l'a finalement regardée, ses yeux étaient froids. « Prends ton temps et réfléchis-y. Gillian a perdu son enfant, et tu dois en répondre. »
« Pourquoi te donner la peine de discuter avec elle, Connor ? Jette-la simplement dans le sous-sol. Prive-la de nourriture pendant trois jours. Peut-être qu'elle arrêtera alors de se donner des airs. » Kristina n'avait jamais caché son aversion pour Deanna.
Elle avait toujours pensé que Connor avait été forcé à se marier. Depuis que Deanna avait rejoint leur famille, Kristina faisait tout son possible pour lui rendre la vie difficile.
Ignorant complètement Kristina, Deanna gardait les yeux fixés sur Connor. L'opinion de Kristina ne signifiait rien pour elle. Seule celle de Connor importait.
Avec une lueur d'espoir dans le regard, elle s'est tournée vers lui et a dit : « Connor, je ne ferais jamais de mal à Gillian. Je suis médecin. Je me soucie de chaque patient. Tu parles toujours d'être raisonnable. Ne peux-tu pas me montrer la même équité que celle en laquelle tu prétends croire ? »
L'espoir brillait dans les yeux de Deanna tandis qu'elle scrutait son visage.
Sa supplique n'avait rien à voir avec le fait de vouloir un traitement spécial. Tout ce qu'elle souhaitait, c'était simplement de l'équité. Elle voulait que quelqu'un examine les faits et lui dise la vérité derrière tout cela.
C'était tout ce qu'elle lui avait demandé.
Pourtant, à la fin, elle restait déçue.
Ramenée à la maison par le majordome de la famille, Deanna a été conduite directement au sous-sol.
La porte s'est refermée, la séparant de Connor et l'isolant du monde extérieur.
Son pouls s'est accéléré, la panique l'envahissant. À travers l'étroite fente, elle a aperçu une dernière fois le regard distant de Connor. Son regard était vide, sans ch**eur ni regret.
Le regard froid qu'il lui a lancé a figé Deanna sur place. Elle sentait son cœur s'accélérer en le voyant disparaître derrière la porte.
Le temps a perdu tout son sens alors qu'elle était assise dans la pièce plongée dans le noir.
Tout ce qu'elle pouvait dire, c'était que le sol était moite sous ses mains et que l'air pesait lourdement sur elle.
De temps à autre, quelque chose de petit passait en courant, rendant le silence encore plus difficile à supporter.
Elle est passée d'un sentiment de cœur brisé à un sentiment de vide total. À un moment donné, elle s'est simplement effondrée sur le sol froid, son cœur abandonnant lentement l'homme qu'elle avait autrefois aimé.
Elle ne pouvait pas deviner combien d'heures ou de jours avaient passé dans l'obscurité.
Finalement, la porte du sous-sol s'est ouverte en grinçant et la lumière du soleil a envahi le sol, l'obligeant à se protéger les yeux.
Debout dans la lumière éblouissante, Connor a demandé d'un ton neutre : « As-tu admis tes torts ? »
Si elle répondait oui, il la renverrait immédiatement à l'hôpital pour s'occuper de Gillian.
Mais en entendant ces mots, Deanna a compris que le peu d'amour qu'elle lui portait avait définitivement disparu.
Pourtant, elle refusait de renoncer, s'accrochant à quelque chose qu'elle ne pouvait pas vraiment nommer.
C'était peut-être le poids de trois années passées ensemble. C'était peut-être l'espoir que Connor la voie enfin telle qu'elle était.
« Je n'ai jamais fait de mal à Gillian. J'ai fait tout mon possible pour la sauver. Si tu me le permets, j'irai à l'hôpital et je découvrirai la vérité. Je te demande seulement une dernière chance, Connor. N'est-ce pas raisonnable ? », a supplié Deanna avec des yeux remplis d'espoir.
« Une dernière chance ? » Les yeux de Connor étincelaient d'un amusement froid. « Tu veux dire plus de temps pour cacher ce que tu as fait ? »
Le chagrin envahissait toujours Deanna, même si elle avait essayé de se préparer à ce moment.
Se levant péniblement du sol, elle a fait face à son mari et a demandé : « Après tout ce que nous avons traversé, as-tu déjà ressenti quelque chose pour moi ? »
Pendant une fraction de seconde, Connor a hésité. Puis un rire ironique, vide de toute gaieté, lui a échappé.
Ce rire l'a frappée plus durement que n'importe quel coup. Il lui a fait comprendre qu'elle s'était accrochée à un espoir qui n'avait jamais existé.
« Cela signifie donc jamais. Je me suis vraiment fait des illusions », a-t-elle murmuré, le teint devenu fantomatique.
Un rire amer lui a échappé. « Dans ce cas, mettons fin à tout cela. Divorçons ! »
Connor s'est figé, la fixant comme si elle avait dit quelque chose d'impossible. Ses sourcils se sont froncés et son regard s'est durci.
Il s'attendait à ce qu'elle avoue sa culpabilité après une nuit passée au sous-sol. Il pensait qu'elle céderait, qu'elle démissionnerait de son poste à l'hôpital et qu'elle se soumettrait comme elle l'avait toujours fait.
Il n'aurait jamais imaginé qu'elle serait celle qui évoquerait le divorce.
Pour lui, son refus de céder était ridicule, voire provocateur.
En voyant son expression changer, Deanna a senti un rire creux monter dans sa poitrine et a baissé la tête.
Il était normal qu'il soit surpris. Elle avait passé trois ans à obéir au doigt et à l'œil.
Prenant une profonde inspiration, elle l'a regardé dans les yeux et a répété : « Connor, je veux divorcer. »
Sur ces mots, elle s'est retournée et a quitté le sous-sol.
Elle marchait lentement. La fièvre de la veille la tenait encore, et chaque ecchymose lui faisait mal. Le souvenir de ces petites créatures qui lui avaient effleuré les doigts l'a fait frissonner à nouveau.
Mais elle a continué d'avancer.
Elle avait pris la décision de quitter la maison, de tourner le dos à la famille Dixon et de mettre un terme à ce mariage qu'elle avait autrefois cru éternel.
Chapitre 3 Est-ce que Deanna avait vraiment changé
Deanna a quitté la Résidence Dixon avec seulement les vêtements qu'elle portait.
Derrière elle, les domestiques se sont mis à bavarder tout de suite.
« Dire qu'elle veut divorcer, et elle n'a même rien emporté ? Si elle tente de faire la fière, elle y arrive très mal. »
« Hein ? Elle se balade comme si elle était la reine du monde, mais tout le monde sait qu'elle n'a épousé cet homme que pour l'argent de la famille. On dit qu'elle n'a même pas co**hé avec son mari. »
« C'est probablement mieux comme ça. Une femme comme elle ne mérite pas cet homme, de toute façon. Je ne crois pas qu'elle ira vraiment jusqu'au divorce. »
« Allez. Que pourrait-elle bien gagner en tant que médecin ? Tout ce qu'elle dit, c'est du vent. Attendez voir, elle va craquer et démissionner pour pouvoir rester ici et s'occuper de Gillian à plein temps. »
« Si elle est vraiment si forte, pourquoi ne divorce-t-elle pas déjà ? »
Alors que Deanna s'éloignait de la maison, leurs moqueries disparaissaient derrière elle.
La fièvre l'avait épuisée. Elle était faible et tremblante.
Grâce à ses années de formation médicale, elle savait qu'elle frôlait l'effondrement.
Elle s'est maîtrisée et obligée à rester debout alors qu'elle attendait un taxi.
Une rafale est passée brusquement et une voiture noire élégante a filé à toute vitesse juste à côté d'elle.
Traversée par une vague de panique, Deanna a reculé en trébuchant et tout juste évité la voiture qui arrivait.
Pendant cette brève seconde, elle a aperçu le profil de Connor à travers la vitre. Il avait le visage aussi inexpressif qu'une dalle de pierre.
La vitre teintée est remontée en coupant définitivement Deanna du monde de Connor.
Elle est restée figée sur place, les lèvres tordues par un sourire triste et brisé.
Malgré trois ans de loyauté, elle se retrouvait seule dans la rue, rejetée comme une inconnue.
Alors que la voiture tournait au coin de la rue, le chauffeur a risqué un coup d'œil dans le rétroviseur et ses yeux se sont attardés sur la silhouette pâle de Deanna.
« Monsieur, on dirait qu'elle va s'effondrer. Si elle s'évanouit dans la rue, cela va faire parler. Cela pourrait nous causer des ennuis. »
Connor a ouvert les yeux, le regard froid et résolu. « C'est par sa faute que Gillian a perdu le bébé. Même si elle renonçait à tout, cela ne suffirait pas comme compensation. »
Sans être vu par son patron, le chauffeur a courbé les lèvres pour former un léger sourire narquois puis répondu : « Compris. »
Se perdant dans la circulation, la voiture a laissé Deanna à la merci du soleil impitoyable.
La chaleur scintillait autour d'elle, lui asséchait les lèvres et lui troublait la vision. Elle a essayé de chasser son désespoir en clignant des yeux, mais elle a failli perdre l'équilibre et a dû faire un effort pour rester debout.
Son cœur battait assez fort pour lui faire mal. Elle s'est serré la po**rine en respirant laborieusement.
Le monde a chaviré autour d'elle et ses bords se sont estompés.
Dans cet instant suspendu, elle a eu l'impression de flotter, légère comme une feuille qui s'était détachée de sa branche et tombait, impuissante.
Prise par le vertige et aveuglée par une brume de larmes, Deanna a aperçu un visage familier aux traits marqués dont les yeux stables devenaient tantôt nets, tantôt flous.
Elle a essayé de forcer ses paupières à s'ouvrir, mais l'épuisement l'en empêchait. Alors que ses sens s'estompaient, une voix lointaine et urgente l'a appelée par son nom. On entendait sa panique dans chaque syllabe.
Après un appel téléphonique paniqué, Theresa Lloyd, sa meilleure amie, s'était précipitée à l'hôpital, pour trouver Deanna déjà inconsciente, la peau froide et livide.
Bien qu'endormie, Deanna tremblait de manière incontrôlable et une sueur froide perlait sur son front. Elle frôlait la mort, à un souffle d'y sombrer pour de bon.
Le personnel d'obstétrique et de gynécologie s'est précipité à ses côtés et leurs voix soucieuses se sont élevées toutes en même temps.
Quand Nikolas Green, le directeur de l'hôpital, est arrivé, il a vu Deanna molle et sans vie sur le brancard. Le chagrin lui a tordu les traits.
« Elle a perdu énormément de s**g et a quand même fini cette opération. Pourtant, quand elle est elle-même tombée malade, elle a pris un taxi seule puis elle s'est effondrée juste à l'entrée. La famille Dixon n'a pas de cœur. »
Rebecca Oliver, l'infirmière en chef, avait le visage rouge d'indignation. Elle a pointé du doigt la chambre de Gillian. « Ils n'ont vraiment honte de rien. Deanna a frôlé la mort et, tout ce qui les préoccupe, c'est une autre femme. »
Bouillonnant de colère, infirmières et médecins ont vite placé Deanna dans une chambre privée.
Sa fièvre l'a tourmentée toute la nuit. Quand le jour s'est enfin levé et que Deanna a battu des paupières puis ouvert les yeux, elle s'est sentie fragile et épuisée et s'est effondrée contre les oreillers.
Vide, son regard errait sans but, tandis que le chaos de la veille lui revenait avec une précision cruelle.
La douleur est montée dans sa po**rine, brûlante et à vif. Elle avait passé trois ans passés à aimer un homme qui l'avait autrefois tenue tout contre lui, un homme qui ne lui laissait maintenant que des cicatrices.
Ramenant les genoux contre la po**rine, elle a caché son visage dans ses bras pendant que ses larmes coulaient en silence.
Tout ce temps, elle avait cru que son amour sincère serait réciproque. Pourtant, sa dévotion n'avait fait que la briser.
Elle s'était accrochée à l'espoir que ses efforts et son obéissance pourraient même réchauffer ce cœur glacial.
Comme ce rêve semblait insensé, maintenant !
Rétrospectivement, elle comprenait que les gens l'accusent d'avoir été naïve, même si le terme paraissait trop doux.
Quand elle s'est réveillée à nouveau, la lumière du soleil entrait par la fenêtre de l'hôpital.
La sueur froide avait rendu son corps tout collant. Elle s'est mis des vêtements propres.
Alors, ses collègues sont arrivés. En tête, Theresa tenait en équilibre une tasse de café fumante et un sac de petit-déjeuner dans ses bras.
« Deanna, enfin, te voilà debout », a dit Theresa en lui prenant la main avec soulagement. « Tu as failli me donner une crise cardiaque. L'espace d'un instant, j'ai cru que je ne te reverrais jamais. »
Deanna a esquissé un petit sourire. Theresa voyait toujours les choses de façon dramatique. « Je vais bien, maintenant. Ce n'est rien. »
« Deanna, concentre-toi juste sur ta guérison, je t'en prie. Les visites et les examens, on s'en occupera. Toute l'équipe a accepté de couvrir tes quarts, donc, pense à ton rétablissement et à rien d'autre », a fait remarquer un autre collègue, Ian Dale, d'une voix très chaleureuse.
Depuis son arrivée à l'Hôpital de la Miséricorde, Deanna avait fait monter le niveau en chirurgie cardiaque.
Lorsque la gr**sesse de Gillian avait requis une surveillance accrue, Deanna avait été transférée pour diriger l'obstétrique et la gynécologie.
Au début, certains des anciens avaient douté d'elle, mais, quand ils l'avaient vue en salle d'opération, même les sceptiques les plus obstinés s'étaient ralliés à sa cause.
Sous sa direction, le département avait beaucoup changé. Les taux de réussite chirurgicale avaient grimpé en flèche et la réputation de l'hôpital s'était beaucoup améliorée dans tout le pays.
Deanna avait eu du mal à gagner la loyauté et le respect de son équipe, mais, en ce moment-là, elle recevait leur soutien comme une bouée de sauvetage.
L'assurance d'Ian a été reprise par les autres membres de l'équipe, qui ont tous signifié leur accord en hochant la tête.
Deanna s'est autorisée à se détendre, sincèrement émue par leur soutien.
Une fois que ses collègues sont retournés au travail, Deanna a demandé à Theresa, qui s'attardait près de son lit : « Sais-tu où est mon téléphone ? »
Thérèse s'est immédiatement méfiée. « Ne me dis pas que tu envisages de rappeler Connor. Tu n'en as pas assez qu'il t'ignore ? Si tu espères encore arranger les choses entre vous, attends au moins d'avoir repris des forces. Tu ne peux pas continuer à tout donner à un homme qui ne fait que prendre. »
Deanna a réussi à afficher un sourire en coin las. Elle ne ressentait plus de chagrin, car elle avait déjà décidé de lâcher prise.
« Non, ça n'a rien à voir avec lui. Je veux juste consulter les nouvelle », a-t-elle dit en secouant la tête.
Elle ne connaissait que trop bien les habitudes de Gillian. Après avoir perdu le bébé, Gillian aller s'assurer d'avoir l'air innocente, pleurer pour attirer la sympathie, se présenter comme une victime et imputer toute la responsabilité de la tragédie à Deanna.
Cette fois, les accusations de Gillian iraient plus loin que les rumeurs qui couraient dans la famille Dixon. Gillian allait s'adresser à la foule et raconter des mensonges pour gâcher la réputation de Deanna partout.
Deanna a repensé aux années où Gillian s'était comportée en amie. Elle ne l'avait fait que pour préparer le terrain de cette trahison.
Au bout de trois ans de gentillesse, Gillian avait fini par lui planter un co**eau dans le dos.
Tous les titres et tous les articles que Deanna parcourait prouvaient qu'elle avait raison.
Theresa l'a regardée et n'a pu cacher son agacement. « Pourquoi prends-tu même la peine de regarder ? Je t'avais avertie que Gillian n'était pas aussi gentille qu'elle le prétendait. C'est une vipère et tu continues à te faire mordre parce que tu refuses l'évidence. Tu disais qu'elle était ton amie parce qu'elle avait "bon cœur". Eh bien, maintenant, tout Internet est convaincu que c'est toi la méchante. Et Connor ? Cet homme est à désespérer de tout ! On se demande comment il a pu devenir PDG. Il est complètement à côté de la plaque ! »
Deanna est restée muette et concentrée sur le téléphone qu'elle tenait.
Tous les articles était dirigés contre elle et contre l'Hôpital de la Miséricorde. Connor et la famille Dixon n'étaient pas du tout mentionnés.
Pour les médecins, la réputation, c'était primordial. Pour un hôpital, c'était la survie même.
Deanna pouvait supporter les accusations que le monde lui jetait, mais elle ne pouvait pas accepter la destruction de l'endroit qu'elle avait travaillé si dur à construire.
L'attaque de Gillian était sans pitié et tombait à pic, mais Gillian ne comprenait pas que l'expertise que Deanna avait utilisée pour lui sauver la vie pourrait servir tout aussi efficacement à la détruire.
Après tout, une cardiopathie congénitale ne disparaissait jamais réellement, elle nécessitait des soins constants et, si l'on n'en tenait pas compte, on risquait gros.
Deanna trouvait cela presque amusant : elle s'était dévouée à fond alors que Gillian comprenait très mal ce qui était vraiment en jeu.
Du coin de l'œil, Theresa a remarqué le sourire faible et presque dangereux de Deanna et frissonné.
« Deanna, euh, que t'arrive-t-il ? Je sais que tu as connu l'enfer, mais tu me fais peur, là. Bon, je ne traiterai plus jamais Connor d'id**t ni Gillian de vipère, je te le promets. »
Deanna a levé les yeux et vu le visage inquiet de Theresa. Alors, elle a compris que son ancienne habitude de défendre Connor avait empêché son amie de comprendre la situation.
Sa gorge la brûlait à chaque mot, mais elle a répondu avec une résolution tranquille : « Honnêtement, tu as raison, Theresa. Je le comprends enfin, à présent. »
Elle a terminé son verre d'eau, c'est calée contre son oreiller, a fermé les yeux et a laissé Thérèse écarquiller les siens, complètement stupéfaite.
Que venait-il de se passer ?
Est-ce que Deanna avait vraiment changé ?
Theresa avait passé des années à se faire gronder à chaque fois qu'elle critiquait Connor. Maintenant, est-ce que Deanna était réellement d'accord avec elle ?
Incrédule, Theresa s'est pincé le bras assez fort pour y laisser une marque. Comme le prouvait sa douleur, elle avait bien entendu la réponse de Deanna.
Chapitre 4 J'ai décidé de mettre fin à mon mariage
Deanna a fermé les yeux, une douce tristesse pesant sur son esprit.
Trois années s'étaient écoulées, et elle s'était sentie épuisée bien plus souvent qu'elle n'avait pu le compter. Pourtant, même dans ses moments les plus difficiles, elle s'était accrochée à la moindre lueur qu'elle avait aperçue.
Chaque fois que Connor souriait, elle l'interprétait comme si cela signifiait quelque chose de plus.
À cet instant précis, Deanna a compris à quel point l'amour pouvait se transformer en un mensonge confortable.
Connor n'avait même pas besoin de lever le petit doigt. Il existait simplement, et elle est retombée, encore et encore, dans son dé**r pour lui.
Après trois longues années, elle a compris qu'elle ne pouvait plus se mentir et qu'elle devait lâcher prise.
Pour une fois, elle a dormi profondément, libérée des ombres de la maladie de Gillian et du besoin épuisant de gagner la faveur de Connor. La paix qu'elle trouvait dans ses rêves était pure et sans trouble.
Lorsqu'elle a ouvert les yeux, Theresa était assise près d'elle, en train d'éplucher une orange. De faibles murmures d'autres patients ont traversé la porte entrouverte.
« Deanna Carter ? La médecin qui travaille ici ? »
« Ça doit être elle. On dit qu'elle est cheffe du service d'obstétrique et de gynécologie à l'Hôpital de la Miséricorde. Qui d'autre correspondrait à cette description ? »
« Oh là là, c'est vraiment elle ! On devrait peut-être demander un autre médecin ? Je me suis battue bec et ongles pour avoir ce bébé. Je ne peux pas prendre le moindre risque. »
« Je pense aussi demander quelqu'un d'autre. Tu as vu les infos ? Il circule une rumeur selon laquelle cette médecin oblige ses patientes à acheter des médicaments à base de plantes hors de prix dans une seule pharmacie, et les frais de traitement suffiraient à acheter une maison entière. »
« Sérieusement ? C'est absurde ! Elle fait tout ça pour l'argent ? Elle a perdu la tête ou quoi ? »
« Exactement. Elle n'a plus aucune décence. Elle ferait n'importe quoi pour de l'argent. J'ai même entendu dire que des scandales passés étaient étouffés par l'hôpital, mais que cette fois, tout a éclaté parce que quelqu'un de la famille Dixon était blessé à cause d'elle. »
« C'est horrible ! Je devrais changer de médecin. J'ai obtenu ce bébé par F*V. S'il arrivait quoi que ce soit, je ne me le pardonnerais jamais. »
« À quoi bon changer de médecin ? Autant aller dans un autre hôpital. Ils sont tous pareils, corrompus jusqu'à l'os ! »
En entendant ces paroles dures, le front de Deanna s'est plissé.
Theresa semblait prête à se lever d'un bond pour les affronter, la colère brillant dans ses yeux, mais Deanna a tendu la main pour l'arrêter.
« Deanna ! Laisse-moi m'occuper de ces femmes. Elles ne savent rien et répandent des ragots ignobles. Tu es bien plus talentueuse qu'elles ne le comprendront jamais. De quel droit parlent-elles ainsi ? », a dit Theresa, incapable de cacher son indignation.
Impassible face aux commérages, Deanna a répondu : « Qu'elles parlent. Honnêtement, leurs inquiétudes se comprennent. Toute femme qui porte un enfant devient une lionne, prête à protéger chaque battement et chaque frémissement. Elles ignorent ce dont je suis capable ; elles n'entendent que des rumeurs et se fient au nom qui leur paraît le plus sûr. Tout ce que ces mères veulent, c'est mettre au monde un bébé en bonne santé. Il est difficile de leur en vouloir pour cela. »
Elle estimait que la véritable faute revenait à ceux qui avaient sali son nom et terni la réputation de l'hôpital.
« Et maintenant ? », a demandé Theresa, qui avait toujours admiré Deanna. La voir jugée de manière aussi injuste lui a fait mal.
« Ça ne peut pas continuer ainsi. Les gens doivent comprendre que la compétence d'un médecin ne fait pas tout, l'intégrité et la confiance comptent tout autant. »
Le poids de la situation a laissé Theresa abattue.
Chaque fois que Gillian ou Connor étaient impliqués, les décisions de Deanna pouvaient parfois s'emmêler avec ses émotions.
L'inquiétude rongeait Theresa, craignant que le cœur de Deanna ne la détourne de sa voie et ne lui fasse perdre tout ce pour quoi elle s'était battue.
Voyant l'angoisse gravée sur le visage de Theresa, Deanna a offert une assurance calme. « Ne t'inquiète pas. J'ai un plan, et je vais le mener à terme. »
Cette réponse n'a guère rassuré Theresa.
Un plan ?
Quel genre de plan ?
Deanna allait-elle encore encaisser les reproches et laisser les autres lui marcher dessus ?
Ces pensées ont plongé Theresa dans une spirale de frustration, et elle s'est pris la tête entre les mains, brûlant d'envie de se défouler sur quelque chose.
Pendant ce temps, Deanna gardait ses pensées pour elle.
Alors que la colère de Theresa montait, Deanna a dit d'un ton léger : « Je n'ai pas apporté de vêtements. Peux-tu m'en acheter de nouveaux ? Je dois d'abord aller divorcer. »
En évoquant le divorce, le visage de Deanna est resté calme, comme si elle mettait enfin à exécution une décision mûrie depuis longtemps.
L'impulsivité n'avait jamais fait partie de son caractère.
Dans tous les autres aspects de sa vie, elle avait toujours pesé chaque pas avec soin, sauf lorsqu'il s'agissait de Connor, pour qui elle s'était sacrifiée encore et encore.
Theresa est restée figée en entendant ces mots. « Deanna, j'ai bien entendu ? » Elle la fixait, les yeux écarquillés, incapable de comprendre ce qu'elle venait d'entendre.
« Oui, j'ai décidé de mettre fin à mon mariage. Le problème, c'est que je n'ai rien à me mettre pour l'occasion. Tu pourrais m'aider pour ça ? », a répété Deanna, toujours aussi posée.
« Ah ! » Le cri jaillissait de Theresa lorsqu'elle jetait ses bras autour de Deanna, la serrant si fort que Deanna croyait manquer d'air, jusqu'à ce que Theresa finisse par la relâcher.
Les larmes bordaient les yeux de Theresa lorsqu'elle reculait, ses paroles embrouillées par l'émotion.
Elle a réussi à rire nerveusement en disant : « Deanna, pendant une seconde, j'ai cru que tu retournerais à cette vie misérable. J'étais certaine que tu resterais enchaînée à Connor pour toujours. Au diable la famille Dixon ! Divorçons et laissons tout ça derrière nous. On repartira de zéro, toi et moi. »
Theresa a fouillé dans son sac pour attraper son téléphone, jetant des regards nerveux à Deanna comme si elle craignait qu'elle ne change d'avis.
Lorsqu'elle a joint sa secrétaire, son ton est devenu pressant et ferme. « Ça ne peut pas attendre ! Fais vite ! J'ai besoin d'un accord de divorce rédigé immédiatement ! »
Quand Deanna a précisé qu'elle ne voulait aucun des biens de Connor, Theresa a hésité un instant, puis a accepté à contrecœur.
Elle a dit au téléphone : « Oublie les biens. Deanna n'a que faire de ces broutilles. Que Connor garde tout. Assure-toi que l'accord de divorce arrive à l'Hôpital de la Miséricorde dans l'heure ! »
Theresa a raccroché et s'est précipitée vers la sortie en appelant par-dessus son épaule : « Deanna ! Tiens bon ! Je vais tout régler en un rien de temps ! »
Les lèvres de Deanna se sont étirées en un léger sourire tandis qu'elle regardait son amie s'éloigner en courant.
Theresa semblait terrifiée à l'idée qu'elle puisse changer d'avis.
Quand la porte s'est refermée derrière Theresa, Deanna a composé un numéro.
Depuis quelque temps, de plus en plus de gens se massaient à l'entrée de l'hôpital, appareils photo en main, et même si Nikolas gardait le silence, Deanna pressentait que des ennuis allaient arriver.
La réputation de l'hôpital était en jeu, et perdre la confiance des patients pouvait déclencher bien des conflits.
Cela signifiait qu'elle devait régler la situation de Gillian sans tarder.
À l'époque où elle était encore liée à Connor, Deanna devait tenir compte de l'avis de la famille Dixon.
À présent, libérée par son divorce imminent, elle se sentait capable de prendre des décisions audacieuses.
Elle n'a pas perdu de temps et s'est rendue au bureau de Nikolas pour remettre sa lettre de démission.
La mâchoire de Nikolas tombait lorsqu'il déchirait la lettre sous ses yeux. « Deanna ! Tu essaies de me provoquer une crise cardiaque ? Est-ce parce que je t'ai demandé de te reposer ? S'il te plaît, comprends-moi, avec toutes ces rumeurs et ta récente maladie, je voulais simplement te laisser prendre du repos. Pourquoi diable démissionner ? »
La main pressée contre sa po**rine, Nikolas a poursuivi : « Tu m'as fait une peur bleue. Prends ton congé. Ton salaire continuera d'être versé, et s'il y a quoi que ce soit à discuter, viens me voir. Mais promets-moi une chose, plus de lettres de démission ! »
Le sérieux de la voix de Nikolas correspondait à la dureté de son regard.
Perdre Deanna était hors de question. Elle faisait partie de ces talents rares, une chirurgienne née dont les compétences la distinguaient.
Il avait vu de nombreux médecins perdre leurs moyens avant des opérations, les mains tremblantes, les nerfs à vif, la sueur trempant leurs cols.
Pourtant, lorsque Deanna entrait au bloc opératoire, son excitation s'accompagnait toujours d'un calme remarquable.
Elle maniait le scalpel comme un artiste son pinceau, transformant chaque geste en un acte de création plutôt qu'en une simple procédure.
La médecine représentait bien plus qu'un métier pour elle. Elle travaillait sans la fougue irréfléchie de la jeunesse et traitait chaque vie qu'elle touchait avec un profond respect.
De telles qualités faisaient cruellement défaut chez la plupart des autres qu'il avait formés.
Laisser partir Deanna revenait à perdre quelqu'un destiné à briller.
Poussé par cette pensée, Nikolas a lâché : « Est-ce à propos de Gillian ? Ou est-ce lié à Connor ? Dis-moi simplement comment tu veux que les choses soient gérées. Si je peux aider, je passerai moi-même des appels, j'organiserai des consultations, tout ce dont tu as besoin. »
Ses mots se sont bousculés, la désespérance asséchant sa gorge, mais la réponse de Deanna est venue avec un sourire entendu.
« M. Green, ma famille ne m'a accordé qu'une année de liberté, et je suis déjà restée plus longtemps que promis. Il est temps pour moi de rentrer. »
En entendant cela, Nikolas a senti ses espoirs s'effondrer, comme si on venait de lui jeter de l'eau glacée au visage.
Avec une fortune familiale se chiffrant en centaines de milliards et d'innombrables employés comptant sur son leadership, il n'y avait rien qu'il puisse dire pour la retenir.
Vaincu, Nikolas a ramassé les lambeaux de la lettre de démission dans la corbeille et la regardait avec tristesse.
« D'accord, je te laisse partir, mais tu dois me promettre une chose. Si jamais tu décides de revenir, tu seras toujours la bienvenue. »
Avant qu'elle ne puisse répondre, Nikolas a ajouté : « Et si jamais tu développes un nouveau traitement, tu devras d'abord le partager avec nous. Cet endroit sera toujours chez toi. »
Le sourire de Deanna s'est adouci. « Je te le promets. »
La nouvelle s'est répandue rapidement, et lorsque le service a appris qu'elle partait, un gé**ssement collectif a parcouru ses collègues.
Deanna s'est inclinée avec gratitude. « Merci à tous pour la gentillesse et le soutien que vous m'avez apportés au cours de ces trois dernières années. Je vous suis sincèrement reconnaissante pour tout. J'espère que nous nous reverrons bientôt. Avant de partir, je m'assurerai de régler la situation avec Gillian afin que personne n'ait à s'inquiéter. »
Chapitre 5 As-tu changé d'avis
Les médecins et les infirmiers du service entouraient Deanna, réticents à la laisser partir.
Pourtant, tout le monde savait que l'hôpital lui avait promis la liberté, dès qu'elle souhaiterait partir, personne ne se mettrait en travers de son chemin.
Personne n'osait la retenir.
Sa réputation rendait cela impossible.
À vingt-trois ans, Deanna avait déjà éclipsé ses pairs, qui se débattaient encore pour obtenir des postes dans les meilleurs hôpitaux, et elle est devenue une étoile montante que tout le monde voulait s'approprier.
Où qu'elle allait, son talent lui garantissait un accueil chaleureux.
Connor avait, pendant trois longues années, exercé son emprise sur Deanna. Maintenant qu'elle s'était libérée de son emprise, prendre ses distances lui semblait être le choix le plus naturel.
Cette décision était une bénédiction pour elle.
Cependant, au s**n du service, le ressentiment envers Gillian grandissait. Le personnel ne pouvait s'empêcher de la tenir pour responsable du départ de Deanna.
Des directeurs du niveau de Deanna, à la fois compétents et prêts à former les autres, étaient difficiles à trouver.
En avançant dans le couloir, Deanna a aperçu Theresa au loin.
Theresa, dégageant une grande autorité, dirigeait un petit groupe qui transportait des piles de vêtements.
« Où vas-tu, Deanna ? », a lancé Theresa.
En voyant les robes élégantes suspendues et la maquilleuse qui suivait derrière, Deanna a répondu sans hésiter : « Je vais voir Gillian. »
« Quoi ? » Theresa s'est figée, incrédule. La robe lui a échappé des mains et est tombée à ses pieds. « Alors, tu vas t'excuser auprès de Gillian ? »
Elle pensait que Deanna perdait encore une fois la tête.
Comprenant le malentendu, Deanna a ramassé la robe et la lui a rendue. « Ne t'en fais pas. Elle ne s'en sortira pas si facilement. »
Un sourire espiègle a traversé son visage tandis qu'elle relevait doucement le menton de Theresa. « Attends-moi dans ma chambre d'hôpital. Je n'en ai que pour trente minutes. »
La ponctualité de Deanna ne faisait jamais l'ombre d'un doute.
Exactement trente minutes plus tard, elle est sortie de la chambre de Gillian.
À l'intérieur, Gillian s'appuyait contre la tête de lit, et ses yeux ont croisé ceux de Judie dans une même stupeur. « Maman, tu ne trouves pas que Deanna agissait étrangement aujourd'hui ? »
Avec un sourire autosatisfait, Judie a répondu : « Qu'y a-t-il d'étrange dans son comportement ? Tu as pe**u le bébé, et la famille Dixon a rejeté toute la faute sur elle. À sa place, n'importe qui aurait l'air abattu en ce moment. »
L'inquiétude de Gillian ne faisait que s'approfondir. « Et si elle faisait le rapprochement et découvrait que j'ai fait une fausse co**he parce que j'ai pris un médicament ? »
Judie a écarté cette crainte d'un geste, sans hésiter. « Ne sois pas paranoïaque. Le médicament venait directement du laboratoire de ton cousin, un endroit où la sécurité est plus stricte que partout ailleurs dans le pays. Ton cousin a même utilisé le niveau d'autorisation le plus élevé de l'entreprise. Personne ne pourra remonter jusqu'à nous. »
Gillian s'est mordu la lèvre, toujours anxieuse. « Parle encore une fois à mon cousin. Deanna est du genre à ne jamais laisser passer le moindre détail, et si elle découvre la vérité, je pourrais perdre ma chance avec Connor. Nous ne pouvons pas nous permettre la moindre erreur. »
Judie a poussé un soupir fatigué et a répondu : « Bon, je vais lui faire un rappel. Si ton mari avait le moindre courage, nous ne tirerions pas autant de ficelles. »
Judie a tendu la main vers son téléphone, mais Gillian l'a vite arrêtée. « N'appelle pas là-bas, maman. Avec tant d'oreilles autour, c'est trop risqué. Parle d'ici. »
Judie a maugréé. « Tu t'inquiètes trop. » Malgré tout, elle a passé l'appel sur place et a chuchoté des instructions afin que chaque détail compromettant reste soigneusement enterré.
La personne à l'autre bout du fil l'a rassurée en la flattant légèrement, ce qui a fait éclater Judie de rire.
« Gillian a toute la famille Dixon dans sa poche. Ils n'ont rien remis en question, ils ont simplement accusé Deanna de la fa**se co**he sans chercher à comprendre. Avec le charme de Gillian, elle les a gérés sans difficulté. Détends-toi. Une fois qu'elle aura quitté ce sot d'Andrew et qu'elle aura épousé Connor, ton entreprise sera assurée. Nous sommes tous dans le même camp. Tu auras ta part quand nous aurons gagné. »
Son rire a retenti, franc et assuré.
Pendant ce temps, une minuscule lumière rouge d'enregistrement clignotait dans un coin sombre au-dessus d'elles, sans être remarquée.
De retour dans la chambre de Deanna, elle a retrouvé une scène débordante de vêtements.
L'infirmière à la porte ne pouvait s'empêcher de s'exclamer : « Deanna a vraiment besoin d'autant de tenues ? »
Theresa affichait un air très satisfait, les mains sur les hanches. « Elle mérite mieux que quelques pièces. La chambre est petite, alors je n'ai apporté que ce que je pouvais prendre. »
L'infirmière a surpris son propre dé**r d'avoir une amie comme Theresa.
À l'intérieur, Deanna a demandé à tous ceux qui n'étaient pas concernés d'attendre à l'extérieur de la chambre.
Ensuite, elle a appelé Connor.
Techniquement, l'appel est arrivé sur le téléphone de son secrétaire.
En trois ans de mariage, Deanna n'avait jamais réussi à joindre Connor directement. Chaque conversation passait par le secrétaire, et toutes ses demandes pour obtenir son numéro personnel étaient éludées. Toute cette situation était risible.
À l'insistance de Theresa, Deanna a mis l'appel en haut-parleur. Le secrétaire a répondu, déjà agacé. « Bonjour. Si tu as besoin de quelque chose, fais vite. Mon patron a des affaires importantes à régler. »
Theresa a senti sa colère monter face à l'arrogance de cette voix.
N'importe qui pouvait voir que le secrétaire avait adopté l'attitude même de Connor.
Au vu de son comportement, Theresa ne doutait pas un instant que l'arrogance de Connor, en personne, soit encore plus insupportable.
Tandis que Theresa bouillonnait, Deanna tendait la main pour l'apaiser et a dit froidement : « Fais savoir à Connor que la situation de Gillian a changé. Qu'il choisisse ou non d'écouter, cela le regarde. »
Le ton du secrétaire a changé en un instant, même s'il est resté impatient. « D'accord, un instant. »
La patience de Theresa a cédé, et elle s'est frappé la cuisse.
« Je suis certaine que tout cela vient des ordres de ce ru**re. Dès qu'il est question de Gillian, ils doivent le prévenir immédiatement. Quelle indignité ! »
Avant que Theresa ne puisse ajouter quoi que ce soit, la voix glaciale de Connor a retenti depuis le haut-parleur. « Qu'est-ce qui se passe avec Gillian ? »
Deanna a répondu : « Gillian va bien. En fait, j'appelle pour parler de notre divorce. »
La ligne est restée silencieuse un instant, puis Connor a laissé échapper un ricanement qui a à peine dissimulé son irritation. « As-tu changé d'avis ? »
Theresa semblait sur le point d'exploser, mais elle s'est retenue pour Deanna, en ravalant sa frustration jusqu'à en avoir le visage écarlate.
Deanna est restée ma**resse d'elle-même. Après des années de négligence, elle savait dompter ses émotions, et le mépris de Connor l'effleurait à peine.
« Non, pas du tout. Je suis disponible cet après-midi. Retrouve-moi au tribunal à quatorze heures et finissons-en », a-t-elle dit.
Un long silence a suivi avant que Connor ne réponde : « Alors, tu mets vraiment un terme à tout cela ? Deanna, je n'ai pas le temps pour tes jeux. Assure-toi que c'est bien ce que tu veux. »
Deanna a répondu sans hésiter : « J'ai déjà pris ma décision. Je te verrai au tribunal à quatorze heures. »
Après avoir regardé l'horloge, elle a ajouté : « Tu recevras l'accord de divorce signé à ton bureau dans cinq minutes. C'est tout ce que j'avais à dire. Je ne te prendrai pas davantage de temps. »
À peine Deanna a-t-elle terminé que l'appel s'est coupé dans un déclic.
Le bip strident a résonné dans le bureau de Connor.
Quelques instants plus tard, le secrétaire a passé la tête à l'intérieur, puis s'est arrêté net en voyant l'expression glaciale de Connor.
La tension suffisait à faire hésiter quiconque avant d'entrer.
« Qu'y a-t-il encore ? » Le ton de Connor montrait qu'il n'avait aucune patience pour les interruptions.
Sans délai, le secrétaire s'est avancé et a posé un dossier sur le bureau. « Ceci vient d'arriver pour vous, monsieur. C'est un document juridique à votre nom. »
Connor l'a ouvert et s'est retrouvé face à l'accord de divorce. La signature de Deanna était déjà apposée, laissant une seule ligne vide pour la sienne.
Les conditions étaient simples, et Deanna voulait quitter ce mariage sans rien emporter.
Avec un ricanement, Connor a rejeté l'accord sur son bureau.
Sa femme hypocrite avait un certain talent pour manipuler. Faire semblant de ne pas s'en soucier devait devenir sa nouvelle stratégie.
Connor s'est convaincu que les actes de Deanna n'étaient qu'une autre tentative pour attirer son attention, et il trouvait toute cette comédie méprisable.
Le secrétaire a lancé un regard au document et a laissé échapper un rire sec, moqueur.
« Qu'est-ce qu'elle vise, cette fois ? Elle croit vraiment que cela effacera sa part dans la fa**se co**he de Gillian ? Elle doit penser qu'elle est plus intelligente que tout le monde. »
Chaque mot dégoulinait de sarcasme, à peine voilé.
Le regard de Connor n'a pas faibli. « Si elle est si décidée à en finir, alors faisons-le. Je veux voir quel coup elle tentera au palais de justice. »
Sans attendre, Connor a libéré son après-midi de toute autre obligation.
Connor attendait avec impatience de voir Deanna le supplier de rester mariée.
Il ne lui est jamais venu à l'esprit que Deanna pesait chacun de ses mots et qu'elle voulait réellement mettre fin à leur mariage pour de bon.
......
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&3&
As a substitute, she wanted to leave but was rejected. She thought her husband might start to have feelings for her, but as it turned out, he simply wanted to wait for his first love to return before getting rid of her. Faced with their intimacy, she taught the sc**bag and his mistress a good lesson and left without hesitation, focusing on her career. However, her unfaithful ex-husband actually began to pester her...
=====
"We'll divorce on Monday. Aside from the compensation in the agreement, you may request anything else you need."
Kristian Shaw, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, exuded an air of cold detachment. His voice firm and emotionless.
His piercing gaze settled on the silent woman opposite him, his eyes inscrutable.
"Why so sudden?" Freya Briggs asked, her voice quieter than usual.
Kristian's answer was blunt. "Ashley is back."
Freya knew exactly who Ashley was. After a brief pause, she replied, "Okay."
Kristian hesitated, caught off guard by her immediate acceptance.
Freya opened the divorce papers, her thoughts drifting to the past.
Two years ago, they had met at a n**htclub. She had been weighed down by worries; he had been nursing a broken heart.
A few drinks later, they found solace in each other's company, talking late into the night.
There had been no impulsive o*e-n**ht st*nd--just a quiet parting afterward.
Three days later, he had returned with his assistant to propose marriage. And she had agreed.
After getting married, he had treated her well--tending to her needs, drying her hair with gentle hands, and solving her problems before she even voiced them.
Their relationship had been perfect--until six months ago, when a single phone call changed everything.
Overnight, he grew distant, his warmth replaced by icy indifference.
That was when she learned the truth: Kristian had married her because she bore a faint resemblance to his lost love, Ashley Bradley.
The memory made Freya press her lips together before she asked lightly, "You said I could ask for compensation, right?"
"Yes," Kristian replied flatly.
"Anything I want?" She lifted her gaze to him, her delicate face devoid of its usual brightness.
For a fleeting moment, guilt flickered in his ch*st. "Yes."
He had already resolved to grant her reasonable demands.
After all, she had been good to him all the time.
Freya's voice was steady. "Then I want the most expensive car in your garage."
"Fine," Kristian agreed.
"A villa in the suburbs," she added.
"Done," he said.
Freya smiled. "And a share of the money you've earned in the last two years."
For the first time, Kristian's composure cracked. His eyes narrowed slightly, as if questioning whether he'd heard correctly. "What did you say?"
Freya, unfazed, repeated her demand.
"Our earnings during the marriage count as marital property, don't they? Based on my calculations--excluding investments--your salary and dividends over the last two years amount to several billion. I don't want much--just 40%."
A heavy silence settled between them.
Then, she added, as if casually mentioning the weather, "Of course, you're welcome to take 40% of my income too."
Kristian's patience finally snapped. "Freya!" His voice carried an edge of disbelief.
Had he really felt guilty earlier? How had he never noticed her greed?
Freya met his gaze evenly. "Is that not acceptable?"
Absolutely not.
Kristian dismissed the idea instantly.
"Then forget it." Freya set down her pen. "Next time I see your family, I'll bring up your emotional infidelity. I'm sure they'll take my side."
Kristian's expression darkened, his stare turning glacial. He hadn't anticipated this side of her--realizing now that her past docility had been an act.
"Do you really want to negotiate with me like this?" he demanded.
"Yes." Freya held his gaze without flinching. She knew he despised threats--but she despised infidelity more.
"Fine." Kristian's eyes turned stormy, his voice glacial. "You'll get what you want. But if the divorce hits complications, you'll regret it."
Freya leaned back in her chair, her tone razor-sharp. "Kristian Shaw, is that a threat?"
This version of her was foreign to Kristian. For two years, she'd been the picture of compliance--gentle, accommodating, never defiant. Now, she met his anger with unshakable calm.
"No." Already calculating countermeasures, he bit out, "You'll have the assets. We divorce on Monday."
Freya's lashes lowered briefly before she added, "One more condition."
"Speak." His patience frayed.
"Take me shopping tomorrow." She ignored the frost radiating from him. "Afterward, we'll tell your family together that I ended things."
"Deal," Kristian conceded.
With that, he strode toward the door, unable to stomach another second in her presence.
Earlier, he'd even considered granting her a grace period to process the divorce.
How laughable. She couldn't wait to carve up his fortune and be rid of him.
Had Freya been able to read his thoughts, she might have laughed and said, "That little money? Do you really think I care?"
Kristian reached the door and halted. Without turning around, he said, "I won't be back tonight. I'll pick you up at nine tomorrow morning. Make a list of the stores you want to visit."
Freya's voice followed him, calm but laced with something sharp. "Are you going to see Ashley Bradley?"
Kristian's jaw tightened. "That's none of your business."
Freya let out a quiet breath, as if she had already expected that answer. "I don't tolerate cheating," she said plainly. "So before the divorce is finalized, you'd better not end up in b*d with her."
Kristian whirled back, looming over her.
Freya didn't blink. "What? Can't endure two more days?"
"I understand your bitterness," he said, eerily composed, "but lashing out won't help. This is a divorce, not war."
Freya blinked at him. For a moment, she was at a loss for words. This man was truly shameless.
Kristian didn't wait for a response. "Good night." And with that, he turned and left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Freya's gaze drifted down to the divorce papers still lying on the table. She stood there for a long time, unmoving.
To say she felt nothing would have been a lie. She wasn't made of stone.
The moment she discovered she was nothing more than a stand-in, the hurt had settled deep in her bones.
Kristian had been her first love. In twenty-four years, no one else had breached her defenses.
Before the betrayal, he'd been perfection itself--attentive, steady, silencing every doubt with his quiet devotion.
So when she learned of Ashley, she'd offered to leave. To free him. But he'd refused.
Chapter 2 Kristian Was Pure S**mbag
The reason behind Kristian's refusal was simple. Before Ashley returned, he needed someone to manage his elders at home--and Freya, adored by his parents and grandpa, was the obvious choice.
But sometimes, Freya couldn't help but wonder--did he really think she was a f*ol? Otherwise, why would he assume she'd play along in hiding his a**air?
Now, with his sudden demand for divorce, frustration simmered inside her.
Even after six months of steeling herself, a stubborn flicker of emotion remained.
She let out a slow breath, crossed to the sofa, and grabbed her phone.
She tapped the contact labeled "Fred"--untouched for two years--and typed, "Check if Shaw Group's facing any issues. And find out if Kristian's terminally ill."
Fred's replies exploded onto the screen instantly.
"Holy--Freya?!"
"Never thought I'd hear from you again!"
"Two years, Freya. TWO."
"Where've you been?!"
She didn't bother explaining.
Mood sour, she fired back a single word, "Check."
Fred caved. "On it!"
She tossed the phone aside and waited.
If Kristian was divorcing her to spare her some tragedy, she'd forgive him--maybe even help.
But if he was just an unfaithful j**k? She'd drop him without a second thought.
Thirty minutes later, her phone buzzed with Fred's verdict.
"Zero troubles. No illness, no crisis. Why the h*ll are you asking? Kristian's loaded, hot, and sharp--you two are a match. Don't you like pretty boys? Give it a shot!"
She ignored the jab and shot back, "You are so blind."
Then she silenced her phone.
No external factors meant only one thing--Kristian was pure s*um.
Fred stared at his screen, baffled. Did Freya wake up in a mood today?
Freya's gaze landed on the divorce papers. After a pause, she snatched a pen, scrawled her name, and shoved them into a drawer. Then she headed for the shower.
When she emerged, her phone was a disaster--dozens of unread messages and 32 missed calls.
No guessing needed. Frederick Price--aka Fred--had clearly blabbed about her resurrection to the entire world.
Towel draped over her damp hair, she reached for her phone--only for it to ring again.
The caller ID flashed; it was her father.
Her ch*st tightened. Two years of silence, and now he called?
She'd left Alerith City due to a situation involving her mother, and neither had she reached out to her father nor had he contacted her--until now.
After a pause, she answered coolly. "Hello."
Silence.
Freya, never one for patience, was about to hang up when Hugh Briggs' raspy voice cut through. "Mina."
That name clawed at buried memories.
"What do you want?" she asked flatly.
Hugh hesitated, guilt threading his words. "Frederick told me you reached out. Said you were digging into Kristian. Need help?"
"No." Freya had no interest in his involvement.
A beat passed before Hugh ventured, "What's your relationship with him?"
"A couple." She let the word hang. "About to divorce."
Hugh's
breath hitched. She was married?
"You--" he started.
"If that's all, I'm done." Freya didn't want to waste any more breath on him.
"Wait!" he rushed.
She held her tongue.
The line crackled with tension.
Finally, he muttered, "When are you coming back? That woman's gone."
Then, hastily, he added, "Your mom's belongings are untouched."
Her fingers tightened around the phone. For a flicker, emotion crossed her face--then vanished. "Noted."
She hung up before he could protest.
Hugh stared at the dead line, frustration curdling in his ch*st. He hadn't even asked about her marriage.
Freya didn't spare him another thought. She flicked her phone to airplane mode, towel-dried her hair, and collapsed into b*d.
The night passed without dreams.
By eight the next morning, she was up--dressed and breakfasted.
Today, she'd taken care with her makeup. Her skin glowed; her lips, naturally full, needed no enhancement. But her eyes--sharp, luminous--were the real weapon.
Her smile was bright, bringing a warmth that could instantly lift anyone's spirits.
When Kristian arrived, she was already waiting on the sofa. Her shoulder-length hair was pinned back, bangs swept up under a black beret.
At the sight of him, she rose gracefully, reaching for a coat and draping it over her shoulder.
"Let's go." She grabbed her purse, her tone composed and unbothered.
Kristian didn't move. His tailored suit emphasized his height as he said, "Not today."
Freya stilled.
"I have other commitments." His voice was indifferent. His gaze lingered--too long--on her face. "Tomorrow."
"Kristian Shaw." Her tone was a warning.
He disliked it instantly.
"I put on makeup today," she said, her voice deceptively calm but carrying an unmistakable edge.
"If you want our divorce to go smoothly on Monday, push aside whatever plans you have. I don't deal with people who break their promises."
Kristian's eyes narrowed.
After a silent calculation, he stepped out to make a call. Fragments floated back--Ashley... hospital... follow-up.
Freya's grip on her purse turned white-knuckled. Inside, she seethed. Even now, Ashley occupied his thoughts completely.
Kristian missed Freya's fury. All he saw was how she shone today--vibrant, untamed. Nothing like the subdued woman he knew.
After hanging up, he inquired where she wanted to shop. Freya mentioned the largest luxury mall in town.
This wasn't shopping. This was a spree. By 10 AM, the four bodyguards trailed behind her like pack mules--arms stacked with watches, jewels, designer bags.
Kristian's phone chimed nonstop with alerts.
As Freya strode into yet another jewelry boutique, his jaw hardened. This wasn't retail therapy; she was intentionally trying to irritate him.
Chapter 3 Why Hurt Ashley?
Gerard Todd, Kristian's ever-dutiful assistant, hesitated for a moment before asking, "Sir, should I go ahead and book a restaurant?"
Kristian massaged his temples, irritation flashing across his face. "No need."
He knew Freya was venting her frustration. If splurging eased her temper, so be it--he'd let her spend freely.
The moment the words left his mouth, his phone vibrated. Another alert flashed--over thirty million had just vanished from his account.
Gerard averted his eyes, while the four bodyguards stood stiffly, arms laden with shopping bags like silent, overburdened mules.
Freya strode out of the jewelry boutique and casually handed her latest purchase to Gerard, whose hands were conspicuously empty.
Just as she turned to continue her spree, Kristian's phone rang.
His posture shifted instantly. The tension in his shoulders eased, his frown softening as he glanced at the caller ID.
Long fingers cradled the phone, his voice uncharacteristically tender as he answered. "Hello, Ashley."
Gerard and the bodyguards exchanged startled glances. Had their boss forgotten Freya was standing right there?
"Ashley was in a car accident on her way to a hospital follow-up. She's unconscious--still in surgery," the voice on the line blurted, frantic.
"Please come. She kept calling your name before they took her in."
"Send the address. I'm on my way." Kristian's ch*st constricted, the words sharp with urgency.
He ended the call, his gaze flickering to Freya.
An explanation hovered on his lips, but he swallowed it. Instead, he turned to Gerard and the bodyguards.
"Stay with her. Buy whatever she wants. If it doesn't fit in the car, have it delivered by this afternoon."
"Yes, sir," the five men chorused.
Without another word, Kristian strode off, leaving Freya and the others in his wake.
An uncomfortable silence settled over the group.
Gerard adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, forcing a polished smile. "Mrs. Shaw, don't worry. Mr. Shaw will return once he handles matters."
"What a loyal employee," Freya murmured, her tone laced with something unreadable.
Gerard blinked, thrown by her response.
Freya studied the mall's glittering chandeliers, her voice deliberate.
"Being his assistant is one thing. But cleaning up his messes? Tell me, Gerard--have you ever seen a man ditch his wife mid-date to run to his mi**ress?"
The bodyguards stiffened; Gerard's smile froze.
For a heartbeat, all five men stared at her with something dangerously close to pity.
This might be the price of marrying into wealth--knowing her husband had left her for another woman while she was expected to swallow the insult.
"Save the sympathy." Freya scoffed, amused by their expressions. She gestured to the bags weighing them down.
"A single one of those could cover your salary for a year. Maybe ten."
The blow landed perfectly.
She pressed, "Well, anything you'd like?"
Five pairs of eyes widened in unison.
Freya's mind worked in ways they couldn't follow.
"Since he's off playing hero for his darling, let's put his money to better use." She twirled the black card between her fingers, her voice quieter now.
The sting surprised her. She hadn't realized Kristian's departure would still claw at her.
Right now, all she wanted was to drain his account dry.
Gerard and the bodyguards gaped.
Delighted by their shock, Freya resumed shopping, the card clutched like a weapon.
She assumed Kristian would linger at the hospital all day. But as she sat down to eat, he appeared like a storm, his presence slicing through the restaurant's warmth.
Before anyone could react, he seized Freya's wrist and hauled her toward the parking area, his grip ironclad.
Her back slammed against the car door, pain radiating through her. She winced. What the hell was his problem?
His accusation came like a whip crack, "Why hurt Ashley?"
Kristian trembled with suppressed rage.
"You hired that hit-and-run driver, didn't you? I gave you everything you wanted, the house, the car, the money. What more do you want? Why did you still hurt her?"
He looked like vengeance personified, his eyes glacial.
"When did I--" Freya's confusion was genuine.
"Still lying?" His voice could've frosted glass.
"You planned this. Picked today so I'd be distracted while your hired man ran her down. You know I'd die before letting her suffer."
His voice was Arctic frost, the kind that seeped into bones and made spines stiffen.
Freya's initial fury dissolved into something colder, sharper. His absurd accusation had an ironic effect--it drained her rage, leaving only icy clarity.
She met his gaze, lips curling in derision. "How poetic. Turning betrayal into some grand romance."
"Freya Briggs!" Kristian's control frayed, his shout raw with warning.
"You're delusional." She didn't flinch, status be damned. "Think. Why would I trash my fresh start--my freedom--over someone like her?"
"You know exactly why." His voice dropped lower, a bl**e pressed to her throat.
A realization flickered. "Ah. You think I'm still obsessed with you?"
Kristian said nothing, but his clenched jaw and the fire in his eyes were answer enough.
"Why should I still want you?" Freya laughed, the sound brittle. "After being treated as a stand-in? After your infidelity? After watching you fawn over another woman?"
The words landed like sl*ps.
Kristian stiffened. "I didn't cheat," he ground out.
"You handed her your heart while wearing my ring." Her smile was lethal. "That's cheating."
"Enough deflection," he snapped.
"You're the one hallucinating conspiracies!"
Silence. Kristian studied her, as if peeling back layers for the first time. The weight of his scrutiny was suffocating.
Freya refused to wilt. "So she claimed I hired a man to k*ll her, and you just... believed her?"
"Yes." His anger faltered under her unwavering stare, but the frost remained. "Ashley didn't lie. And she has proof."
Freya's brows arched.
Her fingers dug into her bag strap, knuckles whitening. "Perfect. Let's go to the hospital. Right now."
Kristian blinked. Her immediate agreement threw him.
Guilty people didn't invite confrontation.
Doubt slithered in. Was the evidence fabricated?
"Move." Her command shattered his thoughts.
He released her wrist, disconcerted by her detachment. Something ugly twisted in his ch*st--annoyance? Guilt?
Before he could name it, he yanked out his keys and wrenched the car door open.
Chapter 4 Are You Threatening Me?
Gerard stepped forward swiftly to take the keys, assuming the role of driver without hesitation.
Freya yanked the passenger door open and slid inside, her gaze fixed straight ahead--ignoring Kristian entirely.
A knot of dread tightened in Gerard's ch*st. What if Freya said something outrageous? The thought made his fingers clench around the wheel.
After a weighted pause, he ventured, "Mrs. Shaw, you--"
"Drive." Her reply was a bl**e, sharp and final.
Gerard flicked a glance at the rearview mirror. Kristian's expression gave nothing away. Swallowing hard, he pulled out of the parking area.
Silence smothered the car like a thick fog.
The tension was unbearable. Gerard's shoulders tensed, his grip on the steering wheel turning his knuckles white.
Neither Kristian nor Freya spoke. Both radiated a frost so deep it could've cracked the windows.
Gerard knew Kristian's moods well--but Freya? She'd been almost cheerful earlier. What the hell happened?
He bit back a sigh. Questions wouldn't help now.
In the back seat, Kristian's gaze drifted unbidden to Freya's profile. Something unfamiliar twisted in his ch*st--an emotion he refused to name.
Thirty minutes later, the car halted at the hospital entrance.
Kristian seized Freya's wrist, dragging her toward the VIP ward. His grip was iron, unyielding.
She winced, her voice dripping with mockery. "At this rate, I won't be the one charged--you'll be arrested for assault first."
He dropped her arm like it burned him. Angry red marks circled her skin.
Freya shot him a look so scathing it could've melted steel.
Guilt flickered in Kristian's ch*st--brief, unwelcome. It vanished the moment Ashley's bruised face flashed in his mind.
"Follow me," he muttered, turning on his heel. He didn't wait to see if Freya obeyed.
The door swung open. Ashley lay propped up in b*d, her face lighting up at the sight of Kristian. "Kristian," she breathed, voice sweet with devotion.
He was at her side in an instant, fingers brushing hers in silent reassurance.
Freya strode in, took one look at them, and smirked. "Should I leave? Give you two some privacy?"
"Freya. Enough." Kristian's voice was winter itself. He didn't look at Freya, his hand still resting on Ashley's back. "You're here to apologize."
Freya closed the distance to the b*d, studying Ashley properly for the first time--soft features, delicate frame, eyes wide with practiced innocence.
Ah. Now she understood. This was the woman Kristian loved.
"Miss Bradley." Freya laced her fingers together.
"My darling tells me you've accused me of hiring your attacker--with evidence." She stressed the word, gaze locked on Kristian. "Care to share?"
"Kristian..." Ashley's fingers tightened around his, her lower lip trembling...
......
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&5&
She wanted to have a baby with her husband, but then she discovered he was cheating on her and that their marriage certificate was forged. Heartbroken, she left him. When the sc**bag realized he loved her and tried to win her back, he saw another man, a business legend, gently cradling her and sneering, "Why don't you just stay away from my wife and child?"
=====
Brinley Shaw set her resignation letter on the HR manager's desk, her fingertips smoothing the edge of the paper as though ensuring not a single fold or wrinkle remained.
The manager parted his lips, a resigned sigh escaping before he spoke. "It's such a pity to see you leaving, Brinley. Are you absolutely certain about this?"
"Yeah," Brinley said with a soft smile, her eyes curving like crescents. "I'd like to spend more time with my family."
Stepping out of the company building, she was met by a flood of sunlight.
She squinted against the glare and pulled a pair of sunglasses from her bag, slipping them on.
Just then, her phone buzzed. It was a message from Ryland Francis, a real estate agent.
"Mrs. Palmer, the owner of the villa you like has agreed to lower the price. Could you come view it this afternoon?"
Brinley smiled at the good news.
That small villa on the outskirts of the city--a place she had admired for a long time--stood far away from the noise and bustle of downtown.
Its peaceful surroundings might just be the opportunity she needed to strengthen her fragile marriage with Colin Palmer.
Married for two years, she and Colin had never once been in**mate.
In the beginning, she had convinced herself his hectic work schedule was to blame, but gradually, doubts about her own attractiveness began to creep in.
Finally admitting that something had to change, she quit her job to spend more time with her husband and salvage their relationship.
That afternoon, she visited the villa. It turned out to be even more charming in reality than in the photographs.
The elderly couple who owned it had kept a garden brimming with roses, their sweet perfume lingering heavily in the air.
Standing in the middle of the sunlit living room, Brinley watched her shadow stretch long across the polished floor.
"This is the one! How do we proceed?" she said in a firm voice.
Ryland's face lit up. "Excellent! I'll prepare the contract immediately. By the way, will Mr. Palmer be joining you to sign?"
Brinley shook her head. "No, he's tied up with work. I'll take care of it."
"Alright then. Please bring all necessary documents with you tomorrow for the paperwork."
On her way home, Brinley sent Colin a quick message. "I resigned and found a villa I love. I'm planning to buy it."
His reply came almost instantly. "So sudden? But if it makes you happy, that's what matters. I'll come home early tonight; we'll celebrate."
Warmth spread through Brinley's ch**t as she gazed at the screen.
Colin had always treated her with care and tenderness. He remembered her favorite meals, always had sweet treats ready when she had her period, and never missed an anniversary without a thoughtful gift.
Apart from his refusal to be in**mate with her--which upset her deeply--he was nearly the perfect husband.
The following morning, Brinley dressed with special care before leaving for the real estate agency.
She chose a pink-and-white dress, the very one Colin often praised as suiting her best.
"Mrs. Palmer, please, have a seat," Ryland greeted her warmly. "I'll bring out the contract."
Smiling, Brinley passed him a folder. "Here's a copy of my marriage certificate with Colin. I would like to register the house as a joint marital property."
Ryland accepted it and tapped away at the computer for a while, but soon he frowned. "That's odd... The system isn't pulling up your marriage registration record."
Brinley's smile faltered. "What do you mean by that?"
"Probably just a system error," Ryland said quickly, trying to reassure her. "You can confirm it directly at city hall. It happens every now and then."
Brinley's ch**t pounded wildly. A creeping sense of unease overwhelmed her.
Forcing herself to stay calm, she replied, "Alright. I'll head there right away."
Chapter 2 A Substitute
The staff at the City Hall adjusted his spectacles, peering at the copy of the marriage certificate again and again.
At last, he spoke. "Ma'am, the document you've presented is counterfeit. Our records show no marriage registration whatsoever between you and Mr. Colin Palmer."
Brinley stiffened when she heard this.
She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came; her lips only twitched.
"This... this can't be," she finally muttered, her voice almost inaudible. "We were married here... two years ago..."
The staff shook his head, looking sympathetic. "I'm sorry, but this is the truth: I can't find any information about your marriage in our system. If you believe you've been deceived, it's best to report the matter to the authorities."
Nodding stiffly, Brinley accepted the copy of the marriage certificate as he handed it back to her.
Her fingers trembled when they brushed its edge.
The document she had treasured for the past two years turned out to be fake. How preposterous!
Outside the City Hall, Brinley halted on the steps, her head dizzyingly light.
She needed time. She needed somewhere quiet to untangle the storm of thoughts threatening to consume her.
She wandered into a small café nearby and ordered an iced black coffee, strong and bitter.
The sharp taste filled her mouth, but it could not compare to the bitterness clawing at her heart.
At that very moment, her phone lit up with a message from Colin. "Brinley, what would you like for dinner tonight? I'll pick something up after work."
A surge of nausea rose within her as Brinley stared at the message on her screen.
Drawing in a shaky breath, she typed, "Don't worry. I'll cook."
Almost instantly, Collin replied, "Alright. I'll be home on time after work."
Brinley didn't respond.
Instead, she checked the clock; it was half past three.
Then she decided to pay a visit to Colin's office without informing him beforehand.
His tech firm was located in a modern tower on the east side of the city.
She had delivered him lunch there many times, enough that the receptionist recognized her at once and greeted her with a smile, waving her through.
The elevator carried her to the 28th floor, and she stepped out, following the familiar path toward Colin's office.
But as she rounded a corner, the sound of his familiar voice drifted from the break room. "I'm conflicted, but you know... I just can't let go of Milly."
Brinley stopped in her tracks, her body stiffening as though the world itself had frozen around her.
Quietly, she backed up and pressed herself against a column, straining to listen.
"What do you intend to do, then?" a man asked.
Brinley recognized the voice immediately. It belonged to Vance Graham, Colin's close friend.
"Are you planning to stay with Brinley while marrying Milly Russell? Colin, that's not fair."
The words struck Brinley like a violent blow. She had to grasp the wall for balance.
Milly Russell? Who was she? Colin was marrying that woman?
Each word felt like a bl**e slicing into her ch**t.
"I know it isn't fair," Colin admitted with a weary sigh.
"But when Milly left to pursue her career abroad, I was heartbroken. Then Brinley came along... she reminded me so much of Milly that dating her finally brought healing to my broken heart."
Brinley bit her lower lip until she tasted the metallic tang of bl**d. She reminded him of Milly?
So that was what she was? A substitute?
Chapter 3 Marriage Alliance
"But later on," Colin continued in a hesitant voice, "I came to realize Brinley isn't like Milly at all. She's softer, depends on me more, and... loves me in a way Milly never did."
Vance chuckled derisively. "And with that realization, you still justify deceiving her?"
"I don't deceive her!" Colin's voice rose with sudden intensity before falling again into a whisper. "I truly do care for her... it's just..."
"Just what?" Vance asked impatiently.
"It's just that I can't seem to cut Milly off completely," Colin admitted, sounding torn.
"She was my first love. When she came back from abroad and reached out, I couldn't push her away. But at the same time, I didn't want to give up Brinley."
"So you went as far as to forge a marriage certificate, letting Brinley believe the two of you were legally bound?" The disgust was obvious in Vance's voice. "Colin, that makes you nothing short of a sc**bag."
Colin fell silent for a few seconds before answering with a bitter, self-mocking laugh, "Yes, I'm a sc**bag. I want Milly's fire, Brinley's gentleness... I even let myself imagine how perfect it would be to keep them both in my life."
"You must be delusional!" Vance snapped. "If Brinley ever found out about your double life, do you honestly think she'd forgive you?"
"She won't ever know," Colin said, interrupting Vance.
"She trusts me completely, never questions a thing. Even when she phoned while Milly and I were in b*d, she was too oblivious to notice anything unusual."
Those words smashed Brinley's heart like a ruthless strike.
Turning, she walked soundlessly toward the elevator. Each step felt unreal, as though she were moving through a heavy fog.
The man she had loved for two whole years was nothing but a liar.
...
Brinley had no idea how she managed to return home.
Absentmindedly, she unlocked the door, drifted into the kitchen, and began preparing dinner mechanically.
At half-past six, the sound of a key turning in the lock reached her ears.
Colin entered with his usual charm, carrying a fresh bouquet of lilies.
"I'm back." He leaned in and brushed her forehead with a k**s, smiling warmly.
Brinley forced her lips into a smile as she accepted the flowers.
Oblivious to her stiffness, Colin shrugged off his suit jacket and sniffed the air. "Mmm, what did you make? Smells delicious."
"Your favorite. Grilled meat." Brinley turned away to place the bouquet into a vase, hiding her cold expression.
Through the entire meal, Brinley kept her eyes fixed on him, studying every gesture.
Collin's phone never left the table, lying face down, and every so often he flicked his eyes at it, as though waiting for a message.
"My head aches a little," Brinley muttered after dinner. "Could you fetch me some medicine from upstairs? It's in the nightstand drawer."
"Of course," Colin said immediately, springing up. "You just rest here."
The moment he was upstairs, Brinley snatched his phone.
The screen came on, requiring a password.
She tried her own birthday, then their anniversary. Neither unlocked it.
Just as she was about to attempt again, a message notification flashed across the screen. "Colin, wonderful news--I'm pr**nant!"
Brinley's fingers froze. The words blazed before her eyes, stabbing her like sharpened steel.
She stared in shock until Colin's footsteps began descending. Panicking, she dropped the phone back onto the table.
Colin returned with the pills and a glass of water. "You don't look well. Do you want to lie down early?"
Brinley accepted the pills, pretended to swallow, then replied, "I'm fine. By the way... is there something going on at the office? You kept glancing at your phone."
For a moment, Collin stiffened, but then he quickly composed himself. "Yes, a project issue. I might need to head back later."
"Then go," Brinley said with a gentle smile, though her heart was breaking inside. "Work always comes first."
Colin slipped on his coat, pausing to k**s her cheek. "Don't wait up for me. Get some rest."
As the door clicked shut behind him, Brinley's smile crumbled.
Tears formed in her eyes, but she stubbornly tipped her head back, refusing to let them fall.
Only after a long struggle did she finally pick up her phone, her hand trembling, and dial a number she hadn't called in two years.
"Dad, I've decided. I'll return home... and I'll accept the marriage alliance you arranged."
Chapter 4 Charity Gala
Three months later
A sleek black Maybach rolled to a stop outside the glittering club, its polished surface catching every shard of neon light.
When Brinley stepped gracefully from the car, her eyes lingered on the grand entrance, ablaze with chandeliers and flashing lights.
Tonight, the Knight family's annual charity gala was underway, drawing in the wealthiest and most influential figures in Bleron.
Old memories pressed in, bitter and sharp, tugging a sarcastic curve at Brinley's lips.
"Ms. Shaw, you've finally arrived." Ryan Bailey, the Knight family's longtime butler, hurried forward with quick precision, flanked on both sides by two lines of imposing bodyguards.
Every gesture radiated deference.
Brinley tilted her chin and gave him a faint, cold nod in acknowledgment.
Ryan gestured politely. "This way, please," he said, moving ahead while those bodyguards followed, their presence alone drawing stares.
Because of Brinley's identity, they bypassed the main hall and slipped through a private passage.
At her quiet request, Ryan waved off the bodyguards, but their absence did little to lessen the attention she attracted. Her arrival still turned heads.
Draped in a bold crimson gown with her hair swept into a sleek ponytail, Brinley radiated confidence--elegant and arresting in her simplicity.
Recognition rippled through the crowd.
"Isn't that Brinley?" someone whispered, awe and curiosity threading through their tone.
"Oh my, what is she doing here? Since when did the Knight family's gatherings become open to just anyone?"
"I heard Colin tossed her aside after catching her cheating. It was a whole spectacle. How does she still have the audacity to show up tonight?"
"Shh, keep your voice down. She used to be the apple of the Shaw family's eye, but they've cut her off completely... Look at her, still carrying herself as if she matters."
The sharp whispers rippled through the hall and drifted to Brinley, yet she remained unfazed.
Settling elegantly into a quiet corner, she sampled the appetizers with calm detachment. Her serene poise only made the gossipers more irritated.
At the front of their little pack was Renee Dale, daughter of Dale Group's CEO.
With a sly smile curving her lips and a glass of w**e poised in her hand, she swept toward Brinley, her companions trailing behind.
Renee's voice carried deliberately, her smile sharp as glass.
"Well, if it isn't Miss Shaw. All by yourself tonight? Where's Mr. Palmer? Oh, that's right--I heard the two of you split. Hardly shocking. A man like him could not tolerate a partner who was unfaithful."
Before Brinley could answer, one of Renee's companions leaned in eagerly.
"Renee's right. No offense, Brinley, but do you really think showing up here will win Mr. Palmer back? That ship has sailed. Milly's the one by his side now--she's carrying his child."
The sharp exchange only stirred the crowd further, hungry for drama.
Brinley tilted her head just enough to meet Renee and her entourage with a cold glance.
"You all seem awfully fascinated with my personal life," she said, her tone deceptively gentle but edged with steel. "My affairs, however, aren't open for your judgment. And as for why I'm here..." Her lips curved into a wry smile.
"Does the Knight family need your permission before extending an invitation?"
Renee faltered, her face reddening with fury. "Brinley, get off your high horse! Everyone knows about your scandal. How dare you show your face here? What, are you desperate? No man would ever want you now!"
Brinley's eyes hardened, her voice cool and measured. "It's none of your business, Miss Dale." She tilted her chin ever so slightly, her tone laced with irony.
"Instead of wasting your time on me, perhaps you should pay attention to Dale Group's stock. Word is, it's been plummeting thanks to some very poor decisions."
The color drained from Renee's cheeks. "What are you talking about? That's complete nonsense!"
Brinley arched a brow, and replied evenly, "Don't play d**b. You know exactly what I mean."
She brushed Renee off with effortless grace, lifting a delicate pastry from the tray and taking a slow, unhurried bite as if savoring the sweetness more than the conversation.
Across the hall, Colin was in conversation with a man, one arm draped possessively around Milly's waist.
He turned instinctively at the sound of the commotion, his gaze locking on a figure he could never mistake. A jolt ran through him, his ch**t tightening at the sight of Brinley.
Without sparing Milly a glance, he strode straight toward Brinley despite the surprised onlookers.
"Colin?" Milly's voice faltered, her smile freezing.
Her expression soured as her eyes landed on Brinley not far away, and she hastily hurried after Colin.
Chapter 5 Painted Brinley As A Desperate Clinger
"Brinley!" Colin's voice broke through the commotion as he shoved past the curious onlookers, urgency sharpening his stride until he was standing right before her.
For a moment, his ch**t clenched with dread--afraid she might vanish again, slipping through his fingers the way she had before, leaving him to chase shadows in her absence.
But when their eyes met, her gaze was icy, stripped of any trace of warmth.
His breath hitched, the words he'd prepared dissolving on his tongue. The joy that had flared in his ch**t extinguished in an instant, like a bucket of cold water poured over his head.
His expression hardened, and his tone became chilling.
"What are you doing here? And why did you disappear back then without a single word? Do you know how much time and money I burned trying to find you?" His voice cracked with anger.
"Tell me you didn't actually throw me away for someone else, like all those whispers claim."
The sharp demand pulled every head toward Brinley, curious eyes cutting into her like bl**es.
Milly hurried to Colin's side, clutching his arm with soft urgency. "Colin, please, calm down and talk it through. Miss Shaw must have had her reasons for vanishing without a word."
She faced Brinley then, her sympathetic tone laced with gentle reproach.
"Miss Shaw, I understand if you still carry feelings for Colin, but you should move on. Disappearing and then suddenly showing up again like this--surely you know it only makes things harder for everyone."
Her words, disguised as soothing counsel, instead painted Brinley as a desperate clinger, a caricature of obsession.
The judgment weighed heavy in the air, and the whispers around them grew sharper, more merciless.
"Exactly--what is Brinley after, hanging around here like this when Colin has already moved on?"
"Milly is being awfully generous--if it were me, I would've snapped by now."
"This is the Knight family's event. They don't just let anyone wander in. Did she slip past security? Where's the organizer? Someone needs to toss her out."
"Honestly, just sharing the same room with her drags down the class of this gathering."
The restlessness spread quickly, whispers swelling into a low tide of outrage until someone had already gone to fetch the organizer, demanding Brinley's removal.
Listening to Milly's so-called persuasion and the rising chorus of disdain around him, Colin exhaled softly, the sound heavy with weariness.
"Brinley, I know you regret having left me. Why don't you apologize? Out of respect for our... history, I could even put in a word with Mrs. Knight and help you stay."
Brinley only let out a derisive laugh, her eyes sweeping over Colin with a cold detachment that silently warned him to keep his distance.
She lifted her glass and took an unhurried sip of w**e, her face serene, untouched by the tension around her.
That effortless dismissal cut deeper than any sharp retort could have.
A flicker of wounded pride shadowed Colin's expression.
Before he could muster another word, a stocky middle-aged man bustled over, clearly the assistant to the organizer, his tone clipped and unfriendly.
"Miss, this is a private event. If you don't have an invitation, I'll have to ask you to leave."
The crowd leaned forward with undisguised anticipation, hungry to see Brinley humiliated and dragged out.
Brinley arched a brow, a low, unreadable laugh slipping past her lips, offering no reply.
Colin, unsettled by her silence, stepped in close, his voice taut with urgency. "Brinley, you'd really rather be tossed out like this than give me an answer--or even an apology?"
Milly's fists tightened at her sides, though she plastered on a soft, understanding smile. "Miss Shaw, be sensible. Apologize to Colin. With all these eyes on you, why put yourself through more shame?"
Every gaze in the hall pinned itself to Brinley, waiting for her next move as if she were the evening's entertainment.
The air seemed to press in, heavy with suspense and the promise of mockery.
Brinley finally placed her dessert aside, dabbing her fingertips with a napkin before lifting her gaze past Colin and Milly to the figure striding toward them, a dark light flashed in her eyes...
......
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&5&
She followed him for seven years out of gratitude, feeling lucky to marry him. When his mistress claimed she had cancer and only six months to live, he handed her divorce papers. "It's only for show. We'll remarry in six months." Her heart died. She resolved to make the fake divorce real and restart her life.
=====
"Let's get a divorce. She has stomach cancer and has only six months left to live."
After their in**mate encounter, Brandon Watson sat up and said in a detached voice.
Millie Bennett, still breathing hard from the encounter, turned to him slowly, a wild look of disbelief in her eyes.
They had been married for a year. What did he mean by suddenly saying he wanted a divorce?
"Her final wish is to be my wife," Brandon added, almost offhandedly.
He said, lighting a ci**rette. The sm**e rose in slow spirals around his face.
Millie gawked at him, stunned. Silence spread across the room like mist.
The bedside lamp glowed faintly, casting long shadows across the wall, making them seem farther apart than they were.
Brandon glanced at her and gave a faint frown.
"It's only to comfort her," he explained. "We'll remarry after six months. She won't be here long, Millie."
His voice was steady, almost detached, like someone passing along a message that didn't concern him.
Millie watched Brandon wordlessly, her eyes fixed on his profile.
He spoke like his words were instructions, not suggestions.
Their relationship had always been one-sided. She had chased it from the start, drawn in by youthful affection.
She had stayed by his side for years, moving through each rough season without letting go.
Millie still remembered that day, under the heavy rain that soaked them both, Brandon had stood between her and her stepfather, gripping a cracked stick, and said with fire in his voice, "Touch Millie again, and you'll regret it."
That moment had etched itself into her heart. Even when she was weak and bl**ding, she saw him--unmoving, protective, fierce.
From that point on, she was his.
She loved him without pause, met his requests with everything she had, carrying them out more flawlessly than anyone else ever could.
He would always pat her head, light and warm, and say in a low voice, "You did so well, Millie."
But Brandon's praises never lasted, his ki**es barely stayed, and whatever affection they shared always felt just out of reach. But Millie told herself it was just how he was.
Even when others called her naive, she stayed--devoted and trusting.
She had given seven years of her life to him.
A year earlier, Brandon's grandfather, Derek Watson, had fallen into poor health. The family, hoping to lift his spirits, decided Brandon should marry.
Perhaps the joy of a wedding would give the old man something to hold on to.
So Brandon went on to marry Millie.
She thought it was finally their moment. But after the vows, something changed. He began to pull away. Sometimes, he looked at her like she was a stranger.
"Millie, are you listening?" Brandon scowled as he caught the far-off look in Millie's eyes.
"Does it have to be like this?" she asked softly.
He didn't answer. Instead, he said, "She's going through so much, Millie."
Millie's ch**t tightened. "And what about me?"
Brandon didn't answer right away. His eyes, dark and steady, flickered with a trace of impatience.
Then, after about three seconds, he said, "Millie, she's dying. Maybe you don't know, but she's in love with me. Because we were married, and she didn't want to hurt you, she never let things go too far between us. Even when I tried to make it up to her, she never let me. She's a good person. Please, let her have this. Don't make me think you're being heartless."
His words, spoken so calmly, pierced her more than if he had shouted.
So in Brandon's eyes, a woman in love with a married man, who promised to hold back but never really let go, was a saint.
And a wife who simply wanted to keep her husband to herself was heartless.
Millie stared at his face. The same face she had fallen for--intense eyes, prominent nose, beautiful lips.
When had things started to crumble?
Maybe it was the day the woman showed up.
"Are you sure this is what you want?" Millie asked, steadying herself.
Brandon said nothing, pursing his lips.
Finally, he opened his mouth to respond. "Yes, you--"
"Alright." Millie cut him off before he could finish.
Brandon looked up, clearly surprised. He frowned, studying her closely.
"Millie, you're getting clever," he said, a flicker of irritation in his voice. "You know I need your consent to go through with it. Are you thinking of using it to get under my skin?"
Millie didn't answer. She just stared at the white wall, watching how their shadows stretched.
Brandon put out his ci**rette andsaid no more, pulling on his clothes quickly and storming out.
He didn't stop to consider how she felt. Nor did he pause to acknowledge how humiliating or painful his request was.
He knew she couldn't leave him.
He was utterly sure about that.
The door slammed shut behind him.
And just like that, Millie was alone.
She sat motionless by the bed, staring at the door as if it might open again.
Her phone buzzed beside her.
A message lit up the screen.
She picked up the phone.
It was from a familiar number. "He came to see me again."
The text came with a photo. Brandon's face was captured in the reflection of a glass door, a soft smile playing on his lips, eyes warm in a way Millie had never seen.
She froze. Then, slowly, she scrolled upward through the previous messages. "He said he has feelings for me."
"Rainy nights aren't lonely for me because he's here with me. What about you?"
"The one who isn't loved is truly the other woman. Millie, you were never his first choice; you were just the one he settled for. He sees beauty the way I do, shares my taste in things, and he loves me."
The messages continued that way, proving Brandon's betrayal.
The man who had always treated her with distance these past seven years had apparently mastered tenderness for someone else.
Millie kept scrolling until she reached the very first message. "You should know who I am. Do you like the flowers in your living room today? I sent them. He said they were beautiful."
Of course, Millie knew who it was.
Vivian Simpson, the famous floral designer known for filling her wealthy clients' grand villas and lavish parties with carefully and beautifully arranged blooms.
Millie had shown Brandon the messages before. He'd brushed them off and said there was no proof they were from Vivian.
He had even said maybe Millie sent them herself just to stir trouble. Most of the messages didn't have pictures, and the few that did were vague--taken from afar, hard to pin down.
But not today's. Today's was clear.
Millie thought about showing him the photo. Then her eyes drifted toward the bedside drawer. She reached down and pulled it open.
There it was. The pr**nancy test result she'd gotten earlier that day.
She was pr**nant with Brandon's child. At the worst possible moment.
Her tears fell, soaking the paper and smudging the ink.
But what did it matter anymore? Brandon's heart had been gone for a long time.
Millie wiped her face dry and picked up the lighter he'd left behind. Flames flickered as she held the test result to the fire.
Brandon had no idea that saying yes to the divorce would be the final thing she'd ever do for him.
She had given him back what she owed--not in money, but in seven full years of her life.
She would never love him again.
Chapter 2 Terminate The Pregnancy
The next day, parked just outside the courthouse, Brandon sat in his Maybach, quietly tapping the steering wheel with his left hand.
"Brandon, you and Millie have been married for a year now. Don't you think it's time to start planning for a baby?" An elderly voice drifted from the phone's speaker.
Brandon's face softened, a trace of frustration flickering through, but his patience didn't waver.
"Grandma, we're still young. There's no need to rush. You and Grandpa should focus on staying healthy. He..."
"What do you mean by 'There's no need to rush'?" The elderly voice rose in annoyance.
"Your grandfather's condition might have improved, but we're not getting any younger. We don't know how much time we've got left."
"Grandma..."
"Don't give me that! I've heard things, Brandon. Whatever's going on, be good to Millie."
Silence fell over the line for a few seconds.
"Brandon, did you hear me?" the elder asked.
Brandon rubbed his forehead in frustration. "I understand, Grandma."
They exchanged a few more words before he ended the call.
Brandon resumed tapping the steering wheel with his fingers, this time slower, more distracted. He stared through the windshield toward the courthouse.
He clenched his jaw. Then, he opened the messaging app on his phone.
His thumb hovered over a familiar profile picture--a simple floral image, tagged "My Love." He skipped past it and opened the thread with Millie.
The last message he'd sent her simply reminded her of the time and place to meet for the divorce.
She still hadn't shown up.
With a scowl, Brandon sent a new message. "Where are you?"
A knock on the window followed almost instantly. He turned to see Millie standing outside, her face a little pale.
She opened the door and slipped into the passenger seat, giving him a blank look.
He hadn't changed out of yesterday's clothes--the same ones she had picked out for him.
Through the years, it had always been her--choosing his ties, picking his cologne, arranging every detail down to the fit of his tailored shirts and suits.
"Why are you late?" Brandon asked.
Millie looked away.
"I'm not late," she said quietly.
She was simply no longer the girl who would always arrive early and wait for him without thinking.
Brandon's fingers stilled against the wheel. His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied her.
Millie looked a little pale, maybe from a sleepless night after he mentioned the divorce last night.
Still, she looked fine.
"My grandma called earlier," Brandon muttered, looking away. "Don't tell them about the divorce. They're too old to handle something like that."
Millie didn't respond right away. Instead, she asked, "What did your grandma say?"
"She wants us to have a baby," Brandon said flatly, a flicker of irritation slipping into his voice.
Silence settled in the car.
After a while, Millie let out a small soft laugh.
Brandon curled his hand into a fist and turned his face to the window.
There were moments when he used to imagine what their child might look like.
He remembered holding her from behind, pressing a hand gently over her belly, whispering, "Millie, when will you give me a baby?"
But it hadn't happened.
Anyway, they could always remarry in six months and start planning for a baby. There would still be enough time.
Vivian, however, only had six months left.
Outside, passers-by came and went.
Then Millie spoke up. "Just once more, Brandon. Are you completely sure you want to go through with the divorce?"
"Having second thoughts?" Brandon barked, looking genuinely upset.
Vivian was still waiting for him at the studio.
After confirming once more, Millie didn't say another word. She reached into her bag, pulled out a document, and handed it to Brandon.
He took it with a frown, flipping through the pages. It was a property division agreement.
"If we're getting divorced," she said, "we should make everything clear. I'll only take what I'm entitled to from the Watson family. And from this moment on, anything either of us earns belongs to us individually."
Then Millie pulled out a pen and placed it beside him.
"If that's okay with you, just sign it."
Brandon's eyes stayed on the document, but his frown deepened as he read.
The agreement was too simple. She really wasn't asking for much. And her signature was already there.
He didn't get it.
What was she trying to do? It was basically just a fake divorce.
Vivian only had six months left. He planned to spend those months by her side. After that, he'd return to Millie--no one else needed to know the divorce ever happened.
To him, Millie had always seemed blindly loyal.
Brandon had never thought of her as someone with pride or boundaries.
There was a time he'd grown bored of her, pushing her into things that chipped away at her pride on purpose.
But Millie never declined.
She'd still return with a soft smile, holding out the results like a trophy. "Brandon, look--I did it. Isn't it great?"
She was a good wife. Meek. Obedient. For seven years, he'd seen it play out over and over.
If it weren't for Vivian, their marriage probably would have gone on like that.
But...
A flash of memory--Vivian, weak and coughing bl**d, still trying to smile--stabbed at his ch**t. The pain was raw and unshakable.
Brandon looked outside the car window again.
Millie's reflection stared back at him--blank, expressionless.
Was this her way of threatening him?
After all, she had once faked messages to frame Vivian.
She hated Vivian.
Chuckling dryly, Brandon picked up the pen and signed his name.
No one could force his hand. Not even her.
There were two copies of the agreement.
Millie calmly took her copy after he signed both.
They both stepped out of the car and headed into the courthouse. Together, they filed for divorce.
Next time they came back here, they would finalize everything and collect the official decree.
Once all the formalities were done, the two of them stepped out of the courthouse together.
The sun was already blazing, and the warmth settled on Millie's skin.
Brandon scanned the people moving about.
It wasn't hard to tell the couples getting married from those getting divorced. Some people chose to have their weddings at the courthouse.
A couple walked by, hand in hand.
The woman's smile triggered something in Brandon. He remembered that same look on Millie's face a year ago, when they first got married.
Brandon glanced over at Millie, but her face was blank.
"I'll keep transferring money to your account during the next six months," he said. "And don't say anything to my grandparents."
He didn't wait for a reply. Just turned and walked off.
Millie stood there quietly, watching his car disappear around the corner.
Her cab arrived not long after.
And then, the two cars went opposite directions.
One turned toward Vivian Floral Design.
The other headed for Crobert Hospital.
Brandon walked into Vivian's studio, where she greeted him with a gentle smile.
He told her, "It's done. She didn't make a scene."
Meanwhile, Millie stepped into the ob-gyn wing and quietly sat opposite the doctor.
The doctor reached over and pulled the curtain
"Millie... are you sure you want to terminate the pr**nancy?" Her best friend and doctor, Alexia Hussain, looked at her with concern.
"You were so determined to have a baby. You even worked so hard to get yourself ready for co**eption..."
Millie reached into her bag and placed the divorce filing receipt on the side table.
"Yes," she replied calmly. "Let's terminate it. I don't want it anymore."
Chapter 3 Signs Of Miscarriage
Alexia stared at the filing receipt, surprised.
She and Millie had been close friends for more than ten years, and in all that time, Alexia had seen just how hard Millie loved Brandon.
There was a time Millie could have died for him, and nobody would have questioned it.
They got married a year ago. Alexia had smiled at the wedding, even though something about their pairing felt off.
But still, Millie had gotten what she wanted. That had been enough for Alexia.
Now this...
What had happened?
"I don't love him anymore," Millie said, before Alexia could ask.
She looked over and gave a small, calm smile.
In that smile, Alexia caught a glimpse of the old Millie--the one from before everything collapsed, before grief carved deep lines into her, before her father's death and the fall of the Bennett family changed her.
It brought Alexia a strange sense of calm.
"Brandon doesn't know I'm pr**nant," Millie said calmly. "And before the divorce becomes final, I don't want to take any risks. It's better if he doesn't know."
If either party changed their mind before the divorce was finalized, they could take back the application, and the procedure would no longer go through.
And that was when Alexia knew that Millie wasn't playing around about divorcing Brandon.
After taking it all in, Alexia did what needed to be done: she booked Millie's medical tests and then advised carefully, "Wait a few days before the surgery."
Millie frowned in confusion. "Why?"
"You know your bl**d type--Rh-negative. It's rare. We need time to prepare bl**d, just in case. I've already contacted the bl**d bank. They said it might take a week."
Millie went quiet. The sadness in her eyes was unmistakable.
She had gotten that bl**d type from her father. And now she missed him all over again.
If he were still here...
"Okay." Millie nodded slowly. A smile tugged at her lips, but her eyes turned red.
"You also have early signs of mi**arriage. You need to be careful these next few days," Alexia added, her voice full of concern.
They'd grown up together, and Alexia knew Millie's sadness too well.
She held Millie's hand. "Wait for me. My shift's almost over. I'll go home with you."
Millie nodded, and then went to wait in the hallway.
She looked down at her stomach.
Early signs of mi**arriage.
Did the baby know what she'd decided and want to leave first?
Pursing her lips, Millie walked toward the lab for the tests.
Her phone buzzed. It was a bank notification.
She had opened a new account--one that Brandon wouldn't know about. She was keeping her money cleanly separate before the divorce was finalized.
Every cent she earned from now on would live in that account.
A second message followed. "Payment for composition and lyrics has been completed. Finance has sent the transfer. Kindly confirm."
Before she married Brandon, Millie had worked quietly as an anonymous songwriter.
Music had always been her first love. Back when her father was alive, life had been generous, and she lacked nothing.
As the Bennett family's only daughter, she had the freedom and the means to grow her gift.
The turns her life had taken had taught her things she hadn't known she needed to learn.
Maybe her father never thought that the pastime he once encouraged would one day be the very thing keeping her afloat.
Millie paused, and then typed back, "Money received. Thank you."
The reply came quickly. "It's what you deserve. You've written a lot of hits over the years. Why don't you return? There's a new show coming up. It fits you perfectly. I've sent details to your email. Reserved a contestant slot just for you."
Millie opened her email. A new message sat at the top, inviting her to join a music competition show.
The format was familiar, like others she had seen before, but this one wanted something original.
She typed out a quick reply. "I'll think about it."
Then she set her phone down. A light cramp curled in her lower belly.
She thought of her father again.
The second time today.
...
Meanwhile, the Internet was buzzing with updates.
#VivianSimpsonStomachCancer
#FloristVivianSimpsonCountdown
#LastSixMonths
The most trending post was a video featuring a reporter summarizing the news about Vivian.
"Sources confirm that the well-known floral designer, Vivian Simpson, has been diagnosed with stomach cancer. She's been given six months to live. But instead of retreating, she's choosing to document her remaining time--she wants to share her life with the world as it winds down."
The video cut to Vivian. She looked at the camera with a sad smile.
"In these last six months, I'll be posting updates about my life. I'm not doing it for attention. I just want to offer some comfort to others going through the same thing. I hope you all stay strong."
Then the reporter came back on screen.
"There have long been whispers about Miss Simpson and Mr. Brandon Watson, CEO of Watson Group. But Mr. Watson is married. It remains to be seen if he'll reconnect with Miss Simpson during her final months."
In the background, Vivian seemed to have heard that part. She stepped forward, stopped beside the reporter, and gently cut in.
She faced the camera.
"I'm not ashamed to say I like Brandon. He's an incredible man," she said. "I'm sure I'm not the only one who feels that way. But I want to make it clear--I'm not going to break up someone's marriage. That's not who I am."
Having said that, she walked off, leaving the reporter behind.
She wove through the small crowd with a smile and climbed into a waiting car.
The foreign caregiver from Flaville passed her a glass of water, hand paused in midair, unsure.
"You look like you want to say something," Vivian said, her voice cold. "Go ahead. The driver's one of ours."
The caregiver leaned in and lowered their voice. "Miss Simpson, your diagnosis... it's a stomach ulcer. Having our facility change that into cancer is already risky. But now you're sharing it with the public online?"
Vivian gave a sharp laugh, startling the caregiver.
"Your facility--is it a licensed medical facility?" she asked.
The caregiver nodded.
"And does it manage my medical record privately?"
The caregiver gave another nod.
"Is that what my medical record says--that I have six months left because of terminal stomach cancer?"
The caregiver hesitated before nodding again.
"Exactly!" Vivian leaned back with a smile. "It's official, then. No one can question it."
"But you don't actually have stomach cancer. What happens later..."
"There are two ways out," Vivian said, cutting in. Her voice was sharper now, her eyes harder. "One: I make a miraculous recovery during treatment at your facility or somewhere else, maybe because of all the love I've received. Two: your facility gets blamed for a diagnostic error and months of wrong treatment."
She turned her face fully to the caregiver, looking more intimidating. "Which option do you prefer?"
The caregiver looked panicked but forced out the words. "I'm sorry, Miss Simpson. I understand. You've already thought everything through."
Vivian gave a short, cold smile.
"Where should we go next, Miss Simpson?" the caregiver asked in an attempt to lighten the mood.
Vivian glanced at her phone. "Crobert Hospital."
The caregiver stiffened. "But--"
"Relax. I'm only going in for pain relief with my medical record," Vivian said, and then reached for her phone and sent Brandon a message, telling him to meet her at the hospital later.
Almost instantly, he replied, "Sure."
Meanwhile, Millie stood in the hospital restroom, a steady ache pulling at her lower stomach. In her hand was a tissue, the smear of bl**d clear against the white.
It was an early sign of a mi**arriage.
Chapter 4 She Would Have No Ties With Brandon
As Vivian made her way to Crobert Hospital, the Internet was filled with comments about her diagnosis. Her name appeared across countless threads.
"To be honest, I think Vivian's brave. She's clear about her feelings as well as boundaries. Quite impressive, actually."
"Exactly. A lot of people like Brandon. As long as she's not wrecking his marriage, her feelings are her own business."
"Her older videos and that livestream from Crest Villa gave me a glimpse into rich people's lives. It's sad she won't be around much longer."
"Who's Brandon's wife, though? She should just let him be with Vivian. The girl has only six months left."
"I know her. It's Millie Bennett, a musician. She stopped working after she got married and became a full-time housewife."
...
At Crobert Hospital, Millie's phone kept buzzing. Calls and messages came one after another.
Some people acted concerned. Others wanted information. A few tried to mock her. All of it was about Vivian and Brandon.
Millie had read just enough of the headlines to understand what was going on with Vivian's illness.
She didn't click on anything else.
It didn't matter anymore.
Once the divorce was finalized, Brandon would no longer be a part of her life.
She checked the time. When she looked up, she saw Alexia walking toward her.
"How are you feeling?" Alexia asked, concerned. "Any pain?" She saw the strain on Millie's face and, without needing to be asked, reached out to help her rise.
Millie gave a small smile and shook her head.
She had made up her mind. Some things simply had to be faced.
Alexia understood, but she just sighed and helped Millie up. They took the elevator.
The elevator doors soon opened at the ground floor.
The hospital was packed. Even more than usual. Millie noticed a few reporters scattered in the crowd.
"So many people today. Probably another celebrity here for a check-up," Alexia said.
"They always bring this kind of attention..." She stopped at once, her face changing. She had seen something and quickly tried to lead Millie in the other direction.
But there was no point. Millie had already spotted them.
Brandon stood tall, striking in a way that drew attention without effort.
The noise and movement around him didn't touch him--his hair perfectly in place, his suit smooth and sharp, like the chaos didn't dare come close.
Vivian stood beside him. She looked small and weak, her face pale, which made her seem even more fragile.
She lost her balance slightly. Brandon stepped in to catch her, shielding her from the cameras and the crowd.
"Don't look," Alexia said quickly, stepping in front of Millie, her tone sharp with anger.
"Alexia, let's go," Millie said, her voice calm. She had made up her mind; Brandon didn't need to know she was there, and she had no interest in crossing paths with him now.
"Why should we go?" Alexia snapped, growing more furious. "You're not divorced yet. He's still your husband. And he's here holding another woman like it's nothing. It's shameless."
Husband...
Millie looked away, sighing.
There was a time she had secretly smiled just thinking about Brandon being her husband.
But not anymore.
"I don't feel well, Alexia. Let's just go," Millie said, changing the topic.
Alexia gave her full attention now and stopped looking in Brandon and Vivian's direction.
They left. Across the lobby, Vivian glanced over. A flicker of pride passed through her face.
"I'm sorry, Brandon. I didn't mean to drag you into this mess," she said, a tinge of remorse in her voice. "I know you hate being in the spotlight..."
"It's fine," Brandon replied. "Let's go see the doctor first." His face stayed calm, but something stirred in his thoughts--something brief, hard to name.
They stepped into the consultation room.
Vivian handed over her medical record to the doctor.
The doctor read through it, slowly, and frowned.
"This looks serious," he said.
Vivian gave a faint smile. "I know," she said quietly. Then she took a slow breath. "Please prescribe something strong for the pain."
"In your current condition, I suggest you stay in the hospital and begin treatment," the doctor said. "You should try. There's still a chance we can extend your life."
"What's the point?" Vivian gave a sad smile.
She brushed away the tears building in her eyes, and then said quietly, "I don't want treatment."
Brandon's fingers curled tighter around hers.
She gave a small shake of her head.
"Doctor, I just want to spend the last phase of my life with some dignity," she said. "So, please prescribe some strong painkillers."
The doctor sighed deeply but finally nodded in understanding.
Outside, reporters were taking photos and recording videos without pause before posting them online.
People watching were emotional.
"Good heavens, this is a real person whose life is ending."
"I cry when I'm in mild pain. I can't imagine what late-stage cancer feels like. But she still manages to smile. She's really strong."
"I couldn't hold back tears when she said she wouldn't go through treatment. Only people who've faced serious illness understand this feeling."
Public sympathy for Vivian reached its highest point.
...
Vivian soon got her medicine, and as she and Brandon walked out of the hospital, Millie was sitting on a bench nearby. She was waiting for Alexia, who had gone to get the car.
Before Millie could respond to what was happening, paparazzi noticed her and rushed over.
The camera flashes came all at once.
Brandon saw her too. He frowned and asked, "What are you doing here?"
Millie stood up, glanced at Brandon, and then at Vivian's hand resting on his arm.
She didn't speak yet. The crowd didn't give her the chance.
"Mrs. Watson, did you come because of what's online? Are you trying to catch them together?"
"What do you think of your husband being out in public with someone else?"
"Mrs. Watson, what are you planning to do about Vivian?"
People quickly decided that Millie had shown up on purpose--to face Vivian directly, to start something.
Even Brandon thought the same.
He looked annoyed.
"Vivian is sick. Didn't you know?" he barked.
Brandon's voice was brimming with menace.
Millie felt like laughing.
So that was what he believed--that she was picking a fight on purpose with someone who was ill.
Brandon really didn't know her.
Seeing Millie didn't answer, the reporters turned to Vivian, asking questions about breaking up someone's marriage.
Brandon looked at Millie again. "Millie!" he called. He wanted her to defend Vivian.
Like always, he expected her to do what he wanted.
But the will to please him was gone.
She was walking away from him--there was no reason left to obey.
Millie placed her right hand over her stomach. The dull ache was still there.
"I came to visit a friend," she said finally.
She didn't want to say more. Her pr**nancy wasn't something she wanted to share--not before the divorce was finalized, not with all eyes on her.
Her reply to his question earlier was simple.
Having answered Brandon, Millie turned to leave.
But the reporters didn't back off. They crowded in around her.
"Mrs. Watson, people online are asking you to step aside and let Mr. Watson be with Vivian. What do you say to that?"
"Vivian doesn't have long. Are you still going to fight her?"
"Mrs. Watson--"
Millie didn't bother responding; she just wanted to get away.
The crowd, thrilled to see the three of them in the same place at last, had no intention of letting it end.
Brandon stood still, saying nothing, and that silence gave someone the boldness to shove Millie with force.
She staggered, her arms moving at once to shield her stomach.
Chapter 5 To Let Go Of The Past
Millie landed hard, her back hitting the ground first.
Cameras flashed wildly, capturing the fall from every angle.
She looked toward Brandon by instinct. But his face gave nothing--just a cold, still stare.
And in that moment, she understood what he wanted her to do, and it stung her heart.
He wanted her to speak for him. To tell the press it was all a misunderstanding. That Vivian was ill, and he had only come out of concern. That it was kindness, not betrayal.
Clutching her belly, Millie lowered her head and let a faint smile slip across her face.
The sky above was clear, and sunlight streamed through gaps in the crowd. But none of it touched her.
She steadied herself and rose slowly.
Then, without looking back, she said calmly, "I feel sorry for Miss Simpson. But that's all."
Someone nearby, unaware, asked, "So, are you friends with her?"
Millie gave a short laugh. "Friends? No. I wouldn't call someone clinging to my husband a friend."
She turned and waved to Alexia, who had just pulled up.
"Millie!" Brandon called after her, his face red with rage.
But she didn't turn around. She stood tall and kept walking.
Alexia got out and moved quickly toward her friend, scoffing as they left, "You'd think they were the married couple confronting the home-wrecker. Absolutely ridiculous."
Vivian's lips parted to respond. "You..."
But Alexia cut in before she could say a word. "What? Tell me I'm wrong. If you're planning to use the press to scare me, go ahead. I've got nothing to hide."
Vivian's face turned even paler, looking as if she might faint.
Reporters scrambled, voices rising all at once.
Alexia ushered Millie into the car, not sparing another glance behind them.
"Don't worry," she said. "She's definitely faking it. I've seen enough of these cases to tell in a second."
Millie gave her a small smile. "I'm not worried about her. I'm worried about you. What if this mess affects your job?"
At a red light, Alexia grinned and nudged her. "Don't forget my dad's the hospital director."
Millie raised an eyebrow. "The same dad you swore you'd never speak to again?"
Alexia shrugged. "You never know when a connection comes in handy. Honestly, sometimes I wish all the powerful people out there were my dads."
They both laughed, the tension slowly easing from Millie's face. As the light turned green, the car moved forward again.
"I've got the afternoon free," Alexia said, stretching. "Whatever you need, I'm ready."
Playing along, Millie turned to her with a sly grin. "Great. I need help with something."
"What is it?" Alexia asked curiously.
"Help me move." She grabbed Alexia's wrist. "You can't back out now."
Alexia gr**ned but gave in.
Before long, the two of them arrived at the house Millie had shared with Brandon, along with a team of movers and organizers.
The house had come together quickly after their rushed wedding.
Everything--furniture and layout--had felt temporary at first. But over the year, Millie had made a home out of it, filling it with warmth.
At least, she tried.
Alexia directed the workers while Millie moved quietly around the room, her hands light on every object. On a shelf, she spotted a bottle of Chanel No. 5.
The first gift Brandon ever gave her. He'd brought it back from a business trip.
He came straight to her from the airport.
He had pulled her into his arms. His ki**es were quick, urgent. They had been just like any young couple in love back then.
She opened the bottle and sprayed it once. The scent filled the room.
She remembered how he had ki**ed her lightly after spraying it on her skin.
"Should I pack this too?" Alexia asked, seeing the perfume.
Millie glanced over and shook her head. "Leave it."
She slipped off the wedding ring Brandon had picked without thought, placing it gently on the table.
But as the movers shuffled back and forth through the space, she paused. Then, quietly, she opened a drawer and put both the perfume and the ring inside.
Soon, the house had been cleared of every trace of her. Only that bottle and that ring remained.
Packing up had been tiring, but once the decision was made, it moved quickly.
It was the same with her feelings.
The wind moved softly through her hair as the car headed toward her new place. Behind her, the mansion faded in the rearview mirror.
Sometimes, to move forward, one had to leave parts of oneself behind.
Millie had things to do.
The fall of the Bennett family, the unanswered questions around her father's sudden death--she was going to find the truth.
Her life had always been shaped by what others needed.
Now it was time to live for herself.
She decided to begin with the music show. It would bring in money, and more importantly, might reconnect her with people linked to her father's past.
She pulled out her phone, found the right contact, and typed her message. "I'm joining the music program."
...
Vivian was still crying.
Brandon sat beside her, muttering words of comfort. But his thoughts were filled with the image of Millie standing with her back to him, saying those words.
She had known exactly what he wanted her to say. And she had chosen not to.
He had sent her message after message. She hadn't replied any of them.
She had been acting strangely lately.
The change in her was too sharp, too sudden. She was provoking him on purpose.
She had done it when they filed for divorce. And again at the hospital.
Brandon remembered the look in her eyes the night before, when she asked if he truly made up his mind about the divorce.
She had been sad but also calm.
An unexpected fear filled his heart.
"Brandon, don't be angry at Millie," Vivian said through tears. "I know she's upset. After seeing the videos online, she must've come to confront us. And I understand."
She burst into tears. "After all... I'm the one who took something from her. I'm taking six months from your marriage--what's left of it. If she lashes out at me, I deserve it..."
As she spoke, she started coughing--hard.
A second later, she spat bl**d into her hand.
"Vivian!" Brandon jumped up, reaching for his phone to call for an ambulance.
As for Millie's sudden change, he brushed it off as moodiness. In his mind, she wouldn't dare walk away.
Vivian reached out and stopped him, still smiling faintly. "It's the cancer. It's late-stage. This happens. Don't worry."
Her caregiver helped her lie back down.
Brandon turned away, already thinking of confronting Millie. As soon as he left the room, Vivian calmly wiped her mouth and pulled out a small bl**d bag hidden in her cheek.
She laughed. "What do you think he'll say to Millie now?" she asked the caregiver. "I'm honestly looking forward to it."
Then she began to go through the news reports excitedly.
The entire online community seemed against Millie.
"Vivian didn't even go for life-saving treatment--she just wanted pain meds. Millie really made a scene for no reason."
"Vivian's dying, and Millie still wants to pick fights?"
"Mr. Watson and Vivian look perfect together. Like a real power couple."
"Millie's fall was so embarrassing. I cringed."
"Millie, just step aside already!"
"Millie, divorce Brandon!"
"Yeah, divorce Brandon!"
"Divorce!"
Vivian chuckled as she read the comments. Then she sent a message to a contact and gave a few instructions.
"Today's move was perfect. Keep the pressure up. Make sure Millie stays where she is--down. Oh, and find out why she went to the hospital today."
......
What happens next?
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After her release, she found herself cherished by the ruthless mafia boss. She launched a powerful counterattack—her stepsister begged for mercy, her scummy ex pleaded for reconciliation, and her domineering husband scoffed, "Get lost! Stop acting crazy in front of her!"
=====
On the day Khloe Evans was put on trial by her fiance, it was raining heavily.
"Khloe Evans, you are suspected of bribing competition judges, academic fraud, and attempted homicide. Do you plead guilty or not?"
Inside the silent and solemn courtroom, the judge's gavel echoed, signaling the start of a tense moment.
Khloe's bl**dshot eyes were filled with anger and desperation, staring at Eric Watson, her fiance. She couldn't help but sneer.
They had spent four years from falling in love to getting married; she had always believed that he loved her deeply and that their married life would be blissful.
But on their wedding day, he personally put her on trial because of her stepsister's words.
The Watson family was one of the wealthiest and most influential families in the country. No one would dare to offend them for a nobody like her.
Khloe said word by word, "I have nothing to say."
All along, she thought Eric was the love of her life. But it turned out he had been having an a**air with her stepsister, Sloane Evans.
What was more, he had stolen her academic achievements. And now, he falsely accused her of being a m*rderer. He was ruthless.
What else could she say?
The judge banged his gavel again and gave his verdict.
"The court hereby sentences the defendant, Khloe Evans, to eight years in prison and a fine of three hundred thousand dollars."
The trial concluded, and the prison guards escorted Khloe.
As she walked out of the courtroom, Khloe turned and looked back at Eric, sitting in the plaintiff's seat, her eyes burning with deep hatred and fury.
......
Three years had passed.
"Khloe Evans, someone has bailed you out. You're free to go."
Upon hearing that, Khloe raised her head, her pale face filled with shock.
After suffering from endless torture for three years, she had thought that she was bound to stay there for the full sentence. She didn't expect that she would be released one day.
An hour after she was released from prison, Khloe was taken to a hospital.
She entered a ward, and her heart clenched when she saw her mother through the ICU door, lying motionless in the hospital bed. With a pale face and various apparatus connected to her body, she looked lifeless.
"Mom..." Khloe got all worked up, her voice trembling with emotion. She wanted to open the door and go in.
"Stop it! This ward is specially secured. No one is allowed to enter without my permission." A female voice suddenly rang out behind her.
Khloe turned around and was surprised to see the person who spoke. "Sloane? My mom severed ties with the Evans family long ago. Why are you still doing this to her?"
As she spoke, she glared at Sloane with eyes full of hatred.
Sloane looked at Khloe, a flicker of jealousy and disdain flashing across her eyes.
Then, she sneered, "Khloe, looks like you are mistaken. I'm saving her. Without me, your mother would have died long ago. Perhaps, by the time you come out of prison, you will only see her tomb."
Khloe took a deep breath to calm herself down. "Sloane, stop being so hypocritical. You are saving my mother? Only a fool will believe that. What are you really up to? You're using her to manipulate me, right?"
"Khloe, you're as clever as ever. No wonder they called you the rising star of academia. But it's a pity that you are now a convict for attempted murder. And your fate is in my hands," Sloane taunted.
"So, today, all you need to do is spend a night with Karl Russell. Then, I'll arrange for your release and your mother's treatment."
"Karl Russell? That old man is already in his sixties. Are you out of your mind?" Khloe's eyes widened in disbelief.
"So what? Should I care? It's you who are going to sleep with him, not me. As long as you spend one night with him, our family can secure the Russell family's arms deal. It's a very lucrative business. You should feel honored that you are selling out your body to make so much money for us. But if you refuse..."
Sloane pointed to the ICU. "I'll have them remove your mom's life support, and she'll die right in front of you. I'll give you five seconds to decide. Five, four, three..."
"Fine! I'll go," Khloe agreed in despair. This time, she could no longer suppress the tears she had been holding back.
She was left with no choice. For the sake of her mother, she had to do it.
After freshening up, Khloe was put into a car.
Tonight, she was destined to sleep with a sixty-something disgusting man.
And she was still a v**gin.
Chapter 2 Henrik Watson
That night, the car glided through the deserted streets, headlights cutting into the night's inky darkness.
Bang!
A g*nshot shattered the silence, deafening and ominously close.
Glass sprayed across the seats as the car window exploded, fragments glittering in the dim streetlights.
All hell broke loose. Terrified creams echoed in the street as the few remaining shops hurried to lower their shutters.
The driver, white-faced and trembling, veered in a panic.
The car skidded, tires screeching before slamming into the curb. He slumped forward, unconscious.
Beside him, Khloe blinked, disoriented from the impact.
Pressing a hand to her throbbing head, she tried to make sense of what had happened. Through the cracked window, she glimpsed flickering orange flames a short distance away.
"Oh, no!"
She'd stumbled straight into the deadly crossfires of a g*nfight.
It was likely a turf war turned ugly by two warring gangs.
Steadying herself, Khloe pushed open the door and crouched low, inching towards the roadside.
But before she could move further, a figure emerged from the darkness. Tall and powerfully built, he was moving fast.
Even though a mask obscured most of his features, she could still see his intense eyes and the proud outline of his nose.
A dark stain spread across his side, seeping through his clothes--bl**d.
He stumbled towards her, breathing heavily, and collapsed at her feet.
Just then, another group of burly men burst from the shadows, each armed to the teeth. Their faces were etched with vicious determination, each bearing a t**too on the hand.
"Perfect! He's down. Now, finish him off!"
The leader, bald and snarling, held up his g*n and pointed it towards the fallen man. Then, his gaze fell on Khloe.
She was dressed to the nines, as she was meant to be a gift for a man tonight.
A tight red dress hugged her perfect figure, accentuating her curves and complimenting her porcelain skin. Her glossy hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing a delicate, doll-like face with wide, innocent eyes.
In a word, she looked like a vision from a dream--or a man's t**ptation made flesh.
The bald man's grin widened, his eyes gleaming with le**erous intent.
He had never seen such a beautiful woman before, and he wasn't about to let an opportunity like this slide.
"While you're finishing him off, I'll help myself to this beauty."
He lunged, shoving Khloe back against the shattered window, pressing his weight against her.
"No, please!" she pleaded, her voice trembling as she tried to pull away. "Please don't hurt me."
"Why would I hurt a beauty like you?" he taunted, his fingers gripping her shoulder tightly as he leaned closer, his hot breath on her skin. His men jeered behind him, urging him on, enjoying the show.
But Khloe's hand moved, almost imperceptibly, reaching into her purse. In one swift, desperate motion, her fingers closed around a pen, and she drove it up into his neck with a fierce thrust.
The bald man's eyes widened in shock as bl**d spurted from the wound, his grip loosening.
Gone was the look of a damsel in distress; her eyes, which were so full of fear just a second earlier, now glinted with a cold light.
What was once a delicate, angelic beauty had transformed into a bl**d-stained rose, dark and dangerous.
"B**ch, you're asking for it!"
The henchmen froze for a split second, then fury overcame them, and they charged at Khloe with murderous intent.
Her voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding.
"Don't move, or I'll pull the pen out! He'll bleed out on the spot!"
The men abruptly stopped in their tracks. No one dared to move a muscle.
At this moment, the man who'd been lying motionless suddenly sprang to life, g*n in hand, and unleashed a hail of b*llets on the stunned th*gs.
He moved with such agility that it was clear his injury had only been a ruse.
Even the bald man Khloe held hostage collapsed in a bl**dy heap, a bullet having shattered his skull in an instant.
Khloe spun her head just in time, avoiding the bl**d splatter. But her clothes and legs weren't so lucky; they were stained with bl**d, sticky and warm.
"Ugh!"
The sickly, metallic scent hit her, and her stomach churned.
She couldn't stop herself from retching, knees buckling as she collapsed sideways.
But before she hit the ground, an arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her upright. The man's grip was firm, his eyes dancing with amusement.
"Feisty little thing, weren't you so badass just a second ago? What happened?"
Khloe recoiled, shoving him away, her face twisting in defiance.
"Let go of me!"
Before she could get another word out, black-clad men suddenly emerged from the shadows, their faces hard, eyes cold.
Even the surrounding rooftops showed silhouettes of these men, controlling all sniper points.
Each man moved with such deadly precision, and Khloe could tell at a glance that they were all experienced killers.
They brandished machine guns and rocket launchers with practiced ease, as though these were everyday items.
In a word, they looked like an elite strike force--battle-hardened, lethal.
Unexpectedly, one by one, they all started dropping to their knees, as though bowing before a king.
Thousands of them bowed in unison.
"Awaiting your orders, Mr. Watson," the leader announced reverently.
Khloe's breath hitched. "Are you Henrik Watson?"
Chapter 3 The Kiss
Henrik accepted a handkerchief from his trusted aide, Rhett Foster, wiping the bl**d from his hands with deliberate, almost regal precision.
He then removed his mask slowly, revealing a face that could seize anyone's breath.
His eyes were dark, magnetic pools, deep enough to pull anyone in.
And above his perfectly-shaped lips was a prominent, sculpted nose.
His chiseled features conveyed both power and beauty, almost too flawless to belong to any ordinary man.
It was the kind of face that could eclipse even the brightest stars in the showbiz.
But more than his appearance, it was his aura--commanding, indomitable--that sent shivers down spines. This was a man who held dominion over countless lives.
Henrik smiled, a flash of danger glinting in his eyes. "So what if I am?"
Khloe's eyes went as wide as saucers.
Henrik Watson--that name carried the weight of legend.
Henrik had once been a branch member of the Watson family before vanishing into obscurity for ten long years.
When he resurfaced, he singlehandedly seized control of the nation's underworld, rendering him a king without rival.
In fact, he was so powerful that even the president treaded carefully around him.
Khloe's ex-fiance, Eric, was a member of the Watson family, which had ascended from obscurity to supremacy solely thanks to Henrik.
By blood, Eric was Henrik's nephew.
So, if her marriage to Eric pushed through, Henrik would be her husband's uncle.
Khloe's stepsister, Sloane, had maneuvered her into offering herself to Karl Russell.
Though Karl held sway in the city, he was nothing against Henrik's underworld might. It was like comparing a lion to a mouse.
As the thought struck her, hope flickered within Khloe.
If she could gain Henrik's support, she might escape her forced sacrifice, and her mother could be saved.
Steadying her breath, she asked tentatively, "Since I just helped you, could I ask you a favor?"
Henrik's gaze sharpened, eyes gleaming with intrigue.
It was the first time a woman had faced him with such poise, especially after witnessing him kill so many people.
Interest piqued, Henrik strode towards Khloe with an almost lazy confidence, each step measured and unhurried.
His sculpted fingers pinched her chin, lifting it so she was looking right at him.
He held her gaze as he studied her with a trace of amusement in his eyes.
His voice, low and rich, sent a chill through the air.
"Do you have any idea who you're talking to? Aren't you afraid I'll kill you?"
A shiver raced through Khloe's heart.
His presence was overwhelming, like a storm cloud closing in, suffocating in its intensity.
He was dangerous--merely speaking to him was like playing with fire.
But she had nowhere else to turn; Henrik was her only chance.
"I have a Ph.D. in chemistry and medicine, along with patents--highly profitable ones. If you help me, I can make you money," she said, voice steady but with a glint of desperation.
Henrik shook his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Money?" he murmured, his fingers brushing her cheek. "Do I look like I lack money?"
The scent of bl**d clung faintly to his skin, chilling her even as he remained outwardly gentle. Khloe's guard went up instinctively, her body tensing beneath his touch.
"What do you want?" she ventured cautiously. "If it's within my power, I'm willing to exchange anything."
A spark flickered in Henrik's dark eyes, something enigmatic and unreadable.
He let his gaze drift over her as if considering her offer. "Anything, you say?" All of a sudden, he let out a chilling laugh. "Then I want this."
In one swift motion, he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close.
And there, before all his men, he kissed her.
Chapter 4 Decisive Action
The kiss came unexpectedly.
Khloe was caught off guard, unable to respond in time.
Henrik's subordinates stood frozen, their eyes wide with disbelief.
They had all worked for him for years, and never once had they seen him so close with a woman.
Henrik had always been the type to keep his distance from women. In the past, women who approached him either ended up as fish food or were sent to toil in the mines at his orders.
What kind of spell had this woman cast?
How was it that she managed to make Henrik abandon all his usual rules, and all on their very first meeting?
As the crowd remained stunned and puzzled, Khloe's thoughts swirled in chaos, making it impossible to think straight.
Henrik's kiss was overwhelming, like a storm crashing down on her, leaving her breathless and dizzy.
She found herself trapped in his arms, held so tightly it felt as though she were a flower caught in a violent storm. Yet she was anything but fragile.
Once the shock wore off, a surge of anger rose within her.
For years, she had endured humiliation, her fall from grace plunging her into the darkest depths. But giving up was never an option; she had always been plotting her revenge.
It was only natural that she refused to yield.
Without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around his neck and returned the kiss with equal ferocity.
After all, what harm could a kiss do?
And the man was both devastatingly handsome and of high standing.
She would not suffer any losses.
She skillfully fought back with her t**gue, refusing to let him dominate her entirely.
Instead of pulling back, she met his intensity head-on, taking the lead.
What began as a one-sided kiss quickly transformed into a fierce exchange, each of them vying for control, pushing and pulling in a heated battle for dominance.
The kiss was fierce and all-consuming, each second more passionate than the last, until they were both gasping for air.
When they finally pulled away, their lips were swollen and stained with bl**d, a testament to the intensity of the moment.
Henrik let go of Khloe, his hand brushing against the corner of his mouth where her teeth had left their mark.
His gaze was intense, locking onto her with a depth that seemed to pierce right through her.
Khloe held his stare steadily, not flinching or showing even the slightest sign of discomfort.
Her fearless attitude earned her the respect of those watching.
It was clear now why Henrik was drawn to her.
She was bold, with a courage that couldn't be ignored.
She had the audacity to bite Henrik's lips, unafraid of the consequences.
Henrik continued to gaze at Khloe, a growing satisfaction building within him.
The sting on his lips reminded him sharply of what had just happened.
The woman standing before him, with a face as stunning as an angel's, was no delicate flower. She was a thorny rose, and anyone foolish enough to underestimate her would undoubtedly pay the price.
But that was exactly what made her so captivating--it was the danger beneath the beauty that drew him in.
"Mr. Watson, is everything to your liking?" Khloe asked, breaking the stillness.
"Yes, let's go," Henrik replied with a smile. "Now, let's take care of your little issue."
......
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&11&
Llevaban tres años casados, ella lo había dado todo, pero no era más que un sustituto para que su marido asegurara la herencia.Se quedó infértil al salvarle, solo para ser humillada por su suegra; su amiga estaba embarazada de él y la consolaba con falsedad.Herida por la traición, esta vez se convertirá en quien domine su mundo.
=====
Capítulo 1
Una uña bien cuidada golpeteaba con un ritmo implacable y entrecortado contra el frío mostrador de mármol de la Oficina del Registro Civil.
Al otro lado de la barrera, el funcionario miraba la pantalla de su computadora, con el ceño profundamente fruncido.
Tecleó algo, presionó la tecla de retroceso y volvió a teclear.
"¿Hay algún problema?", preguntó Haleigh. Su voz era firme. "Es solo una copia de la licencia. La necesito para la auditoría del fideicomiso".
El funcionario finalmente levantó la vista. Su expresión era de lástima.
"Sra... Oliver", se corrigió, mirando el nombre en la identificación de ella. "He buscado por su nombre, por el nombre del Sr. Cooley y por la fecha de la ceremonia. No hay registro de un acta de matrimonio devuelta".
Haleigh soltó una risa corta e incrédula. "Eso es imposible. Tuvimos trescientos invitados en el Plaza. Salió en Vogue".
Buscó torpemente en su teléfono, sus dedos resbalando en la lisa pantalla mientras abría las fotos. "Mire. Esos somos nosotros. Ese es el oficiante".
El funcionario echó un vistazo a la pantalla. Se subió las gafas por el puente de la nariz. "Señora, una ceremonia es una ceremonia. Pero legalmente, el oficiante-o la pareja-debe devolver el acta firmada a esta oficina en un plazo de sesenta días. Si ese documento no fue registrado, el matrimonio no es válido. A los ojos del Estado de New York, usted es soltera".
Su mundo se tambaleó.
Haleigh se aferró al borde del mostrador para no tambalearse. Un recuerdo la asaltó, nítido y cegador. Gray, tres años atrás, de pie en la suite de su hotel, aflojándose la corbata. "No te preocupes por el papeleo, nena. Yo me encargo de registrarlo. Tú solo relájate. Ahora eres una Cooley".
Él había insistido. Había sido tan dulce, tan protector.
"Gracias", susurró ella.
Se dio la vuelta y salió del edificio. El sol del mediodía la golpeó como un puñetazo, cegador y ardiente.
Soltera.
No era Haleigh Cooley. Nunca lo había sido.
Caminó a ciegas hacia el borde de la acera, con la mano temblorosa mientras buscaba su iPad en su enorme bolso. Lo llevaba a todas partes para sincronizar el horario de Gray con el suyo. Una esposa abnegada. Una asistente ejecutiva perfecta disfrazada de socia.
El dispositivo vibró en su mano.
Bajó la mirada. Una notificación se extendía por la parte superior de la pantalla.
Invitación para compartir fotos de iCloud: "Nuestro pequeño secreto"
Haleigh frunció el ceño. No reconoció al remitente de inmediato, pero su pulgar se detuvo sobre el botón de 'Aceptar'. El nombre del remitente no le era familiar, pero el título era una cu**illa retorciéndose en sus entrañas. Nuestro pequeño secreto.
El álbum se cargó al instante.
La primera foto era un primer plano de una mano sosteniendo una prueba de em**razo. Dos líneas rosas. El fondo era inconfundible: la terraza de cedro de la finca de la familia Cooley en los Hamptons.
Haleigh se detuvo en seco.
Deslizó el dedo.
La siguiente imagen era una captura de pantalla de una conversación de mensajes de texto. El nombre del contacto era "Mi amor".
Feliz tercer aniversario, nena. Este bebé es el mejor regalo que podíamos darle a la familia. Te prometo que, en cuanto se libere el fideicomiso, se acaba esta farsa.
La marca de tiempo era de esta mañana.
El estómago de Haleigh se revolvió. La bilis le subió por la garganta, caliente y ácida. Tropezó hacia un bote de basura metálico en la esquina. Tuvo arcadas, con los ojos llorosos y la respiración entrecortada.
Tres años.
La estipulación del fideicomiso. Gray solo obtenía acceso total al monto principal después de tres años de matrimonio. Hoy era el último día.
Las piezas encajaron con la fuerza de un choque de autos. El acta sin registrar. Los problemas de "infertilidad" con los que Gray la había apoyado tanto. La forma en que su madre, la matriarca del imperio Cooley, la miraba con un desdén apenas disimulado.
No solo la habían engañado.
No era una esposa a la que le eran infiel. Era un accesorio. Un comodín utilizado para engañar a los albaceas del fideicomiso hasta que Gray pudiera asegurar el dinero y deshacerse de ella sin perder la mitad de sus bienes en un divorcio. Porque no había divorcio si no había matrimonio. Necesitaban un rastro documental de tres años para los albaceas. Una actuación pública. Gray debió de haber falsificado documentos provisionales, o quizá planeaba registrar el acta real hoy, en el último segundo posible, después de que el dinero fuera irrevocablemente suyo.
Se limpió la boca con el dorso de la mano. Un temblor le recorrió las extremidades, pero bajo las náuseas, algo más se estaba encendiendo.
Hizo una seña a un taxi amarillo.
Se deslizó en el asiento trasero.
"¿A dónde?", preguntó el conductor, observándola por el espejo retrovisor.
"A la Torre Cooley", empezó a decir, pero las palabras murieron en sus labios. No. Ahí no. Todavía no.
"A Midtown", dijo en su lugar. "Una dirección en Madison Avenue". Era el edificio que albergaba la firma de investigación privada más despiadada de la ciudad.
Sacó su teléfono. Sus dedos, que momentos antes temblaban, ahora estaban firmes. Abrió una aplicación de mensajería encriptada y buscó el contacto de su compañera de cuarto de la universidad, ahora una abogada que era un tiburón.
Necesito una auditoría forense de las transferencias de activos de Gray Cooley. Ahora. Y necesito un investigador privado.
Cambió de aplicación a Instagram. En la parte superior de su feed había una publicación de Brylee Franklin. Su mejor amiga. Su confidente. La mujer que le había sostenido la mano durante las pruebas de em**razo negativas.
La foto mostraba dos copas de champaña de cristal chocando contra un atardecer. La leyenda decía: Sintiéndome bendecida. Nuevos comienzos.
Haleigh hizo zoom en la copa de champaña.
En el reflejo distorsionado del líquido dorado, lo vio a él. El perfil borroso pero innegable de Gray Cooley.
Se clavó las uñas en las palmas de las manos hasta que la p**l se rompió, el agudo dolor anclándola a la realidad.
Abrió su bolso y sacó un lápiz labial. Ruby Woo. Un rojo intenso, color sa**re.
Se lo aplicó con cuidado, delineando la curva de sus labios.
"Ya que no soy la Sra. Cooley", le susurró al taxi vacío, "simplemente tendré que ser Haleigh Oliver".
Capítulo 2
La iluminación en el salón del hotel era tenue, diseñada para aventuras ilícitas y negocios de alto riesgo. Haleigh estaba sentada en una silla de terciopelo con respaldo alto, escondida en un rincón donde las sombras eran más profundas.
Sobre la mesa baja frente a ella, había una tableta que le había proporcionado el investigador privado que contrató hace tres horas. La velocidad con la que el dinero podía comprar información en New York era aterradora.
El archivo lo confirmaba todo. Las cuentas bancarias compartidas entre Gray y Brylee. El contrato de arrendamiento de un apartamento en el Upper East Side a nombre de Brylee, pagado por una empresa fa**asma vinculada a Gray.
Pero fue el archivo de audio lo que hizo que la sa**re de Haleigh se helara.
Se ajustó los AirPods y presionó reproducir.
La voz era inconfundible. Aguda, nasal y rezumando arrogancia. La señora Cooley.
"Por fin, un heredero de verdad. Haleigh, esa mula estéril, debería haberse ido hace años. Asegúrate de que los abogados tengan lista la orden de desalojo para la mañana siguiente a la fiesta de aniversario".
Haleigh miró fijamente el vaso de whisky que tenía en la mano. El hielo se había derretido, aguando el líquido ámbar. Apretó el vaso con tanta fuerza que temió que pudiera estallar y cortarle la palma de la mano. Casi deseó que lo hiciera. El dolor físico podría distraerla del dolor hueco que sentía en el pe**o.
Una sombra se proyectó sobre su mesa.
Haleigh levantó la vista, esperando a un mesero. En su lugar, vio a un hombre con un traje oscuro y un auricular. No parecía de la seguridad del hotel. Parecía un agente paramilitar.
"Señorita Oliver", dijo. No fue una pregunta. "El señor Barrett desea hablar con usted".
El teléfono de Haleigh vibró sobre la mesa. Un número local que no reconoció.
Dudó un momento y luego contestó. "¿Hola?".
"Señorita Oliver". La voz al otro lado de la línea era vieja, grave, e imponía obediencia instantánea. "Soy Hjalmer Barrett".
A Haleigh se le cortó la respiración. Los Barrett eran la realeza estadounidense. Dinero de abolengo. El tipo de riqueza que hacía que los Cooley parecieran ganadores de la lotería viviendo en un parque de casas rodantes. Eran dueños de la mitad del horizonte de la ciudad.
"Señor Barrett", logró decir. "No entiendo".
"Conozco su situación", dijo Hjalmer. Su tono era seco, carente de compasión pero lleno de propósito. "De hecho, sé más al respecto que usted. Hay un auto esperándola afuera".
Haleigh miró al guardia de seguridad y luego por la ventana. Un Rolls-Royce Phantom negro esperaba junto a la acera, destacando entre la fila de taxis amarillos.
No tenía nada que perder. Su matrimonio era una mentira, su hogar estaba a punto de serle arrebatado y su carrera estaba entrelazada con una familia que la despreciaba.
"Ya voy", dijo.
Se bebió el whisky aguado de un solo trago y se puso de pie.
El viaje fue silencioso. El interior del Rolls-Royce olía a cuero fino y a colonia cara. La ciudad pasaba borrosa tras las ventanillas polarizadas, una estela de luces y lluvia.
Llegaron a la torre de Barrett Holdings. El guardia de seguridad la acompañó a un ascensor privado que subía directamente a la oficina del penthouse.
Hjalmer Barrett estaba sentado detrás de un escritorio que parecía tallado en el casco de un galeón. Era mayor de lo que aparentaba en sus fotos, su rostro surcado por profundas arrugas, pero sus ojos eran agudos, de un azul depredador.
No le ofreció asiento. Deslizó un grueso dosier sobre la madera pulida.
"Ábralo".
Haleigh dio un paso adelante y abrió la carpeta.
Era un plano. El Proyecto Zenith. Su obra maestra. El diseño arquitectónico que había pasado los últimos dos años perfeccionando para Cooley Enterprises.
Pero el encabezado del documento no decía Arquitecta Principal: Haleigh Oliver.
Decía Arquitecta Principal: Brylee Franklin.
Y debajo, un desglose financiero. El proyecto estaba estructurado para desviar activos del nombre de Haleigh a un fideicomiso para el "Bebé Cooley".
"No solo la están echando", dijo Hjalmer, su voz cortando el silencio de la habitación. "Están borrando su existencia profesional. Afirmarán que usted era simplemente una asistente, que tuvo una crisis nerviosa. Saldrá de ese matrimonio sin nada. Sin dinero. Sin reputación. Sin carrera".
Haleigh se quedó mirando el papel. La firma de Gray estaba al final, justo al lado de la de Brylee.
"¿Por qué me muestra esto?", preguntó Haleigh, levantando la vista. Su voz temblaba de rabia.
"Porque odio a los Cooley", dijo Hjalmer con sencillez. "Y necesito una nuera".
Haleigh parpadeó. "¿Disculpe?".
"Mi hijo, Kane", dijo Hjalmer. "Ha oído los rumores".
Sí, los había oído. Todo el mundo los había oído. Kane Barrett. La Bestia de Wall Street. Los tabloides lo llamaban un recluso, un monstruo. Decían que estaba desfigurado, que tenía un temperamento que podía arrancar la pintura de las paredes. Nunca aparecía en público.
"¿Quiere que... me case con Kane?".
"Necesito una mujer que sea inteligente, desesperada y vengativa", dijo Hjalmer. "Kane necesita una esposa para calmar los nervios de la junta directiva. Creen que es demasiado volátil. Un matrimonio estabiliza su imagen".
"¿Y qué gano yo?", preguntó Haleigh, con el corazón martilleándole en las costillas.
"Venganza", dijo Hjalmer. Se inclinó hacia adelante. "Usted se casa con mi hijo. Yo le doy los recursos de Barrett Holdings. Aplastamos a los Cooley. Nos quedamos con el Proyecto Zenith. Los dejamos en la indigencia".
Empujó un segundo documento hacia ella. Un acuerdo prenupcial.
Haleigh examinó la última página. Tan solo la asignación era más que todo el fondo fiduciario de Gray.
"El matrimonio es solo de nombre", añadió Hjalmer. "Kane no tiene interés en... el romance. Vivirá en el penthouse. Interpretará su papel".
Haleigh miró por el ventanal que iba del piso al techo. Muy abajo, la Torre Cooley parecía un bloque de juguete. Pequeña. Insignificante.
Si se marchaba, era una víctima. Una mujer divorciada y estéril a la que su esposo y su mejor amiga le habían jugado una mala pasada.
Si firmaba... era la novia de un monstruo. Pero sería la novia de un monstruo poderoso.
Tomó la pesada pluma fuente del escritorio. El metal estaba frío contra su p**l.
"¿Él lo sabe?", preguntó. "¿Kane?".
"Él hace lo que es necesario para la familia", dijo Hjalmer.
Haleigh destapó la pluma. La punta flotó sobre la línea de la firma.
"Quiero una boda", dijo, con voz dura. "Una ceremonia. Más grande que la que tuve con Gray".
Hjalmer asintió una vez. "Hecho".
Haleigh firmó. El rasguido de la pluma sobre el papel sonó como un cu**illo siendo afilado.
Se enderezó y miró a Hjalmer a los ojos.
"Un placer hacer negocios con usted, suegro".
Capítulo 3
Haleigh rechazó la oferta del conductor de llevarla al apartamento de los Cooley. Necesitaba el anonimato de un taxi amarillo.
Era casi medianoche cuando el taxi se detuvo junto a la acera. El edificio de antes de la guerra se cernía sobre ella, con su fachada de piedra caliza iluminada por una suave luz ascendente. Antes parecía un hogar. Ahora, parecía un mausoleo.
El portero, Eddie, se levantó de un salto cuando la vio. "¡Señora Cooley! No la esperábamos de vuelta hasta el martes".
"Sorpresa", dijo Haleigh, forzando una sonrisa. Puso un billete de cien dólares en su mano. "No llame arriba. Quiero sorprender a Gray".
Eddie guiñó un ojo. "Entendido, señora".
El viaje en el ascensor fue suave y silencioso. Haleigh observaba cómo subían los números de los pisos, su corazón latía con un ritmo lento y pesado. Tum. Tum. Tum.
Salió al vestíbulo privado. Podía oír música que venía de adentro. Jazz suave. Miles Davis. La lista de reproducción de "se**cción" favorita de Gray.
Abrió la puerta con la llave. Clic.
Empujó la puerta para abrirla. El apartamento olía a cera de abeja y a lirios caros.
Justo ahí, en el centro de la alfombra de la entrada, había un par de tacones Christian Louboutin de suela roja.
Haleigh se quedó mirándolos. Se los había comprado a Brylee por su cumpleaños el mes pasado. Brylee había llorado, abrazándola, diciendo que nunca había tenido unos zapatos tan caros.
Haleigh se quitó sus propios zapatos bajos. Se movió en silencio por el pasillo persa, en calcetines.
Subió sigilosamente la escalera curva. La música venía del dormitorio principal. La puerta estaba entreabierta, dejando escapar un haz de luz dorada hacia el pasillo.
Haleigh espió por la rendija.
Gray estaba de pie junto a la cama, de espaldas a la puerta. Se estaba desabotonando la camisa de vestir. Brylee estaba sentada en el borde del colchón-el colchón de Haleigh-llevando puesta la bata de seda de Haleigh. La seda color ch**pán se abría para revelar sus piernas.
Gray le dio a Brylee un vaso de leche. "Toma esto. Es bueno para el bebé. Calcio".
Brylee lo tomó, sonriéndole. "Vas a ser un padre excelente, Gray. Mucho mejor de lo que fuiste como esposo".
Haleigh sintió una oleada de mareo. Una cosa era saberlo. Otra muy distinta era verlo.
Se apartó de la puerta. Metió la mano en su bolso y sacó su pesado llavero. Lo sostuvo sobre el piso de madera del pasillo.
Lo dejó caer.
¡CLANG-TIN-PUM!
El sonido fue explosivo en la silenciosa casa.
Desde el dormitorio, estalló el caos.
"¡Mi**da!", la voz de Gray fue un susurro áspero. "¿Oíste eso?".
"¿Es ella? ¿Ya volvió?", Brylee sonaba frenética. Un vaso tintineó contra una mesita de noche.
"¡Escóndete! ¡Solo escóndete!".
Haleigh esperó cinco segundos. Luego se agachó, recogió sus llaves y empezó a tararear. En voz alta. Una melodía alegre y sin sentido.
"¿Cariño? ¡Ya llegué!", exclamó, con la voz elevada en una melodía dulce y cantarina.
Caminó hacia el dormitorio, con pasos ahora deliberados y pesados.
Abrió la puerta de un empujón.
Gray estaba de pie junto a la cama, jadeando ligeramente. Su camisa estaba a medio desabotonar, su cabello desordenado. La habitación apestaba al perfume de Brylee: Chanel No. 5.
Pero Brylee no estaba.
Haleigh inspeccionó la habitación con la mirada. La cama estaba deshecha. Las puertas del balcón estaban cerradas. La puerta del baño estaba abierta y a oscuras.
Su mirada se posó en el vestidor. La manija vibraba ligeramente, como si alguien acabara de soltarla.
"¡Haleigh!", exclamó Gray. Su sonrisa era aterrorizada, un rictus de pánico. El sudor perlaba su labio superior. "Tú... ¡volviste antes!".
Haleigh se acercó a él y lo rodeó con sus brazos por la cintura. Podía sentir su corazón martilleando contra su pe**o como un pájaro atrapado.
"Te extrañé", arrulló. Enterró el rostro en su cuello, inhalando profundamente. "Mmm. Hueles... diferente".
Gray se quedó helado. "Yo... solo estaba probando unas muestras de colonia nueva".
Haleigh se apartó, olfateando el aire teatralmente. "¿Y eso es... Chanel No. 5? Es tan fuerte".
El rostro de Gray perdió todo color. "Yo... estaba buscando un regalo para ti. Debo haberme rociado un poco por accidente en la tienda".
"¿Un regalo?", los ojos de Haleigh se iluminaron. Se giró hacia el vestidor. "¿Está ahí dentro? ¡Déjame ver!".
Dio un paso hacia la puerta del vestidor.
Gray se abalanzó, bloqueándole el paso.
"¡No!", gritó. Luego, más suave: "No, cariño. Está... está hecho un desastre ahí dentro. Aún no lo he envuelto. Es una sorpresa. No puedes entrar".
Haleigh se detuvo. Miró la puerta cerrada. Imaginó a Brylee allí dentro, acurrucada entre los abrigos de invierno, conteniendo la respiración.
Una sonrisa cruel asomó a los labios de Haleigh, desapareciendo antes de que Gray pudiera verla.
"Está bien", dijo, encogiéndose de hombros. "No arruinaré la sorpresa. De todos modos, estoy agotada. Creo que simplemente... me daré una ducha y me iré a la cama".
Se sentó en el borde de la cama, justo donde Brylee había estado sentada hacía unos instantes.
"Ven, siéntate conmigo, Gray", dijo, palmeando el colchón.
Gray miró hacia el vestidor y luego a Haleigh. Parecía que estaba a punto de vomitar.
"Claro, cariño", dijo con debilidad.
Capítulo 4
Haleigh no fue a la ducha de inmediato. En su lugar, se dirigió a su tocador, situado justo enfrente de la puerta del clóset.
Se sentó y comenzó a qu**arse las joyas, lenta y metódicamente.
Clin. Su reloj golpeó la superficie de cristal.
Chasquido. Le siguieron sus aretes.
Gray seguía montando guardia junto al clóset, cambiando el peso de un pie a otro. Parecía una estatua a punto de desmoronarse.
"¿No vas a do**ir en el cuarto de huéspedes?", preguntó Haleigh, observándolo en el espejo. Tomó un disco de algodón y comenzó a limpiarse el lápiz labial. "Sabes que ronco cuando tengo jet lag. Necesito la cama para mí sola".
"Yo... te extrañé", tartamudeó Gray. "Quiero estar cerca de ti".
No podía irse. Si se iba, Brylee intentaría escapar y Haleigh podría verla. Estaba atrapado.
Haleigh se encogió de hombros. "Como quieras".
Se levantó y caminó hacia la mesita de noche. El vaso de leche seguía allí.
"¡Oh, leche!", exclamó. "Me muero de sed".
Tomó el vaso.
"¡Espera!", Gray extendió la mano. "Esa... esa está vieja. La serví hace horas".
"Está bien", dijo Haleigh. Llevó el vaso a sus labios y se lo bebió de un solo trago largo. Se limpió un bigote blanco del labio superior. "¿Sabe intensa. Leche entera? Usualmente tomas descremada".
"Estoy... estoy tratando de aumentar mi masa muscular", mintió Gray. Sus ojos se movían nerviosamente por la habitación como una rata acorralada.
Haleigh se estiró, con los brazos extendidos hacia el techo. "Dios, qué frío hace aquí. ¿Por qué el aire acondicionado está tan bajo?".
Caminó hacia el termostato montado en la pared.
"Haleigh, no, está bien-".
Presionó el botón. Bip. Bip. Bip.
La pantalla digital subió. 72... 80... 90... Se detuvo en unos sofocantes 98 grados Fahrenheit.
"El doctor dijo que necesito mantener mi temperatura alta", mintió con naturalidad. "Problemas de circulación".
La calefacción se encendió con un zumbido grave.
El vestidor era una caja sellada, hecha a medida con revestimiento de cedro y aislamiento extra para proteger sus abrigos de p**l. Sin ventanas. Sin ventilación. Con el dormitorio calentándose, se convertiría en una sauna sin oxígeno en cuestión de minutos.
Haleigh se quitó la ropa y se puso un camisón de seda justo delante de Gray. Se metió en la cama y tomó el control remoto.
Encendió la televisión. Una película de acción a todo volumen. Explosiones y persecuciones de autos llenaron la habitación.
"Gray", dijo, palmeando los pies de la cama. "Me duelen los pies a morir. ¿Me los masajeas?".
Gray miró el clóset. Miró la puerta. Miró a Haleigh. Derrotado, se sentó y comenzó a masajearle los pies. Tenía las manos húmedas y frías.
Pasaron diez minutos. La habitación se estaba volviendo sofocantemente calurosa.
Pum.
Un sonido suave provino del clóset. Como un cuerpo moviéndose contra la madera.
Haleigh se incorporó de un salto. "¿Qué fue eso?".
Tomó una pesada lámpara de latón de la mesita de noche. "¿Hay alguien ahí dentro? ¿Un ladrón?".
Hizo un ademán de levantarse de la cama.
Gray prácticamente la tacleó. "¡No! ¡No! ¡Fui yo! ¡Le di una patada a la base de la cama!".
Haleigh lo miró, con los ojos muy abiertos. "Qué torpe estás esta noche, Gray".
Lo apartó de un empujón. "¿Sabes qué? Me estás molestando. No dejas de moverte, estás sudando... ve a do**ir al cuarto de huéspedes".
"Pero-".
"¡Fuera!", Haleigh señaló la puerta. "Necesito do**ir. Vete".
Gray se puso de pie. Miró la puerta del clóset con ojos desesperados y de disculpa. Articuló algo que pareció un "Espera".
Luego salió de la habitación.
En el momento en que la puerta se cerró con un clic, Haleigh se levantó de la cama. Marchó hacia la puerta y giró la cerradura. Clic.
Volvió a la cama y apagó la televisión.
El silencio se apoderó de todo. Un silencio pesado y caluroso.
La temperatura en la habitación era sofocante. Solo podía imaginar cómo sería dentro del clóset, entre la lana y el terciopelo.
Haleigh se acostó en la oscuridad. Se quedó mirando la puerta del clóset.
Oyó una inhalación entrecortada. Luego, un sollozo suave y ahogado.
Brylee estaba llorando. Estaba atrapada, acalorada, aterrorizada y probablemente con ganas de orinar, dada su condición.
Haleigh acomodó su almohada. Sintió una profunda sensación de paz.
"Buenas noches, rata", susurró en la oscuridad.
Se puso sus audífonos con cancelación de ruido y cerró los ojos.
Capítulo 5
La luz de la mañana se filtraba a través de las pesadas cortinas. Haleigh se despertó renovada.
Se tomó su tiempo. Se estiró. Entró al baño y se duchó ruidosamente, cantando ópera de forma desafinada.
Solo después de estar completamente vestida, desbloqueó la puerta del dormitorio. La dejó abierta de par en par y bajó las escaleras.
No miró hacia el clóset. Sabía que Brylee saldría a toda prisa en cuanto no hubiera moros en la costa.
En el comedor, Gray estaba sentado en la cabecera de la mesa. Parecía que no había d**mido. Tenía los ojos inyectados en sa**re y enviaba mensajes furiosamente por debajo de la mesa.
Haleigh se sirvió un café. "Buenos días, cariño".
Cinco minutos después, entró Brylee.
Se veía destrozada. Tenía el pelo encrespado, el maquillaje empastado en un intento de ocultar las ojeras y la p**l tenía un tinte grisáceo. Llevaba un vestido diferente al de la noche anterior, uno de los viejos de Haleigh que debió de haber agarrado del clóset.
"¡Brylee!", exclamó Haleigh, dejando la taza sobre la mesa con la fuerza suficiente para hacerlos sobresaltar. "¡Llegaste temprano! ¿Te quedaste a do**ir?".
Brylee se estremeció. "Yo... sí. En la casa de huéspedes. Tuve insomnio".
"Te ves terrible", dijo Haleigh con simpatía. "Ojos hinchados. Deshidratada".
Sonó el timbre. La empleada abrió y el señor y la señora Cooley entraron con aire de grandeza.
La señora Cooley se veía impecable en un traje de tweed blanco. Ignoró a Haleigh y besó a Gray en la mejilla.
Todos se sentaron. La tensión se podía cortar con un cu**illo.
El señor Cooley no perdió el tiempo en formalidades. Cortó su bistec con precisión quirúrgica.
"Haleigh", dijo sin levantar la vista. "Necesitamos hablar de Zenith".
Haleigh bajó el tenedor. "¿Sí?".
"La Junta Directiva siente que estás sobrecargada", dijo el señor Cooley. "Hemos decidido incorporar a Brylee como codirectora. Para que te ayude".
Brylee fingió sorpresa, llevándose una mano al pe**o. "Oh, Arthur, solo soy una marchante de arte. No sé nada de arquitectura".
"La gestión no se trata de dibujar líneas bonitas", espetó la señora Cooley. "Se trata de habilidades interpersonales. Haleigh está demasiado... frágil últimamente".
"¿Frágil?", repitió Haleigh.
"Necesitamos estabilidad", intervino Gray, evitando su mirada. "Por la familia. Para que puedas concentrarte en... intentar tener un bebé".
Al mencionar al bebé, Brylee se pasó inconscientemente la mano por el vientre. Le lanzó a Haleigh una mirada de puro y venenoso triunfo.
Haleigh entendió el juego. La querían fuera. Querían el proyecto, el dinero y el crédito.
"Los contratos de Zenith están vinculados a mí como la arquitecta principal", dijo Haleigh con calma. "Si me quitan, los clientes pueden retirarse".
"Eres una Cooley", dijo el señor Cooley, bajando el tono de su voz una octava. "Tu nombre es un activo. Nos pertenece".
Haleigh miró alrededor de la mesa. Los rostros codiciosos. Las mentiras.
Se reclinó en su silla. "Renunciaré".
El alivio en la habitación fue palpable. Gray soltó el aire que había estado conteniendo.
"Sin embargo", continuó Haleigh, levantando un dedo. "Tengo una condición".
"Dila", dijo Gray rápidamente.
"Quiero la escritura de propiedad del almacén en Dowling Street. La antigua fábrica textil".
El señor Cooley frunció el ceño. "¿Ese montón de chatarra oxidada? Es un pasivo. Está lleno de asbesto y ocupas".
"Le tengo un apego sentimental", mintió Haleigh. "Quiero convertirlo en un estudio privado. Un lugar donde pueda pintar".
El señor Cooley hizo los cálculos mentales al instante. Zenith valía cientos de millones. El almacén era una deducción de impuestos que valía quizás unos cincuenta mil.
"Hecho", dijo el señor Cooley. "Transfiere la autoridad de firma de Zenith a Brylee hoy mismo. Te quedas con tu montón de ladrillos".
Haleigh sonrió. Tomó un sorbo de su café para ocultar el brillo depredador en sus ojos.
Hjalmer Barrett le había dicho que el almacén de Dowling Street se encontraba directamente en el trazado de la nueva línea de tren de alta velocidad que Barrett Holdings anunciaría el próximo mes. Su valor estaba a punto de dispararse en un cuatro mil por ciento.
"Por la familia", dijo Haleigh, levantando su taza.
Los observó beber, sabiendo que acababan de firmar sus propias sentencias de muerte financiera.
&4&