I folded my hands and watched him check the screen. The moment he saw the caller ID, his whole expression softened, like someone had turned on a light inside him, a light I hadn’t seen in months.

He answered immediately.

A female voice came through, shaky and dramatic. “Max… I think I sprained my ankle. Are you coming tonight? I’m so scared.”

Selene.

My throat tightened so fast I couldn’t breathe.

Maxwell didn’t respond right away. He looked at me first, and in that look I saw it clearly: he wasn’t guilty, or ashamed, or even sorry. He looked annoyed. My presence was an inconvenience, a problem standing between him and the woman he actually wanted.

Then he turned away and spoke into the phone, his voice instantly gentle.

“Stay where you are,” he said softly. “I’ll be there now.”

The words hit me like a slap.

I didn’t understand why it hurt so much. I should have been used to it by now. I should have been numb. But watching him care for her, hearing the tenderness in his voice the same tenderness he once reserved for me, made something inside my chest crack.

I turned my face away, blinking hard, forcing the tears back. I refused to cry in front of him. I refused to give him that satisfaction.

When he ended the call, he reached for his coat as if he were already halfway out the door.

“Selene is hurt,” he said, as though issuing an instruction. “She needs me.”

I stared at him, disbelief rising like fire. “And you think I should just accept that?”

His face tightened. “Don’t be unreasonable, Ariana.”

Unreasonable.

That word again. The word men use when women stop tolerating disrespect.

He sighed as though I were exhausting him. “Why are you being so heartless?”

Heartless?

The word struck me so hard I almost laughed. My hands trembled, but my voice came out steady. “Heartless?” I repeated slowly. “If anyone is heartless here, it’s you.”

He frowned, anger building behind his eyes. “She’s hurt. She needs help.”

I slammed my palm against the desk. “If I were heartless,” I said through clenched teeth, “I wouldn’t have stayed in this marriage. I wouldn’t have tried to make it work while you were out there humiliating me.”

His face twisted with rage, and he raised a finger as though I were the one who had sinned. “Where is this attitude coming from? Who the hell do you think you are?”

My lips curled. I didn’t even recognize my own voice when I replied, sharp and bitter:

“Go to hell, you cheating ass.”

His eyes widened. “What did you just say?”

I didn’t answer. I turned and stormed up the stairs, my heart pounding so loudly I could barely hear anything else.

“What the hell does that mean, Ariana?” he shouted after me.

I stopped halfway up, my body shaking with anger and pain. Slowly, I turned back. He stood there holding his coat, still playing the victim.

“And don’t forget to transfer the billion before you go,” I said calmly, even though my chest was burning. “Unless you want to wake up tomorrow and see your infidelity all over the media.”

His mouth fell open. “Are you threatening me?”

I didn’t give him an answer. I didn’t give him the satisfaction.

I ran into my room, slammed the door, and the moment it closed, all the strength left my body like a pulled plug. I collapsed onto the bed and broke down, sobs tearing out of me before I could stop them.

This is supposed to hurt, so why am I crying like I’m the one who did wrong?

I buried my face in the pillow and cried until my throat burned. I cursed him. I cursed Selene. I cursed this marriage that had eaten me alive.

Finally, I sat up slowly, wiping my face with the back of my hand. My reflection stared back from the mirror across the room, mascara streaked, eyes swollen, hair a mess.

I looked destroyed. And I was done looking like this.

My phone buzzed beside me on the bed. I grabbed it and opened my banking app. The notification was already there.

One billion.

I stared at the screen, something cold and sharp settling in my chest. If he could pay a billion just to keep me quiet for one night, then he had more to lose than I thought.

And I had more power than I realized.

I stood up, walked to the bathroom, and washed my face. The cold water stung, but it cleared my head. When I looked in the mirror again, I didn’t see a victim anymore.

I saw someone who was about to take everything he thought he owned.

Over the following days, he ignored me completely, returning to the house only when he needed a change of clothes.

His life now revolved entirely around Selene. I swallowed the pain in my chest. I’d already promised myself not to cry. Instead, I made a choice: every one of his excuses became an invoice.

A doctor’s appointment Selene needed. A panic attack she claimed she had at midnight. A lonely night she didn’t want to spend alone. A business dinner she insisted he attend with her.

Each time he chose her, I smiled and named a price.

A commercial building downtown. Ten percent of the shares in one of his subsidiary companies. Debit alerts. Asset transfers. Legal confirmations.

His phone kept lighting up.

At first, he tried to hide it, turning the screen away, silencing notifications, pretending it wasn’t happening. After a while, Selene noticed.

“Is everything okay?” she asked softly, sitting beside him in the hotel bed, her voice full of concern.

He forced a smile. “It’s just work stuff.”

But rage boiled underneath his skin. I could feel it even from miles away.

That night, my phone rang.

"What do you actually want?" he snapped the moment I answered. "This isn't about money anymore."

I leaned back on the couch, one hand resting unconsciously on my stomach. "I'm taking my life back."

"You already have more money than most people will ever see."

"And you still have your reputation," I replied. "Your father. Your companies. Your future. You never once lost any of it."

There was a tense pause on the line.

"Is there another man?" he asked suddenly.

A laugh slipped out before I could stop it. "You really can't imagine me standing on my own, can you?"

He let out a low, derisive chuckle. "I'll look forward to seeing how long you last on your own. Don't bother crawling back. I won't accept you."

Crawling back? He really thought that highly of himself.

What the hell did he think he was?

My mind was made up. I was done waiting here like a fool while he enjoyed his life with other women. I just needed to make a call, and I’d get the hell out. I was going to resume my career. It was time to stop being the pathetic bride.

“Don’t worry,” I said, my voice cold. “I’m not some desperate wife chasing after her cheating husband. I wouldn’t come between you and your pathetic love.”

Two days later, I made my final request.

We sat across from each other in his study.

"This is the last one," I said.

He folded his arms. "Make it quick."

I slid the document across the desk.

He read it once. Then again. His breath left him slowly, as if someone had punched it out of his chest.

"You're out of your fucking mind," he said hoarsely.

I stood. "You want me gone. This is the cost."

"This isn't just money," he snapped, slamming the paper down. "This is my inheritance. My father's trust."

"Yes," I said calmly. "It is."

His eyes lifted to mine, sharp and searching. "How do you even know about this?"

I didn't answer. The document wasn't just an asset transfer; it was a restructuring request. A clause activation, one that required my signature as his legal spouse. The incomplete divorce was the point.

His phone buzzed on the desk between us. He glanced at the screen and froze, the color draining from his face. I didn't need to see the name to know who it was. His father's lawyer never called twice.

"What did you do?" he whispered.

I looked from the papers back to him. "I made sure," I said softly, "that when I leave, I don't disappear."

His phone buzzed again. This time, he answered. "Yes," he said stiffly. "She's here."

He looked up at me as the voice on the other end grew louder, sharper. "I'll put her on."

With a shaking hand, he slid the phone across the desk toward me.

"Ariana," his father's voice came through the speaker. "We need to talk. Immediately."

I rested my palm flat against the document and smiled faintly. "Of course. I was waiting."

And for the first time since our marriage began, I saw it clearly in his eyes: Maxwell wasn't in control anymore.

The conversation with his father lasted exactly twelve minutes. I didn't need to explain much. The old man already knew what his son had done, the affair, the humiliation, the reckless disregard for the family name.

"You've been patient, Ariana," the old man said, his voice rough with age but still commanding. "More patient than he deserved."

Maxwell stood there listening, his face growing redder by the second.

"I didn't raise him to disrespect his commitments," his father continued. "And I certainly didn't arrange this marriage so he could make a fool of both families."

I said nothing. I didn't need to. The documents spoke for themselves.

When the call ended, Maxwell looked at me as if I had just stabbed him in the back.

"You went to my father?"

"No," I said calmly. "Your father's lawyer reached out to me three weeks ago. He wanted to know why you were liquidating assets without board approval."

His mouth opened, then closed.

"Every transfer you made to keep me quiet triggered alerts. Your father's legal team has been watching this whole time."

The realization hit him like cold water. He had been so focused on keeping me silent that he hadn't considered the paper trail he was creating.

"You used me," he said quietly.

"No," I corrected. "You used yourself."

He sank into his chair, hands gripping the armrests as if he needed something solid to hold onto. For once, he had nothing to say.

I stood up and started walking away. I didn’t look back. I didn’t need to. I already knew what I’d see. I could feel his rage.

Three days passed in silence. He stayed in his office or vanished to wherever Selene was. We didn’t speak or acknowledge each other.

My lawyer called every morning. Maxwell’s team was scrambling. His father had frozen several accounts pending an audit. The restructuring clause I triggered meant any major financial move needed my signature until the divorce was final.

He was trapped. And he knew it.

I rested. I slept without flinching at every sound. I ate meals without guilt. Sometimes my hand drifted to my stomach, a habit I hadn’t broken.

I still hadn’t told anyone about the pregnancy. Not my lawyer. Not my friends.

On the fourth day, my phone rang.

I picked it up and checked the caller ID.

Durrell.

Maxwell's cousin. The one who seemed to make it his mission to piss me off with every word that came out of his mouth.

I wanted to ignore it, but decided to answer.

I swiped the screen and brought the phone to my ear. "What do…" He didn't let me finish.

"Get to the hospital now! Your dad's been shot," he said frantically, before hanging up.

My phone slipped from my hand, and for a moment I couldn't move.

"What is it?" Maxwell's voice cut through the haze.

I picked up my phone with trembling hands, my heart racing. "It's my dad," I whispered. "He's been shot."