I reached out for the car door, intending to pull it shut. Charlotte, however, abruptly lunged over, knocking my hand away with her body. Then, she plopped down into the passenger seat.

The broth of the chitlin stew in her hands sloshed violently, spilling all over the passenger seat, which was made of handcrafted, custom-stitched Dornish calfskin. The pungent, greasy liquid slowly seeped into the crevices of the leather. My expression hardened in an instant as a nauseating odor permeated the cabin.

Looking at the grease on the seat, instead of offering an apology, she casually whipped out a tissue and wiped it a couple of times. "Oh, come on. It's just a little spilled broth. It's no big deal. I'll give you ten dollars later so you can get it rinsed at a car wash."

Right after saying that, she kicked off her stiletto heels and propped both of her stocking-clad feet right up on my custom dashboard, which was hand-carved from a single piece of precious rosewood.

She continued, "Anyway, stop dragging your feet and start driving already! I have to clock in at 9:00 am. If I'm late, can you even afford to compensate me for my perfect attendance bonus?"

As I stared at the ruined haute couture seat, I was so angry that I jeered. Without saying another word, I got into the driver's seat and started the car.

Charlotte snorted. "If you had just cooperated from the start, we wouldn't have had an issue. Oh, by the way, make a right turn at the intersection ahead. I need to grab a cup of coffee before you drop me off at work."

She seriously took me as her personal chauffeur.

I stepped on the gas, and the car rolled out of the underground garage. However, instead of heading toward the city center, I drove straight out of the neighborhood gates and veered into a secluded side road.

"Hey, you're going the wrong way; this isn't the way to the city center!" At last, she realized something was off and sat up straight.

I slammed on the brakes, and the car came to a halt in front of a dilapidated auto repair shop.

"Get out," I spat.

Charlotte froze. "What's the meaning of this? Why did you drive me to the middle of nowhere?"

"You soiled my car, so I'm getting it cleaned now. Either roll your ass out of here yourself, or I'll kick you out!" My eyes were as cold as ice.

Charlotte was intimidated by my presence, but she soon found her arrogance again. "You wouldn't dare! Believe it or not, but I'll have my husband find someone to ruin you! My husband's—"

I couldn't be bothered to listen to her nonsense. I unbuckled my seat belt, walked around to the passenger side, yanked the door open, seized her by the arm, and dragged her out.

Charlotte let out a shriek as she tumbled onto the ground. The chitlin stew in her hand completely toppled over the sequined dress she was so proud of. "Just you wait, you crazy bitch!"

Ignoring the furious curses she hurled after me, I got back into my car, stepped on the gas, and sped away.

…

That evening, I had just returned home when the front door was shoved open.

My husband, Elliot Mercer, stormed in, beside himself with rage. Without even changing out of his shoes, he marched straight up to me, pointed a finger right at my nose, and bellowed, "Olivia Callahan, what the hell did you do today?"

Lounging on the couch, I met his gaze coldly. "What did I do?"

"Stop playing dumb! Did you or did you not dump Charlotte halfway on the road? Do you have any idea whose wife she is?"

The veins on his forehead bulged, and he almost looked deranged with rage. "Her husband is Julian Blackwell! He's the client-side CEO for that eight-million-dollar project I've been chasing for the past six months. Mr. Blackwell called me personally just now and ripped me a new one, saying my wife bullied his!"

He yanked off his tie and hurled it on the ground. "Olivia, are you deliberately trying to ruin my future?"

Looking at the hysterical man standing before me, I felt as though I was looking at a complete stranger.

"Does your future really depend on me playing chauffeur for some shameless freeloader? She forced her way into my car and ruined my seat. Was I wrong to kick her out?" I countered.

Grabbing his hair in sheer aggravation, Elliot paced the living room like a madman. "It's just a little dirt! Can't you just get it washed? Did you really have to dump her halfway on the road? Do you have any idea how important that project is to me?

"As long as I close it, I'll be promoted to deputy CEO. Then, we'll have a firm foothold in this city!" He lunged forward, planting both his hands on the back of the couch, looking into my eyes. "Olivia, I'm begging you, alright? Tomorrow morning, buy some gifts and go apologize to Charlotte in person.

"From now on, you'll be responsible for driving her to and from work every day. Please just do it for me, for the sake of our family!" His tone was forceful and self-entitled.

Holding his gaze, I felt nothing but a wave of chilling disappointment. "I'm not going to apologize, and I'm certainly not going to act as her chauffeur. That car is my premarital asset. No one has the right to use it!"

Elliot snapped upright, and his gaze turned incredibly venomous. "Great. This is just great! You're so noble! For the sake of that pathetic pride of yours, you don't even care about your husband's future! Don't regret this, Olivia!"

With that, he slammed the door to the guest room shut behind him.

…

The next morning, I was about to head out to take care of some business. When I walked to the entryway, I instinctively reached for my car keys, only to find the key tray completely empty.

My car keys were gone. I immediately pushed open the guest room door, but there was no one inside. Elliot had already left.

I fished out my phone and dialed his number, but the automated prompt informed me that his phone was switched off. In a heartbeat, an ominous feeling arose in my chest.

I immediately booted up the vehicle tracking system on my phone. The red dot on the screen showed that my car was currently parked right outside an upscale luxury afternoon tea restaurant on the most bustling commercial street in the city center.

I hailed a cab and rushed over. As soon as I reached the entrance of the restaurant, I spotted my car.

The doors were wide open. Charlotte, dressed head to toe in designer brands and wearing sunglasses, was leaning against the hood of the car, striking poses. Beside her were three other flamboyantly dressed women, taking photos of her with their phones.

"Whoa, your husband's so good to you, Charlotte! This car may be understated, but you can tell it's absolute luxury just by looking at it!" one of them gushed.

Charlotte smugly tossed her hair. "Of course. My husband says this is just a practice vehicle for me to get used to the roads. Once I'm bored with it, he'll get me a Ferrari. You ladies have no idea how comfortable this car is to drive. Here, climb in and see for yourselves!" she chimed, ushering the group of women into the vehicle.

I marched over, the anger in my chest flaring to its absolute limit. It was only when I got up close that I saw the devastating state of the interior.

The custom passenger seat, still soaked through with red oil, had not been cleaned at all. In fact, it now bore several distinct high-heel prints from where they had stepped on it.

To make matters worse, one of the women was lounging in the passenger seat with a slender luxury cigarette pinched between her fingers, casually flicking ashes onto the artisan hand-woven carpet.

Then, right before my eyes, she stubbed her cigarette butt directly against the intricate Dornish embroidery near the console—a piece explicitly designed to shield a sensitive component of the dashboard. My mind went completely blank with rage.

"Get the hell out of my car, all of you!" I barked after rushing over and yanking the door open.

The women inside the car were startled, and all turned to look at me in unison.

Charlotte froze for a moment, but as soon as she realized it was me, her expression instantly darkened. "Olivia? What are you doing here?"

Far from being guilty, she slid out of the car and looked down her nose at me. "What, are you upset because I'm driving your car? For your information, your husband personally handed me the keys! He said that this is his way of making amends on your behalf!"

Ignoring her, I looked straight at the woman, who was smoking. "Put out your cigarette and get out of my car."

That woman sneered, "Who do you think you are? Since when is it your place to police Charlotte's car?"

"I'm the owner." I snatched the cigarette right out of her hand, threw it onto the ground, and stomped it out. "Now, get the hell out of my car!"

Noticing how firm I was, the women all turned to Charlotte.

Humiliated in front of her friends, Charlotte flew into a rage. "Don't you dare push your luck, Olivia! Your husband practically begged me to accept this car as a tribute, and you dare to come here and bark at us? Believe it or not, but with just one phone call, I'll have your husband packing his bags and kicked to the curb!"

Screaming at the top of her lungs, she raised her designer bag and smashed it hard against the center console. With a sharp crack, the object embedded in the rosewood right at the center of the console—the one that had always been meticulously protected—was smashed to pieces.

It was an extremely rare, antique enamel mechanical pocket watch. It was the keepsake left to me by my late grandfather.

For a moment, time itself seemed to stop. I stared long and hard at the pile of shattered components, my hands trembling uncontrollably.

Charlotte seemed to realize that she had broken something, but after taking a look at it, she curled her lip in disdain. "It's just a dingy old clock. I'll have my husband compensate you with 100 dollars to buy a new one later!"

Just then, my phone started ringing frantically. It was Elliot. I answered the call mechanically.

Elliot's hysterical barking blasted through the phone. "Have you lost your mind, Olivia? Why on earth did you go find Mrs. Blackwell? Mr. Blackwell just called to tell me you insulted his wife in public, and he's canceling all of our collaborations!"

Shrieking at the top of his lungs from absolute fright and anger, he continued, "I order you to get down on your knees and apologize to Mrs. Blackwell right this instant! Furthermore, you're going to sign over the deed to that car today and give it straight to Mrs. Blackwell as compensation for her mental distress! If you so much as whisper a breath of protest, we're getting a divorce immediately! In fact, you can pack your bags and get the hell out of my house!"

With the most vicious words, he trampled all over my dignity. Listening to the man's roars over the phone, looking at Charlotte's arrogant face before me, and then staring at the shattered pocket watch, the last shred of illusion I had about this marriage completely went up in smoke.

"Alright," I responded calmly.

Elliot thought I had compromised, and his tone softened slightly. "I'm glad you know what's good for you. Hurry up and get on your knees to apologize and leave your keys behind—"

Without listening to the rest of his ramblings, I hung up on him. Then, I dialed the number in my contact list that I had kept hidden for three years.

"Theodore," I called out coldly.

"Ms. Callahan, you've finally contacted me!" From the other end of the line came an old man's voice, trembling with sheer excitement.

"Get the corporate legal department and our security team to the Imperial Galleria downtown immediately. My car has been smashed."