His Unwanted Wife Is A Genius Designer

Arianna sat at the corner table of Le Bernardin, her posture perfectly straight.

Her eyes traced the empty chair across from her.

Today was their sixth wedding anniversary. She had reminded Francis of this dinner three times this week. He had promised her, in that distracted way he always did, that he would absolutely be here. She had chosen her gown specifically for tonight, an emerald silk that he had once told her he liked. That had been years ago. She wondered if he even remembered saying it.

She picked up her crystal glass of lemon water. The cold liquid slid down her dry throat, doing nothing to ease the tightness in her chest.

A waiter in a crisp white uniform approached her table for the third time.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Castro. Would you care to order an appetizer while you wait?"

Arianna forced the corners of her mouth up, maintaining the flawless, practiced smile of a high-society wife.

"Just ten more minutes, please. Thank you."

The waiter offered a polite nod and turned away.

The moment his back was to her, her facade cracked. Beneath the heavy white tablecloth, her fingers curled into a tight fist around her phone. Her knuckles turned a stark, bloodless white.

The screen of her phone suddenly lit up against her palm.

She dropped her gaze instantly. A brief, desperate spark of hope flared in her chest.

It was not a text from Francis.

It was a push notification from the private Upper East Side socialite group chat.

The headline glared at her in bold letters: BREAKING: Wall Street Titan Engaged in Heated Bidding War at Sotheby's Finale. The Prize? A Legendary Aquamarine Diamond.

Arianna's lungs seized. The air trapped in her throat.

Her hand shook so violently she could barely unlock the screen. She tapped the notification.

A grainy, secretly taken photo filled her screen. Francis sat in the front row of the auction hall, his posture relaxed and confident. Chanelle was pressed against his side, her manicured fingers resting intimately on his forearm. She was leaning in close, whispering something into his ear, her red lips curved into a private, triumphant smile. His head was tilted toward her, his expression unguarded in a way Arianna had not seen directed at herself in years. The aquamarine diamond resting in the auction display case behind them caught the chandelier light, a blinding splash of blue.

So the bidding was still ongoing. He was still inside Sotheby's, sitting beside another woman on their wedding anniversary, preparing to drop a fortune to make that woman smile.

A high-pitched ringing pierced Arianna's ears.

The soft, ambient jazz of the three-star Michelin restaurant vanished entirely from her senses. The clinking of silver forks, the low murmur of wealthy patrons—it all faded into a deafening static.

She squeezed her eyes shut. She forced air through her nose, trying to push down the heavy, suffocating weight crushing her ribcage. It felt like her sternum was cracking down the middle.

When she opened her eyes again, the desperate, lingering warmth that had kept her anchored to this marriage for six years was gone.

Only cold, gray ash remained.

She raised her hand, catching the waiter's attention.

She pulled a crisp hundred-dollar bill from her clutch, placed it on the table to cover the lemon water, and stood up.

Arianna pushed her weight against the heavy glass doors of the restaurant.

The freezing, early autumn rain of Manhattan hit her face like tiny needles.

The doorman rushed forward, popping open a large black umbrella.

"Mrs. Castro, should I call your driver?"

She shook her head.

She stepped out from under the awning, walking directly into the downpour. The icy water instantly soaked through the thin fabric of her custom haute couture gown, pasting it to her shivering skin.

She reached the corner of Fifth Avenue. A black Maybach with deeply tinted windows sped past her, its tires slicing through a deep puddle. The traffic light ahead turned red. The car slowed to a halt just a few feet away.

A spray of dirty, oily street water splashed across Arianna's ankles, ruining her limited-edition heels.

Arianna did not look up at the car. She did not need to. She knew, with the cold certainty that came from six years of invisible suffering, exactly who was inside that vehicle. She knew who was sitting in the backseat, who had been beside him at the auction, who would be wearing the aquamarine diamond by the end of the night.

The light turned green. The Maybach accelerated.

She stood completely still in the rain, her eyes locked on the glowing red taillights until they disappeared into the dark city traffic.

She looked down at her left hand.

Rainwater dripped over the simple platinum diamond band on her ring finger. It was the physical proof of her six-year sentence.

Without a single second of hesitation, she grabbed the ring and yanked it off her finger.

She tossed it toward the heavy iron grate of the storm drain on the curb.

The platinum hit the metal grate with a sharp, hollow clink.

Then, it slipped through the gaps, falling into the dark, foul-smelling sewer below.

She opened her soaked clutch and pulled out her phone. She wiped the wet screen against her ruined dress and scrolled through her contacts.

She found the number saved as Elias Adler.

She pressed the call button.

The line rang exactly three times before a calm, professional voice answered.

"Adler."

Arianna stood in the freezing wind. Her voice was flat, devoid of any tremor or warmth.

"Draft the divorce papers, Elias. I am leaving him tonight."