I had never felt so utterly humiliated, so completely stripped bare. Every fiber of my being screamed in protest. I was Anastasia Harvey, heiress, business owner, a woman whose name commanded respect. Yet, in that villa, I had been Kane' s discarded wife, my dignity trampled for a conniving mistress.

Memories of a different life flickered through my mind. A life where I was cherished, protected. My father, with his booming laugh, always telling me I was his little queen. My mother, gentle and elegant, teaching me grace. My brother, mischievous and loyal, always having my back. They were all gone now, leaving me alone to face this public humiliation.

And Kane. The way he had pushed me, for her. The way he' d shielded Cristy, his eyes filled with a tenderness he' d once reserved for me. The image burned in my mind, a fresh wave of nausea rising in my throat.

Sleep wouldn' t come that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him. Not the Kane of now, but the Kane of then. The young, ambitious man I' d fallen for, against all advice. My family, all my friends, had warned me. He was a social climber, they said, not good enough for a Harvey. But I had seen something in him, a spark, a drive, a raw ambition that matched my own. I had fought for him, even against my own family. I' d helped him navigate the cutthroat world of tech, using my connections, my knowledge, my family' s influence. I' d even faced down angry investors, putting myself in precarious situations, once nearly losing my life in a hostile takeover attempt that almost cost him everything. He' d had nothing then, no real power, no safety net. And I had never, not once, regretted it.

He' d changed. Eight years, power, and money had changed him. And now, he had found someone new to fill the void, someone who catered to his ego, someone who didn' t dare challenge him.

My phone rang, jarring me from my melancholic thoughts. Kane. My stomach churned. I hesitated, then answered, my voice sharp with exhaustion.

"What do you want, Kane?"

There was a long silence on the other end, then his voice, low and hesitant. "Anastasia… I… I know I messed up today."

I almost laughed. Messed up? He had betrayed me, humiliated me, pushed me, and now he was admitting he "messed up" ? It was vintage Kane. He never truly apologized. I didn' t want to hear it. "I' m hanging up, Kane."

"Wait!" he blurted out, his voice more urgent now. "I' m going to marry Cristy."

My mind went blank. The phone almost slipped from my trembling fingers. My son' s face flashed before my eyes, then Cristy' s triumphant smirk. Marry her? He was going to marry her?

A cold, raw fury gripped me. "Get out, Kane," I snarled, my voice shaking with a rage that bordered on madness. "Get out of my life! You disgust me!" I slammed the phone down, my fingers flying to his contact, blocking and deleting his number. But my hands still trembled, the echo of his words ringing in my ears.

I remembered our wedding day, the solemn vows, the promise of forever. "I, Kane, take you, Anastasia, to be my lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part." Lies. All lies.

I didn' t sleep at all.

The next morning, the news exploded. Cristy Taylor, the aspiring actress, had publicly announced her engagement. The groom was rumored to be a powerful tech CEO. Kane, of course.

The media, always hungry for scandal, flocked to Kane' s company press conference. I watched from afar, a grim satisfaction settling in my chest. He had allowed this, chosen this public spectacle.

Reporters swarmed him, their questions like daggers. "Mr. Powell, are the rumors true? Are you divorcing your wife, Anastasia Harvey, to marry Cristy Taylor?"

He stood stiffly at the podium, his face carefully composed. "I assure you, there is no truth to these rumors of divorce. The photos circulating are fabricated." He lied through his teeth, his eyes unwavering. Then, a dramatic pause. "However, I can confirm that Cristy Taylor is indeed an artist under my management, and we are planning a wedding. To someone who loves her."

The reporters shouted, a chaotic chorus of questions. "Who is it, Mr. Powell? Who are you marrying?"

He smiled blandly. "That is a private matter."

One brave reporter, sensing the hypocrisy, shouted, "Are you saying you' re in a polygamous marriage, Mr. Powell? You' re marrying Cristy Taylor while still married to Anastasia Harvey?"

Kane' s face darkened, his jaw clenching. "My assistant will handle your accreditation," he growled, a clear threat in his voice. He turned to leave, his patience clearly at an end.

But before he could escape, a reporter' s phone buzzed with an alert. "Mr. Powell! Anastasia Harvey just announced her divorce! On live television!"

Kane froze, his face draining of color. He spun around, his eyes wide with a desperate disbelief. "What are you saying?"

The reporter, a smug look on her face, showed him her phone. The screen displayed a news feed. There I was, calm and elegant, looking directly into the camera. My voice, clear and resonant, filled the air.

"I, Anastasia Harvey, formally announce the dissolution of my marriage to Kane Powell. The divorce decree has been finalized. Here is the official document, and here, my independent household registration." I held up the papers, my eyes sparkling with a freedom he would never understand. "And to all the eligible bachelors out there, know that I am now officially single and very much available for pursuit."

Kane' s pupils constricted, his face a mask of utter shock as my words, broadcast live, resonated through the conference hall. The reporters, sensing blood in the water, surged forward, their questions a barrage. He stood frozen, his mind a blank, unable to process the total dismantling of his carefully constructed narrative.

His bodyguards moved quickly, forming a protective wall, practically dragging him out of the room. He stumbled, a man suddenly adrift, stripped bare in front of the world.

Once in the car, he frantically pulled out his phone, dialing my number. The message flashed back, cold and uncompromising: "Message not sent. You have been blocked." He tried again, and again, the same infuriating exclamation mark appearing next to each undelivered text. I was gone.

He arrived back at the villa, his shoulders slumped, his usual swagger replaced by a defeated shuffle. He tried calling, texting, emailing, every avenue blocked. I had erased him.

Cristy, oblivious to the true nature of his distress, skipped towards him, her face alight with triumph. "Kane, darling! Did you see? She actually did it! She divorced you! Now we can be together, truly together!" She threw her arms around him, pressing herself against his chest, her head nestled in his neck.

A flicker of something-not love, but a raw, desperate confusion-crossed Kane' s face. He still couldn' t believe it. Anastasia, gone? Anastasia, who had always been there, always the steady anchor, always loyal?

He gently pushed Cristy away. "Go to your room, Cristy. I need to think." His voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

Cristy, who had never seen him so removed, so utterly distant, felt a chill creep into her heart. "But… Kane, about our wedding…?"

He didn' t answer, his gaze fixed on some distant, unseen point.

She retreated, her earlier joy replaced by a growing unease.

Kane immediately barked orders into his phone. "Liam! Get me everything on my marriage to Anastasia. Every legal document, every detail. Five minutes!"

Liam, his voice tight with discomfort, didn' t question it.

The five minutes stretched into an eternity for Kane. He paced, then slumped onto the sofa, the silence of the villa mocking his frantic thoughts. Finally, his phone buzzed. A document, and a voice message.

Liam' s voice, hesitant, came through the speaker. "Mr. Powell… I' ve checked all the records. Your marriage to Mrs. Powell… it' s officially dissolved. She filed unilaterally a month ago, under a new provision in Cayman Islands law."

Kane froze. A new provision? He remembered boasting about the complexity of their marriage, the legal labyrinth designed to cement their union. He snatched his laptop, frantically searching for the legal updates. There it was, a recent amendment, allowing for unilateral divorce under extreme circumstances, especially when there was documented infidelity and abandonment of a gravely ill spouse. He had been so blind, so arrogant.

The night was a dark, suffocating shroud. Kane called my number over and over, a hundred times, two hundred. Each call went straight to voicemail, a stark reminder of his isolation. He finally gave up, slumping onto the sofa, his phone almost dead. He opened his browser, the internet ablaze with his downfall. Hashtags trended, memes mocked him, articles dissected his betrayal and my triumphant escape.

"CEO Powell: From Tech Titan to Trashy Cheater. Anastasia Harvey deserved better."

"Cristy Taylor: The mistress who got a divorce… for her lover' s wife."

"He thought he was untouchable. Anastasia Harvey just proved him wrong."

The humiliation was a raw wound. Cristy, smelling faintly of cheap perfume, appeared at his side, her dress a flimsy scrap of silk. She leaned in, her hand on his arm. "Kane, darling, you should rest."

He recoiled, the scent of her cloying and artificial. All he could think of was my scent, clean and subtle, the way I used to smell after a long day at the office. He remembered the quiet comfort of my presence, my steady hand, my unwavering support. He remembered my strength, my intelligence. He remembered how I used to soothe his frustrations with a quiet word, a gentle touch.

He stood abruptly. "I' m sleeping in the guest room tonight." His voice was cold, distant.

Cristy' s eyes widened, her carefully constructed vulnerability shattering. "Kane? What' s wrong? Don' t you… don' t you love me anymore?" Her voice was choked with desperation.

He just stared at her, his face a mask of stone. "It's late, Cristy." Then he walked away, leaving her reeling.