Elinor Frost POV:

The piercing ring of my phone snatched me from the deepest sleep I' d had in years. I fumbled for it, heart hammering against my ribs, convinced it was Braden, furious about my social media post. But it wasn't. It was an unknown number. My brow furrowed. I glanced at the clock. 3 AM.

I answered cautiously. "Hello?"

"Elinor? It's Guy. Your brother." His voice was rough, laced with an urgency that instantly put me on edge. "Are you okay? I just saw Destany Aguilar's post and... yours. What the hell happened?"

My initial relief that it wasn't Braden was quickly replaced by a fresh wave of dread. Guy knew. My brother, my protector, the one person who had always seen through Braden's polished facade, now knew the full extent of my public humiliation.

"I'm fine, Guy," I said, trying to infuse my voice with a confidence I didn't feel. "Braden and Destany were putting on a show at the party. I just... I saw it."

"A show?" Guy scoffed, his voice sharp with disbelief. "Elinor, that was no show. He had his hands all over her, and she was practically sitting in his lap. And your post... You deleted everything. Is this it? Are you finally done?"

His words, blunt and honest, ripped through the fragile peace I had found. "Yes, Guy. I'm done." The words felt heavy, but also liberating.

"Good," he said, and I could almost hear the fierce relief in his voice. "Because I'm coming over. And we're getting you out of there. You deserve so much more than that bastard."

Before I could reply, a loud crash echoed from downstairs. My blood ran cold. It wasn't Guy. It was someone else. Someone in the house.

"Guy, I have to go," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "Someone's here."

I hung up, my fingers trembling. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst through my chest. The house was silent again, save for the frantic beat of my own pulse in my ears. I slowly, cautiously, slipped out of bed. My bare feet barely made a sound on the plush carpet.

As I crept down the stairs, a figure emerged from the shadows of the living room. It was Braden. He stood there, disheveled, his expensive suit rumpled, a wild look in his eyes. He reeked of alcohol and a desperate kind of anger.

"Elinor," he slurred, his voice low and menacing. He lurched forward, grabbing my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh. His grip was bruising, painful. His face was a mask of fury, his jaw clenched, eyes narrowed into slits.

"What do you think you're doing?" he snarled, pulling me closer. His hot breath on my face reeked of whisky. "Deleting our photos? Posting cryptic messages? Do you know how much trouble you've caused tonight?"

He was shaking me, his grip tightening. I felt like a rag doll, utterly powerless against his strength. The memory of his past rages, his coldness, his casual cruelty, flooded my mind. I was nothing more than an object to him, a possession. The disgust welled up inside me, a bitter bile that climbed my throat. I recoiled, instinctively pulling away from his touch, a shiver of revulsion running down my spine.

Braden' s eyes, glazed with alcohol, flickered with a raw, ugly hate. "Don't look at me like that, Elinor," he growled, his voice thick with accusation. "Don't pretend you're disgusted. You're just angry because you thought you had me. You thought you'd finally caught me." He scoffed, a sneer twisting his lips. "All these years, playing the innocent, suffering wife. But I know you, Elinor. You're just as calculating as the rest of them. Playing the victim to get what you want. Did you think I wouldn't find out about your little call to Grandfather? Trying to use his 'concern' to pressure me?" He mimicked Grandfather Harmon' s stern tone, a cruel mockery. "Congratulations, darling. You've certainly stirred the pot."

My eyes burned, but I refused to cry. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. I wouldn't let him see the pain he inflicted. I swallowed the sob that threatened to erupt, clamping my jaw shut. My stomach churned, a dull ache beginning to spread.

I hated him. I truly, deeply hated him. And the realization was both terrifying and exhilarating.

I remembered a time when his touch was soft, when his laugh was genuine, when his eyes held warmth instead of contempt. We had known each other since childhood, our families intertwined by business and social circles. He had been the charming, mischievous boy, I the quiet, observant girl. I had watched him grow, watched him stumble, and always, always loved him. When he proposed, I convinced myself it was real, that he loved me too, despite the increasing distance in his eyes.

It was after his first serious girlfriend, a vibrant artist named Ava, that he changed. Grandfather Harmon had vehemently disapproved of Ava, calling her "unsuitable" for the Harmon empire, citing her unpredictable nature and lack of "business acumen." He had threatened to cut Braden off, to disinherit him, if he didn't end things. Braden, always ambitious, always seeking his grandfather's approval, had eventually broken Ava's heart. He never quite recovered.

After that, the warmth in his eyes turned to ice. He became colder, more distant, his charm replaced by cynicism. He resented me, resented our forced engagement, viewing me as the "safe" option, the one his grandfather approved of. I was the shortcut he was forced to take, a constant reminder of the love he had to give up. He tormented me because I was an easy target, a stand-in for his own frustrated desires. I became the scapegoat for a life he felt was dictated by others.

He would often find petty ways to punish me. Like the time he forced me to drink an entire bottle of champagne at a party, knowing I had a severe allergy to it, just to see my face flush and my breathing become labored. He' d watched, detached, as his friends rushed to my aid. Or the times he would call me late at night, drunk, demanding I pick him up from some bar, barely acknowledging my presence in the car, only to coldly ask, "Are you sure you don't mind, Elinor? I wouldn't want to inconvenience my wife." And like a fool, I would smile, would say "Of course not, Braden," believing that by being indispensable, I could somehow make him love me.

I woke up the next morning, my body aching, my head pounding. The room was a mess, clothes strewn everywhere, a faint smell of stale alcohol hanging in the air. Braden was gone, of course. Always gone. The shame washed over me, a suffocating wave that threatened to drown me. I had given him everything, and he had given me nothing but pain and contempt.

I had clung to the illusion that our marriage, forced as it was, might somehow rekindle the innocent affection we once shared. But every passing day had only highlighted the chasm between us, a chasm filled with his resentment and my unrequited love. He didn't just dislike me; he hated me. The truth, stark and brutal, settled in my heart.

"Why can't we just be normal, Braden?" I whispered, the question escaping my lips before I could stop it. The silence in the room was my only answer.

Sometimes, after one of his outbursts, he would leave a single red rose on my pillow, or a small box of chocolates. Empty gestures, I knew even then, but a tiny flicker of hope, of the boy I once knew, would always ignite. I would wake up, find the gesture, and he would be gone, leaving me to wonder if it was a sign of remorse or just another manipulation.

This morning, though, there was nothing. No rose, no chocolate, just the cold, empty bed beside me. The house was quiet, too quiet.

As I descended the grand staircase, the housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, a kind woman with a perpetually worried expression, stepped forward. "Mrs. Harmon, Mr. Harmon asked about lunch. He said to prepare his usual."

My brow furrowed. His usual? Braden was notoriously picky. He had a specific diet, a preference for organic, locally sourced ingredients, prepared by me. I used to spend hours poring over cookbooks, experimenting with recipes, trying to create something that would finally earn his praise, a genuine smile. He would often complain about the blandness of restaurant food, about how only my cooking truly understood his palate.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. "No," I said, my voice firm, surprising even myself. "Tell Mr. Harmon he will have to make his own arrangements for lunch today."

Mrs. Gable's eyes widened. She had never heard me speak to Braden like that, never seen me refuse him. A flicker of triumph, quickly suppressed, crossed my face. The "urgent meeting" excuse the nurse had given me, the public display with Destany, and his drunken rage last night had finally cemented it. He wasn't just indifferent; he was actively cruel. And I was tired of being his willing victim.

I thought of the legal notice that had arrived yesterday, buried under a pile of junk mail. My brother, Guy, had sent it. It was a draft for divorce proceedings. I had dismissed it then, another "overreaction" from my fiercely protective brother. But now, it felt like a lifeline.

The weight of my own past foolishness pressed down on me. I had told myself he married me because he secretly loved me, because our families had arranged it, because it was 'destiny.' But he had married me because his grandfather, Keshawn Harmon, the formidable CEO of Harmon Records, had orchestrated it. Keshawn didn't care about love; he cared about assets. My father's unreleased songbook was a goldmine, and I was the key. Braden was simply a pawn, forced to secure the family's biggest score. And I, in my naive love, had walked willingly into the trap.

The divorce papers, once a terrifying symbol of failure, now felt like a promise. A promise of freedom.

"Yes, Mrs. Harmon," Mrs. Gable said, a faint smile touching her lips. "I'll let him know."

I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that this marriage was over. It had been over for a long time. And now, I was finally ready to admit it.

My hand reached for the phone. I had a lawyer to call.

Elinor Frost POV:

The scent of aged leather and antique wood filled Grandfather Harmon's study, a familiar aroma that had always signaled authority and consequence. He sat behind his massive mahogany desk, his silver hair impeccably combed, his gaze sharp and unwavering. Guy sat beside me, his hand resting on my knee in a gesture of quiet support.

"Elinor, my dear," Grandfather Harmon began, his voice surprisingly gentle, "your mother has informed me of your decision. Are you truly certain about this?"

I met his gaze, my own unwavering. "Yes, Grandfather. I am."

He sighed, a deep, weary sound. "A divorce, Elinor," he said, his voice laced with the weight of generations. "It's not a decision to be taken lightly. Our families, as you know, are deeply intertwined. This will have... implications."

I knew. The Frost family, with its legacy of musical genius and artistic integrity, and the Harmon empire, built on shrewd business and ruthless ambition. Our marriage had been a strategic alliance, a merger of assets and influence. My father's unreleased songbook, a treasure trove of musical brilliance, was the crown jewel. Grandfather Harmon saw me not as a person, but as a gateway to that legacy. I felt the pressure of his words, the centuries of tradition and expectation pressing down on me. But this time, it didn't break me.

"With all due respect, Grandfather," I said, my voice firm despite the tremor in my hands, "the implications of remaining in this marriage are far greater. For me. For my well-being." I looked him directly in the eye, unwilling to back down. "My family supports me in this, completely. This isn't a request for permission. It's an announcement."

He stared at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Guy squeezed my knee, a silent reassurance.

Finally, Grandfather Harmon leaned back, his gaze softening almost imperceptibly. "Perhaps," he said, his voice low, "we owe you more than we have given, Elinor. You have borne a great deal, quietly. Too quietly." He paused, then looked at Guy. "I will instruct my legal team to cooperate fully. You will have full access to all necessary resources." He looked back at me. "And tell Braden that any attempts to obstruct this will be met with the full force of my displeasure."

A wave of relief washed over me. It wasn't the kind of emotional, heartfelt support I craved, but it was practical, decisive, and powerful. Braden's opinion, his hurt feelings, his manipulative games, no longer mattered. Grandfather Harmon had spoken.

"Now," he said, pushing a button on his intercom, "I believe it's time for lunch. You'll stay, won't you, dear?" It wasn't a question.

As Mrs. Gable, his personal assistant, wheeled in a pristine white cart laden with delicate sandwiches and fruit, my phone rang. It was Braden. Again. I hesitated, but Grandfather Harmon, with a knowing glance, nodded towards the phone. I answered, putting it on speaker at his insistence.

"Elinor, what is the meaning of this?" Braden's voice was sharp, laced with barely suppressed rage. "Mrs. Gable just told me you refused to prepare my lunch! Are you deliberately trying to embarrass me?"

I almost laughed. Embarrass him? After last night's performance? The irony was thick and bitter. It suddenly clicked. He hadn't just eaten my lunch all these years; he had expected it. He had taken my efforts, my love, my care, as his due. He never liked my cooking, but he never actually stopped eating it. He just complained. Now, faced with the prospect of actual hunger, or perhaps the indignity of finding his own food, he was furious.

I remained silent, struggling to find my voice. The shock of his sheer entitlement, even after everything, left me momentarily speechless.

Grandfather Harmon reached over, plucked the phone from my hand, and activated the speakerphone. His voice, now devoid of its earlier warmth, boomed through the room. "Braden, you ungrateful imbecile! Are you truly complaining about lunch when your wife is sitting here contemplating divorcing you?"

There was a stunned silence on the other end, quickly followed by a frantic, high-pitched voice. "Braden, who is that? What's going on?" It was Destany. Her voice, thin and reedy, was unmistakable.

"Grandfather, I-" Braden stammered, clearly caught off guard.

"Don't 'Grandfather' me!" Keshawn roared. "I heard you had quite the performance last night, Braden. And now you're complaining about lunch? Perhaps Miss Aguilar can rustle you up something. I hear she's quite adept at 'preparing meals' for you, among other things."

Destany's voice, now tinged with a desperate sweetness, cut in. "Oh, Mr. Harmon, I'd be happy to! Braden loves my vegan wraps. He always says Elinor's cooking is... well, a little too traditional for his refined palate."

A cold, hard lump formed in my throat. It wasn't a surprise, not really. But to hear it confirmed, so casually, so cruelly, by the woman he openly flaunted, twisted a fresh knife in the old wound. He had hated my cooking. All those years, all those efforts, all those attempts to please him, had been in vain. He had been lying even then, mocking me behind my back.

Grandfather Harmon's voice sliced through my thoughts. "I don't care what you make for him, Miss Aguilar! Just keep him away from my granddaughter. And let me make something very clear to both of you: Elinor Frost is still a Harmon. And if I hear one more word about either of you publicly humiliating her, there will be consequences you cannot imagine. Is that understood, Braden? I expect you to conduct yourself with some semblance of dignity, or I will personally ensure you lose everything you've ever worked for."

He didn't wait for a reply. He simply ended the call with a definitive click, then handed the phone back to me. "My apologies, Elinor," he said, his expression grim. "That boy has no sense whatsoever."

I merely nodded, a strange mix of emotions swirling inside me. Gratitude for his blunt intervention, but also a deep cynicism. His "apology" felt less about my pain and more about maintaining the family's image, about protecting his assets. I was a valuable commodity, and my dignity, in his eyes, was part of that value.

After lunch, I left Grandfather Harmon's study, feeling a sense of quiet resolve. As I walked down the long corridor, I heard his assistant say to him, "Mr. Harmon, do you think Braden will finally understand now?"

Grandfather Harmon let out a tired sigh. "He will, eventually. When it's too late."

I barely registered the words. Let him understand when it was too late. I didn't care anymore. Braden probably wanted me gone now that he had Destany. He just didn't want to be the one to initiate it.

My first official meeting with my attorney, Guy's colleague, Eleanor Vance, was at a small, unassuming coffee shop near my old apartment. It was a place Braden and I used to frequent in the early days, before his world became all about VIP lounges and exclusive clubs. I remembered us laughing over mediocre lattes, planning our future, a future that now seemed impossibly naive. I even remembered joking, "One day, when you're a big shot producer, you'll still come here with me, right? No fancy places, just our little spot." He had smiled then, that real, genuine smile I rarely saw anymore. "Always, Frosty," he had promised.

As Eleanor and I were discussing the specifics of the divorce settlement, I looked up. And there they were. Braden and Destany, walking into our coffee shop, hand in hand, their faces alight with a careless joy that made my stomach churn. My old joke, his old promise, echoed in my ears, a cruel, mocking refrain.

Destany was clinging to his arm, her head thrown back in a laugh as Braden whispered something into her ear. They looked utterly, undeniably besotted. The familiarity of the scene, the ease of their intimacy, was a fresh stab to my heart. It was too much.

"Elinor?" Eleanor's voice cut through the haze of my pain, pulling me back to the present. "Are you alright?"

"I just need some air," I mumbled, pushing my chair back. I needed to get out, to escape their presence.

But as I stood, a sudden wave of dizziness washed over me, even more intense than the one at the party. The room spun, the faces of Braden and Destany blurring into an indistinguishable mass. My vision grayed at the edges. My hand flew to my stomach, a familiar, protective gesture.

Eleanor was quick, her hand gripping my arm, steadying me. "Elinor, what's wrong?"

The clatter of a dropped spoon, loud in the suddenly hushed coffee shop, drew attention. Braden' s head snapped up. His eyes, usually so cold, widened in surprise as they landed on Eleanor's hand, still firmly on my arm. A flicker of something, possessiveness? Jealousy? crossed his face. He ignored Destany's confused murmurings, his gaze fixed solely on us.

Then, his face contorted into a dark, furious scowl. He began to stalk towards us, his eyes blazing with a dangerous intensity. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded, his voice low and venomous, directed not at me, but at Eleanor. "Get your hands off my wife!"

My heart hammered. This was going to be a disaster.

Elinor Frost POV:

Braden reached us in three furious strides, grabbing Eleanor' s wrist with a force that made her gasp. His eyes, dark and stormy, were fixed on her, completely ignoring me. "Who are you?" he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "And why are you touching my wife?"

Eleanor, despite her surprise, yanked her hand free, rubbing her wrist. "Mr. Harmon, I'm Eleanor Vance, Elinor's divorce attorney." She said it with a calm authority that only seemed to infuriate Braden further.

His head snapped towards me, his eyes burning with accusation. "Divorce attorney?" he scoffed, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "You're moving fast, aren't you, Elinor? Couldn't wait to find a replacement, could you? Or did you already have him lined up, waiting in the wings?" His gaze flickered to Eleanor, then back to me, full of contempt. "So quick to discard me, yet so eager to find comfort elsewhere." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper only I could hear. "Don't think I don't see what you're doing, Frosty. Playing the victim, then running to the first man who'll give you attention. Pathetic."

The stinging words, the blatant injustice, the years of his infidelity thrown back in my face as if I were the one in the wrong-it was too much. A white-hot rage, unlike anything I had ever felt, surged through me. My hand moved before I even registered the thought, a sharp, resounding slap echoing through the suddenly silent coffee shop.

Braden froze, his head snapping to the side, a crimson mark blooming on his cheek. Eleanor, startled, took a step back.

"She's not looking for a 'replacement', Mr. Harmon," Eleanor interjected, her voice sharp with indignation. "She's looking for freedom. And she's entitled to it."

Before Eleanor could say another word, Braden retaliated. His fist, fueled by blind fury, flew out, connecting with Eleanor's jaw. The sound was sickening. Eleanor stumbled backward, collapsing into a stack of chairs with a loud clatter. Papers, legal documents, scattered across the floor like fallen leaves.

"Eleanor!" I cried, rushing to her side. The shock of his violence, so raw and unrestrained, paralyzed me for a split second. "Braden, stop it! What are you doing?"

But as I knelt beside Eleanor, a searing pain ripped through my abdomen. It was a sharp, twisting agony, far worse than any dizziness I had felt before. My breath caught in my throat, a choked sob escaping my lips. I clutched my stomach, doubling over, the world tilting violently.

Braden, his face still contorted with rage, looked down at me. Then, his eyes widened, his anger replaced by a sudden, sickening pallor. "Elinor?" he choked out, his voice laced with uncharacteristic fear. "What's wrong?" He rushed forward, pushing Eleanor's unconscious form aside. "Elinor, baby, what is it? I'll get you to a doctor. Immediately." Panic etched his face, a raw, genuine fear that made my fractured heart clench.

The next thing I knew, I was in a hospital bed again, the sterile scent a familiar greeting. The dull ache in my abdomen was still there, a constant, nagging reminder. Braden was beside me, his hand clasping mine, his face pale and drawn. He looked genuinely worried, his eyes scanning my face with an intensity I hadn't seen in years.

"Elinor," he whispered, his voice hoarse, "are you okay? I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have... I don't know what came over me."

For a fleeting moment, a foolish, desperate part of me wondered if this was it. If the old Braden, the caring, gentle Braden, had finally returned. Perhaps the raw shock of what he'd done had jolted him back to reality. Perhaps this was the turning point.

Then, a familiar, saccharine voice cut through the silence. "Braden, darling, I told you she was just being dramatic. She always knows how to make a scene."

Destany. She stood in the doorway, her arm in a sling, a bandage over her temple. Her eyes, however, held a triumphant glint that belied her injured appearance. "It was just a little fall, Braden. She's fine. We should go. Your grandfather is furious about your little 'scuffle' at the coffee shop. He said we need to address the media immediately."

Braden flinched, but his gaze remained fixed on me.

"Oh, and I brought your divorce papers, Elinor," Destany added, her voice dripping with false concern. She held up a crumpled stack of documents, the very ones that had scattered across the coffee shop floor. "Braden accidentally picked them up. Such a clumsy coincidence, wasn't it?" Her eyes, though, were gleaming with knowing malice.

She saw them. She had seen the divorce papers. The realization hit me like a cold wave. Her visit wasn't about concern; it was about confirming my departure, about securing her place. I watched as a flicker of pure, unadulterated excitement danced in her eyes. She wanted this. She wanted me gone.

"You knew, didn't you?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper, but laced with an undeniable steel. "You saw the papers in the coffee shop, and you came here to confirm. You wanted me out of the way, didn't you, Destany?"

Destany's triumphant smile faltered, replaced by a momentary flash of shock. She hadn't expected me to confront her. "What? Of course not, Elinor! I just... I was worried about Braden. He's so upset. And I wanted to make sure you were okay, too, of course." Her excuse was as flimsy as her earlier act.

Braden, who had been listening in stunned silence, finally looked up, a frown deepening on his face. "Destany," he warned, his voice low, "that's enough."

The tension in the room was palpable, thick with unspoken truths. Three people, caught in a web of deceit, betrayal, and unacknowledged desires.

With a sudden, decisive movement, I pulled my hand from Braden's grasp. It felt cold, detached. I met his eyes, my own devoid of any lingering affection. "I want a divorce, Braden," I said, each word a hammer blow against the fragile peace. "Now."

Braden blinked, a slow, disbelieving blink. Then, a strange smile touched his lips. It wasn't a happy smile, or even a cruel one. It was... relieved? He reached out, his hand gently stroking my hair. "Elinor, my love," he murmured, his voice surprisingly soft, "that won't be necessary. You're pregnant."

The words hung in the air, echoing in the sterile room, shattering the fragile remnants of my world. Pregnant? Me?

My hand flew to my abdomen, a primal, protective instinct overriding everything else. My mind reeled. The dizzy spells, the nausea, the sudden aversion to certain smells... I had dismissed them as stress, a consequence of Braden's ongoing cruelty. But a baby? Our baby? The timing was impossibly, cruelly wrong.

"No," I whispered, shaking my head, "that changes nothing. I still want a divorce." My voice was firm, though my mind was a whirlwind of confusion.

Destany let out a small, triumphant gasp. "Pregnant?" she exclaimed, her eyes widening with a mix of shock and a barely concealed excitement. "Braden, you have to keep her! Think of the family legacy! Think of Keshawn!" She gripped his arm, urging him, her voice laced with desperation. "You can't let her leave now!"

Braden's gaze hardened, his eyes flashing with a cold anger I recognized. "Destany, be quiet," he snapped, his voice sharp and menacing. "Get out."

Her face fell, the excitement draining away, replaced by a bruised, wounded expression. "But Braden, I'm just trying to help-"

"I said, get out!" he roared, his voice echoing off the hospital walls. "Now!"

Destany, chastened, recoiled, then scurried out of the room, her shoulders slumped in defeat. I watched her go, a strange sense of vindication mixing with a bitter understanding. She truly had wanted me gone. She had seen the divorce papers as her golden ticket, her chance to finally claim Braden, and the Harmon legacy, for herself. My pregnancy had just thwarted her carefully laid plans.

Braden turned back to me, his expression softening, but his eyes still held a calculating glint. "Elinor, you need to think about this," he said, his voice now calm, almost persuasive. "A baby changes everything. I know things have been difficult, but for the sake of our child, we can make this work. Just give me one month. Think about it. Please."

One month? My head throbbed. What was he saying? Was this genuine remorse, or another one of his manipulations? Was the baby simply another means to control me, another asset to secure?

"A child won't fix what's broken between us, Braden," I said, my voice heavy with certainty. "It won't erase the years of neglect, the public humiliations, the constant betrayals. It won't make you love me."

He leaned closer, his eyes locking onto mine, a strange mix of anger and something else-resentment? "Love?" he scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping him. "You think this is about love, Elinor? You think you have the right to talk about love? You were never supposed to be more than a convenient solution, a way to appease Grandfather. But then you tried to make me feel something. You tried to make me love you. And look what happened. You pushed me away. You made me hate you." He gripped my hand, his fingers bruising mine. "You tell me, Elinor. Who held the power in this relationship, truly? Who controlled who?"