Nine Years Gone: Rebirth of the Savage Wife

Nine years of marriage, and he still managed to surprise me. But not with roses. Not with candlelight. No—on the night of our anniversary, Elliot waltzed into our home with a glowing, nervous wreck clinging to his arm. Her belly? Five months along, if I had to guess.

“Meet Lara,” he said like he was introducing a new pet. “She’ll be staying with us for a while.”

The word echoed like a slap! Before I could speak, he was already listing demands like I was the live-in help.

“From now on, you have to be mindful about her being sensitive to spices. No chili, no garlic, no onions, so cook something fresh every night because she gets nauseous easily. And she doesn’t like to sleep alone, so you’ll take the guest room.”

I stared at him. Not her—him. Because Lara was just a symptom. Elliot was the disease. I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. I just stood up, smooth and silent, like I’d rehearsed this moment a thousand times. Which, of course, I had. My suitcase was already packed nonetheless.

The housekeeper rushed forward to me with a tearful presence. “Mrs. Hudson—wait, please, don’t—”

Elliot raised a hand, already smug. “Just let her throw a tantrum. I’m certain she’d be crawling back to me like she always does.” Then, like a circus act, he turned to Lara—and chuckled.

“I’ll bet two million she’s back before sunrise,” Lara said, smirking.

Their laughter filled the entire room. I had to hold back the tears seeping through the corners of my eyes. But as I reached the front door, I turned just once and darted my gaze to Elliot. “Double it… because that’s the last bet you’ll ever win,” I said sternly.

I stepped outside. Right on cue, the headlights of a black limousine flared in the driveway. The driver opened the door and bowed slightly. “Miss Rivera,” he greeted me. “Shall we go?”

Not Mrs. Hudson but Miss Rivera. I was done with that disgusting family name—and the man that came with it. As the mansion shrank behind me, I didn’t look back. Let them bet on my downfall. Let them think I’m broken, defeated, and humiliated.

Because the truth?

I’m coming back to take it all…

___________________________________________________

The limousine rolled through the city like a silent shadow, the world outside blurring into neon streaks and rainy glass. Inside, it was quiet—until I finally exhaled.

“You told them,” I said, glancing at Marcus, my driver, and... well, more than that. He wasn’t just hired help—he was the only one who’d stayed loyal after the Hudsons swallowed my father’s company and left my family in ruins.

“I did,” he replied, eyes on the road. “They laughed, just like you said they would.”

Good. Let them laugh. Let them think I’m the fool walking out of a golden cage into the cold. Let them think I’m walking away from everything.

By the time we reached the private condo my father bought for me before he passed, the storm had settled outside, but not in my chest. I peeled off the wedding ring and placed it in the center of the marble countertop. It looked small now. Insignificant. Like the man who gave it to me.

Elliot Hudson.

Son of a corrupt tycoon. CEO of Hudson Corp. The same empire that rose from the ashes of my father’s company, Rivera Holdings, after a hostile takeover masked as a ‘merger.’ He married me six months later. Said it was love. But it was leverage. A distraction. A slow bleed. And me? I was too in love—or too proud—to see the red flags. Until tonight.

Three days later, Lara made the tabloids first. Of course she did. Smirking, I read the headline: ‘Baby Mama of Billionaire CEO Elliot Hudson Stuns in Silk at Gala.’ She was wearing her plastic smile, belly cradled like a trophy, and my husband—no, ex-husband—beaming like he just won the lottery. What they didn’t print was what she did to the waitress who accidentally spilled champagne on her $10,000 dress. Well, it wasn’t pretty at all.

“Entitled, tacky, and just a little unhinged,” Marcus muttered, watching the clip on his tablet. “She threw a fit over a wrinkle. Imagine when the baby comes.”

I sipped my espresso and said, “She’s not built for the long game. She’s a hurricane in a glasshouse. And Elliot? He’s going to wish he’d bet his life instead of his money.”

“You’ll never run Rivera Holdings,” Elliot snapped. “Your father's dead. The board has moved on. They won't even return your calls.”

That's what he said to me a year ago. To him, I am nothing but a disgraced heiress, the abandoned wife, the forgotten daughter. That’s what he thought.

What he didn’t know was that my father left behind more than his name: a secret account, original blueprints, patent rights. Shareholder contracts signed in ink and sealed in blood. Everything I needed to reclaim what he built. Well, I wasn’t just coming for the house, car, or the socialite life…

Because I was coming for my throne—the company.