It was Harbor City's worst-kept secret: Henry Sanchez, the billionaire heir, was pining for a ghost. A woman he couldn't have.

And I? I was just the stand-in. A body double kept in a gilded cage because I bore a passing resemblance to his "one that got away."

Everyone mocked me for it. They called me cheap, a parasite clinging to a man who despised her, shamelessly refusing to leave. That was true—until the real obsession returned. When Amelia Harding came back to the country, Henry didn't hesitate. He cleared the house to make room for her overnight.

Amelia was even more arrogant than I remembered. She didn't just want my place; she wanted to crush me beneath her heel.

Henry looked at me with cold indifference. "You have two choices. Stay and be her maid to atone for your existence—I'll pay you twenty thousand a month. Or sign the divorce papers, take that worthless wasteland in the West End, and get the hell out of my sight."

Everyone expected me to swallow my pride. They thought I would beg to stay in the Sanchez orbit, no matter the humiliation.

Instead, I packed my bags in record time, snatched the land deed, and walked out.

In my previous life, I had humbled myself. I tried to please them, to be the perfect wife. In return, that bastard and his mistress tortured me until I broke, dying a miserable death in a mental asylum without even a grave to mark my passing.

In this life, I only want to stay as far away from them as possible.

As for that "worthless" land? Joke's on you, Henry.

The government demolition and redevelopment notice for the West End would be officially issued tomorrow. This heaven-sent wealth had finally fallen into my lap.

——

Splash.

Scalding heat lashed across my cheek. Brown liquid dripped from my chin, staining the freshly printed divorce agreement on the table.

Across from me, Amelia Harding held the now-empty coffee cup, her fingers manicured to perfection. A smug smile played on her lips, though her eyes widened in feigned innocence.

"Oops. My hand slipped, Annie. You aren't mad, are you?"

Mad? No. I want to kill you.

In my previous life, this exact cup of coffee broke my spirit. It was the moment I chose to submit, to stay in the Sanchez household and work like a slave. In exchange, they joined forces to destroy me.

Today, we make a clean break.

Henry, sitting at the head of the table, didn't even lift his eyes. He flicked his lighter open and closed—click, snap, click—his voice dripping with disgust.

"Anna Pruitt, don't push your luck."

He stared at the flame. "Lick the coffee off the floor, wipe Amelia's shoes until they shine, and we'll consider this matter settled. Otherwise, don't expect to walk out of this door alive."

If it were the old me, my knees would have hit the floor instantly. After all, I was the Sanchez family's obedient dog—a fact known by all of Harbor City.

But the old Anna was dead.

I pulled a wet wipe from my purse and calmly cleaned the filth from my face.

Mistaking my silence for submission, Amelia stretched her leg out, offering her shoe. "Make it sparkle," she sneered. "These are limited edition. I had to pull strings to get them."

Smack!

The slap cracked through the living room like a gunshot.

The force whipped Amelia's head to the side. Her carefully styled hair exploded into a mess, and a crimson handprint blossomed on her pale cheek.

Henry surged to his feet, smashing the lighter onto the coffee table. "Anna! Have you lost your mind? You dare touch her?"

He raised his hand to strike, but I slammed the land deed onto the table between us.

"You want to get physical, Henry?" My voice was steady. "Consider that slap a lesson for your mistress. Lay a finger on me, and I'll torch this deed right here, right now. Then nobody gets what they want."

Henry's hand froze midair.

His gaze dropped to the document, contempt flashing in his dark eyes.

To him, the West End plot was a toxic asset—a garbage investment made by his grandfather during a bout of senility. The land was a graveyard of unfinished buildings and chemical factories. Zero commercial value, bleeding money in maintenance costs every year.

Henry had been desperate to offload this hot potato for years. I was giving him the perfect excuse.

"Fine," he scoffed, tension leaving his shoulders. "You've got guts, Anna. I'll give you that."

He sank back onto the sofa, crossing his legs with arrogant ease. "Take this broken piece of land and get lost. But when you're starving on the street, don't come crawling back begging for charity."

"Amelia is the apple of my eye. A parasite like you, who only knows how to spend money, isn't even fit to carry her shoes."

Amelia buried her face in her hands, tears brimming—but behind that fragile mask, malice flickered.

"Henry, don't fight with my sister," she whimpered. "She's just jealous of me..."

I ignored the drama queens and slammed the freshly reprinted divorce agreement onto the table.

"Sign."

Henry froze. The sheer coldness in my voice seemed to unsettle him. The Anna standing before him—spine steel-straight, eyes devoid of warmth—was a stranger compared to the timid woman he was used to bullying.

Not wanting to lose face in front of Amelia, he snatched the pen and slashed his signature across the bottom line.

"Get lost!"

He hurled the document back at me.

I picked it up, scanned it to ensure every legal requirement was met, then slipped the deed to the West City wasteland into my bag.

I turned and walked away without a shred of lingering attachment.

At the entryway, I paused.

Slowly, I turned back to the wedding photo hanging on the wall.

In the picture, the old me smiled humbly, desperate to please, while Henry wore cold indifference. A monument to my stupidity.

I walked over and tore it down.

Riiip.

The sound was satisfying. The photo split cleanly down the middle.

I crumpled Henry's half into a ball and tossed it into the wastebasket.

"Trash belongs in the trash can."

Henry's face turned livid purple. He pointed a shaking finger at me, speechless with rage.

Ellie Finch, my mother-in-law, heard the commotion and rushed downstairs. The instant she took in the scene, she jabbed a finger toward my nose and shrieked.

"Anna Pruitt! You absolute jinx! How dare you tear that photo?"

Her voice climbed an octave. "Once you walk out that door, don't think about coming back! You will never set foot in the Sanchez family grave!"

I looked at the nasty old woman with cool detachment.

In my previous life, she had made my existence hell. To "save money" for the wealthy Sanchez dynasty, she'd forced me to eat scraps. When I fell ill, she refused to let me see a doctor.

The Sanchezes weren't short on money. Ellie just enjoyed grinding me into the dust.

I smoothed my collar and offered her a faint, pitying smile.

"Mom, you really don't need to worry."

I glanced around the opulent, suffocating villa. "Your family grave has terrible feng shui. It only seems to produce heartless, disloyal men."

I met her gaze. "I'm afraid entering it would shorten my life. Save that honor for Amelia."

Ellie gasped, clutching her chest, eyes rolling back. She looked ready to faint from sheer indignation.

Amelia rushed to support her while pulling out her phone. I watched her thumbs fly across the screen.

A moment later, my phone pinged.

Amelia had posted a selfie featuring her tear-stained face—the side I'd slapped—with the caption:

Finally cleared out the trash. Even though I got hurt, for Henry, it was worth it.

The comments were already flooding with praise for her and vicious insults aimed at me.

I wasn't angry. If anything, I found it amusing.

Walking out of the Sanchez villa gates, the air tasted different. Cleaner. Like freedom.

I cast one last look at the luxurious cage that had suffocated me for so long.

Henry Sanchez, Amelia Harding—your good days are over.

As I raised my hand to hail a cab, a news alert popped up.

A trending topic, undoubtedly bought by Amelia: Wealthy Dynasty's Cast-Off Wife Exits in Misery, Leaving with Nothing to Atone for Her Sins.

The image was a candid shot of me dragging my suitcase, back turned to look desolate.

The comments were a cesspool of strangers calling me shameless for clinging to a man who didn't want me.

I locked the screen and flagged down a taxi.

"Take me to the best hotel in Harbor City."

The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror—my simple clothes, the singular suitcase.

"Miss, that place is expensive. Tens of thousands a night."

I fished out a sleek black card.

This wasn't Sanchez money. This was the war chest I'd built through private investments—assets Henry knew nothing about.

"It's fine," I said. "I have money."

And very soon, I thought, watching the city blur past, I'll have a hell of a lot more.

From the Peninsula Hotel's suite, floor-to-ceiling windows framed Harbor City's glittering nightscape.

I swirled my wine, watching headlights snake far below. In my past life, I'd been a prisoner of the Sanchez family's kitchen and laundry room. Even lifting my head to see the sky had been a luxury.

My phone vibrated relentlessly on the table.

Transaction Declined.

Transaction Declined.

The notifications kept coming. Henry was ruthless—we'd barely signed the divorce papers, and he'd already cut off every supplementary card.

He expected me to starve. To lose my roof and crawl back in tears, begging forgiveness.

Unfortunately, he'd severely underestimated me. I was no longer the fragile vine that needed a man to survive.

I opened my laptop and logged into a discreet asset platform. One by one, I listed the "garbage" properties I'd quietly acquired under my own name over the years—assets Henry had turned his nose up at.

Within thirty minutes, everything liquidated.

My balance swelled by five million dollars. To Sanchez Group, pocket change. To me? Ammunition. Startup capital.

I ordered a lavish seafood spread from room service. Just as I tucked into a lobster tail, my phone rang.

Henry's assistant. His tone dripped with borrowed arrogance.

"Miss Pruitt, Mr. Sanchez has a proposition. Return immediately and kneel to apologize to Miss Harding, and he's willing to negotiate."

A pause for effect. "The previous twenty thousand in child support can be raised to thirty. Furthermore, he'll let you stay in the servant's quarters—so you won't have to sleep on the street."

I laughed, nearly choking on my wine.

"Tell Henry to keep his spare change," I said coolly. "He'll need it for his own coffin."

I moved to hang up, then added, "Oh—and tell him to watch the morning news. Hope his heart can handle it."

I ended the call and blocked the number.

Early next morning, Harbor City's landscape shifted irrevocably.

A government announcement dropped like a bomb.

Breaking: City Planning Department officially designates West City wasteland as the new CBD core!

Hundred-billion-dollar development launched! West City wasteland to become Harbor City's future landmark!

The city went into a frenzy. Meanwhile, the land deed for that exact core area sat quietly in my handbag.

I sipped my coffee, watching the live broadcast.

Moments later, the compensation plan was released. Because the location was the absolute heart of the new zone, combined with policy incentives, the payout was astronomical.

Two billion dollars in cash.

Plus ownership of ten Grade-A office buildings upon completion.

A fortune had literally fallen into my lap.

I opened my calculator app. Two billion cash. Annual rent from ten skyscrapers—at least another billion yearly. The mighty Sanchez Group that Henry was so proud of barely scraped that much in annual profit.

My phone buzzed again.

Not a decline this time. Victory.

Your account ending in 8888 has received $2,000,000,000.00.

I stared at the string of zeros. No giddiness. Just cold, refreshing clarity.

At the same time, in Sanchez Group's CEO office—

Crash!

A priceless antique vase exploded against the wall.

Henry stood panting, eyes bloodshot, glaring at the television.

"That was a wasteland!" he roared. "How could it possibly become the CBD?"

The composed, icy CEO was gone. He paced like a caged animal, stride growing frantic. The debris scattered across the floor mirrored his shattering sanity perfectly.