"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.

Henry had thrown that land at me like scraps to a stray dog—pure humiliation.

Now? It was a goldmine worth billions.

Amelia sat frozen on the sofa, her face bloodless. Her manicured nails dug into her palms hard enough to draw blood. She hadn't expected my luck to be this monstrous.

"Henry, Anna knew!" she shrieked. "She refused to divorce just for this land! That bitch played us!"

Tears streamed down her face—a well-rehearsed performance. It worked. Henry's temper exploded.

"I knew she wouldn't leave easily! She dug the pit and waited for me to jump!" He snatched the phone from the table, hands shaking. "I'm going to kill her!"

He dialed. This time, I answered.

"Anna Pruitt! You fraud! That land belongs to the Sanchez family!" His roar nearly blew out my speaker. "Return the deed now! Or I'll make sure you never show your face in Harbor City again!"

I held the phone away from my ear, unbothered. I was sitting in an upscale salon, studying my reflection. The long, heavy locks were gone—replaced by a sharp bob that framed my jaw like a blade.

The timid stand-in was dead.

"Mr. Sanchez, the divorce agreement is signed in black and white," I said coolly. "Property division is final. If your memory's failing due to early-onset dementia, I can burn you a copy—like an offering to the dead."

He was hyperventilating now.

"Anna Pruitt! That's two billion! You think you can swallow that without choking?!"

I laughed softly, smoothing a stray hair into place.

"Mr. Sanchez, thank you for your generosity. Consider it a service fee for your... performance these past three years. Though frankly, your skills in bed were mediocre at best." I paused. "But I'm not short on cash. Consider it a generous tip."

I hung up and blocked his number again.

The woman in the mirror smiled back—radiant and dangerous.

Henry Sanchez, this is only the beginning.

The real show hasn't even started.

With two billion in my account, I moved fast.

Pruitt Capital was born overnight. The name was a declaration of war—I wanted all of Harbor City to know the Pruitt bloodline wasn't extinct.

My first target: the Deep Bay project.

The Sanchez Group was fighting tooth and nail for it. Their lifeline for the fiscal year. Henry had already leveraged half his fortune greasing palms to secure the deal. If he lost this, the Sanchez family's capital chain would snap clean in half.

Night fell, and with it came a lavish gala where Harbor City's elite gathered to preen. Rumor had it Henry was bringing Amelia to announce his victory with Deep Bay.

I couldn't miss the chance to offer my congratulations.

I donned custom haute couture—crimson red, deep-V, completely backless. Around my neck hung a pink diamond worth eighty million, fresh from the auction block.

My outfit alone cost more than Sanchez Group's profits for the last six months.

At the entrance, I spotted them. Sycophants swarmed Henry and Amelia like flies. She wore pure white, playing the innocent saint to perfection. Henry looked haggard, barely holding his composure as he forced smiles for the cameras.

"Henry, surely Deep Bay is yours?" a guest simpered.

"Naturally," another chimed in. "Who in Harbor City dares compete with Mr. Sanchez?"

The bootlicking was deafening. Amelia clung to Henry's arm, gazing up at him adoringly.

"My, isn't this lively?"

I pushed the heavy doors open. My stilettos struck marble—sharp, rhythmic.

The chatter died. Every eye locked onto me.