The Ring in the Biohazard Bin

At the Harrison Foundation's annual charity gala, I was shoved violently to the ground.

Blood bloomed across my couture gown. I had a miscarriage.

My husband, Luther Harrison, didn't show up until long after my surgery was over.

He stood before my hospital bed as his lawyer handed me a trust fund agreement, his voice as cold as if he were closing a business deal.

"One million dollars as compensation for the child you lost."

The anesthesia had just worn off, and a searing pain ripped through me as I shook my head.

He frowned, then offered a condo, a limited-edition sports car.

I refused them all.

My refusal only enraged him. He questioned me:

"You don't want this, you don't want that. What the hell do you want? For Ivy to get on her knees and beg for your forgiveness?"

He looked at me with contempt in his eyes.

"Know your place, Cathy. Don't forget how you wormed your way into this family."

I stared quietly at the man I had been married to for three years.

I twisted the Cartier wedding ring off my finger and, right in front of him, tossed it into the biohazard bin.

"I don't need compensation, Luther. Let's get a divorce."

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1

"A divorce?"

Luther leaned against the doorframe, a sneer twisting his lips as if I’d just told the funniest joke in the world.

His slate-gray eyes raked over me, filled with undisguised disdain.

"What kind of stunt are you pulling now, Cathy?"

"You're nothing without me. You wouldn't last a week."

"Cut the act. Get out of the hospital so Ivy can stop feeling guilty. The poor girl has been crying her eyes out all night."

I listened to his ridiculous words, my heart unnervingly calm.

Every time Ivy and I clashed, he would instantly blame me.

Even when Ivy was clearly the one out of line, his refrain was always the same:

"Ivy's just young. Can't you be the bigger person?"

As if every single dispute was my fault for not being more mature.

In the past, I would have fought back, crying and making a scene, as if that were the only way to wring a drop of pity from his cold heart.

But this time, I just touched my now-flat stomach, the fight completely drained out of me.

Seeing his disbelief, I picked up my phone and, right in front of him, dialed my lawyer, Laura Davis.

"Hi, Laura, it's me. I want to divorce Luther Harrison. Yes, irreconcilable differences. Please start the divorce proceedings immediately. Yes, the sooner, the better."

After hanging up, I looked at Luther calmly and asked:

"Do you believe me now?"

Luther's fingers, holding a cigarette, froze. He stared at me intently.

A moment later, he sneered again.

"Got some nerve now, haven't you, Cathy? Still resorting to cheap tricks."

He stubbed out his cigarette, stalked to my bedside, and grabbed my chin, forcing my head up.

"You think I'll believe you?"

"Cathy Monroe, don't take your act too far."

"You schemed so hard to marry into this family. It was all for the money, wasn't it? A gold digger like you only knows cheap stunts. How pathetic."

My breath, which had been steady, hitched in my throat.

Those words again. The ones he never tired of.

Three years ago, at a fateful Seattle tech summit, a drugged Luther had dragged me into his room, both of us in a confused haze.

When we woke up, the door burst open to a barrage of camera flashes, capturing our disheveled state for every headline.

Harrison Holdings' stock plummeted, the board pressured him, and Luther was forced to marry me.

He was convinced I had orchestrated the whole thing, that I would do anything to climb my way into the Harrison family.

But the truth was, that night, I had also been drugged.

I was supposed to be meeting my soulmate—the pen pal I'd corresponded with for seven years.

I was just steps away from where we'd agreed to meet.