Chapter 0006

Pain came first—a relentless throb behind my eyelids that pulsed with each heartbeat. I couldn't remember how I'd gotten here, only that something vital had been ripped away. My body felt hollow, a vessel drained of purpose. Sunlight slashed through half-drawn curtains, the brightness an assault on my fragile consciousness.

It's gone. My baby is gone.

Memory flickered at the edges of my mind, cruel and clear. The confrontation with Mia—my husband's mistress—standing in his penthouse office, manicured nails tapping against an envelope. "He doesn't want this complication. Get rid of it, or he will." Then the stress, the collapse, the blood.

"Hey, you're finally awake." The voice came from somewhere to my left, soft with concern.

I turned my head, wincing at the effort it took. Sabrina sat beside the bed, dark circles beneath her eyes suggesting she hadn't slept. My friend's usually immaculate appearance was disheveled, her designer blouse wrinkled from hours of vigil.

"What happened?" My voice emerged as little more than a rasp, my throat parched and raw. The words scraped against my vocal cords like sandpaper.

Sabrina reached for a glass of water on the nightstand, her hands trembling slightly as she offered it. "You don't remember calling 911? I'm the operator."

I accepted the glass, the cool liquid soothing my throat. "I remember feeling sick after..." I couldn't finish. "There was pain. So much pain. And blood."

Sabrina's eyes glistened with unshed tears. She took the glass from my hands and set it aside, then clasped my fingers between her own. "I got here as fast as I could after your call, but by the time I found you..." Her voice caught. "You were already unconscious on the floor."

My heart stuttered in my chest. One hand moved instinctively to my stomach, pressing against the emptiness there. "Tell me they saved it," I breathed, the words barely audible. "Please, Brina."

Sabrina's grip tightened. "I'm so sorry, Charlotte. The doctor said the stress caused a miscarriage. You survived, but—" she hesitated, "—the baby didn't."

The world shrank to a pinpoint of agony. I hadn't realized until that moment how much hope I'd invested in that tiny life—a chance to create something real in a marriage that had become nothing but a business arrangement. Six years of being the perfect corporate wife to a man whose empire always came first, and now the one good thing to come from it all was gone.

"No." The denial tore from my throat, raw and primal. "No, no, no." My hands curled into fists, nails digging into my palms. The physical pain did nothing to numb the emotional devastation.

Sabrina pulled me into an embrace, holding me as the first sob broke free. "Let it out," she murmured, rocking gently. "You don't have to be strong right now."

"Did he come?" I asked against Sabrina's shoulder, already knowing the answer. "Did Drake even call to check on me?"

I felt my friend stiffen. "That heartless bastard is probably closing some million-dollar deal right now. He wouldn't know decency if it came with a price tag."

Of course. Even this—even the loss of his child—wasn't enough to pull Drake away from his precious empire or his new mistress. The realization should have hurt, but instead, I felt something harden within me. A seed of resolve taking root amid the devastation.

I shut my eyes, remembering the countless charity galas I'd attended alone, the cold dismissal whenever I voiced a need, the way he'd introduced me as his "wife and social coordinator" at business functions despite my MBA and years as his unofficial consultant.

"I can't do this anymore, Bri." I opened my eyes, newfound clarity cutting through the grief. "I've given him everything; my youth, my career, my family connections. And for what? To be replaced the moment some ambitious twenty-six-year-old VP catches his eye?"

Sabrina squeezed my hand. "Then don't. Walk away. Take half his empire in the divorce. God knows you've earned it after putting up with his bullshit for more than six years."

My mind raced through options, calculations, possibilities. I had built my entire adult life around his company, his social circle, his world. Starting over at thirty-two terrified me.

"You think I can just leave? Start over?" My voice wavered between hope and terror.

"I think staying will kill you," Sabrina replied, her tone gentle but firm. "Not all at once, but piece by piece until there's nothing left but a perfect trophy wife with no soul."

I nodded slowly, testing the weight of the decision. "I need to write my resignation first."

Sabrina's eyebrows shot up. "Wait, you're serious? You're really quitting your job too?"

"I have to." I swung my legs over the side of the bed, testing my balance. The world tilted briefly before steadying. "But first, I need to get my personal things from the penthouse."

A slow grin spread across Sabrina's face. "Now we're talking." She flopped onto the bed with a bounce, the mattress creaking beneath her. "God, I've waited six years to hear those words, baby girl!"

I wished I could match my friend's enthusiasm, but all I felt was a hollow determination where my heart used to be. I had lost so much—my marriage, my child, my social standing. But maybe, just maybe, I could reclaim myself.

---

The penthouse building loomed against the afternoon sky, all chrome and glass reaching toward the clouds. I had once found beauty in its opulence; now it seemed a perfect reflection of the man who owned it—impressive from a distance, empty at its core.

I pressed my thumb to the biometric scanner in the private elevator lobby, holding my breath. The panel flashed red, denying my access. Frowning, I tried again, more deliberately this time. Another rejection.

He locked me out already.

The realization shouldn't have stung; it was hardly the most callous thing he'd done—but it did. This penthouse had been my home for six years. I had selected the rare art pieces, arranged the furniture, and entertained countless business associates while he closed deals in his office. And now I was locked out like a servant whose employment had been terminated.

Swallowing my pride, I texted security that I needed access. Minutes later, the elevator doors opened to reveal a young woman with calculating blue eyes and perfectly styled blonde hair.

"Oh." Mia's lips curled in mock surprise. "Drake's not home."

I knew Mia had seen me through the security feed before coming down. The mistress was already playing the lady of the house, it seemed.

"I just came for my things," I said, keeping my voice level despite the rage bubbling beneath my composure.

Mia's expression turned smug. "About that..." She tapped a manicured nail against the elevator door, preventing it from closing. "They were, well, rather unnecessary clutter, so I had the staff dispose of them."

The words cut, but I refused to let her see it. I squared my shoulders, forcing icy indifference into my voice. "How convenient for you. I suppose Drake approved this little power play?"

Something flickered in Mia's eyes—uncertainty, perhaps—before her mask of confidence returned. "Drake trusts me to handle domestic matters while he focuses on what's important."

"Funny," I replied, a bitter smile touching my lips. "That's exactly what he told me six years ago."

I turned on my heel, refusing to give Mia the satisfaction of a reaction. But my heart clenched painfully as I walked away.

He changed the access codes. He let her throw my things out.

I wasn't just leaving him. I had already been erased.

---

With my resignation letter in hand, I took a steadying breath before knocking on Drake's office door at Watson Holdings. I didn't wait for a response before stepping inside.

He looked up immediately, his dark eyes calculating beneath perfectly groomed brows. Today's suit was midnight blue, custom-tailored to his athletic frame—another armor he wore to conduct business. For a moment, I remembered loving him, and the memory felt like a betrayal of my current pain.

"Mia said you stopped by the penthouse," he said, voice cool and controlled. "Why would you do that?"

I scoffed. Of course, I ran straight to him. "Does it matter? Your guard dog made it clear I'm not welcome."

His gaze flickered to the envelope in my hands. "What's that?"

I placed it deliberately on his desk, the crisp white envelope stark against the mahogany surface. "My resignation from the company. Effective immediately."

His jaw clenched—the only visible sign of emotion. "You're quitting?"

"I don't want anything connected to you, Drake. Not your name, not your money, not your precious company."

For the first time, something like frustration flashed across his handsome face. "Are you trying to force my hand with this dramatic exit? Make me acknowledge something that was never real to begin with?"

I let out a humorless laugh, the sound brittle in the silence of his office. "I was never more than an asset to you, was I? The perfect socialite wife with the right connections, the right background, and the right image for your corporate ambitions."

Silence stretched between them. His fingers curled into fists on his desk, but I didn't flinch.

"You won't last a month out there without my resources," he finally said, his voice low and laced with anger. "The world isn't kind to women with no money and expired connections."

Maybe he was right. Maybe I wouldn't. But I'd rather struggle on my own than remain trapped in his golden cage.

I lifted my chin, meeting his gaze without fear.

“Guess we'll find out.”

I turned on my heel, striding toward the door, but just as I reached for the handle, his voice stopped me.

“Mia….. told me you cried.” His words were quiet, almost too quiet. “Is that true?”

I froze, my fingers tightened around the doorknob.

“I guess you’ll never know,” I said, my voice steady despite the turmoil in my chest.

For the briefest second, Drake almost—almost—wanted to say something.

But he didn’t.

Drake exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. His fingers lingered at his temple, pressing against the dull ache forming there.

Then why did it feel like he had just made a mistake?

Instead, he leaned back, forcing his tone into that detached, emotionless drawl he had perfected over the years. “Don’t make this difficult, Charlotte.”

And with that, I walked out, leaving Drake behind.

But then, I stopped.

I reached Drake’s office, every step heavier, the weight of years of silence and buried pain pressing down.

Tears burned my eyes, but I didn’t stop.

Then—I was there. Face-to-face. Heart pounding.

“Listen, Drake.” My voice was steady.

His gaze locked onto mine, confusion flickering.

“We’re done.” I slipped the ring out of my finger, shoved it toward him. “You can have it back.”

As I turned to leave, my breath caught.

Then I saw it.

Divorce papers. On the table. Crisp.

His signature already scrawled across the page.

He had been ready to let me go before I even said a word.

He had beaten me to it.