How Pathetic

The sky had turned heavy and gray as Mirena stepped out of the station. A moment later, the clouds broke, and rain poured down, drenching her completely.

Each drop felt like ice against her skin—tiny, sharp reminders of the betrayal she had just faced. She ignored the chill, forcing herself toward the taxi stand, when her phone buzzed in her pocket.

She pulled it out, wiping raindrops from the screen with a trembling hand. One glance at the sender soured her mood further—Iris, George's younger sister, the other haunting troublemaker in her marriage.

Her finger hovered a moment before she tapped to open the message.

[In the Ashton house, there's no room for a fake like you! Don't bother coming back!]

A second later, another notification lit up her screen—a photo. Her belongings, piled carelessly in front of the Ashton manor, were drenched just like her.

Mirena's chest tightened. Her lips parted, but no words came out—only a hollow, broken laugh.

'So this is how it ends,' she thought, swallowing the bitterness rising in her throat.

Five years. Five years of walking on eggshells, bending over backward to meet their every demand—to be the perfect daughter, the perfect wife. And in return?

They treated her like trash.

If only they knew how much that "trash" had sacrificed for them. All for a family that was never hers, and a marriage doomed from the start.

But they were blind. And she—she had been the biggest fool of all for not seeing it sooner.

With a stiff, cold finger, she navigated to the top of the screen, tapped the three dots, and blocked Iris's number without another thought.

She shoved the phone back into her pocket and took an unsteady step forward. Suddenly, the world tilted at the edges. Her vision blurred. She staggered, blinking back a swarm of black dots clouding her sight.

Gripping her composure tightly, she scanned the rain-swept street for shelter—any refuge from the storm.

Her eyes landed on a café awning not far away. But just as she moved toward it, a sleek luxury car sliced through the rain, pulling to a sharp stop right before her. Muddy water splashed up, soaking her feet and the hem of her already ruined dress.

She froze, staring down at the dirty water, then back at the car—just as the driver's door opened and a man in a uniform hurried to open the rear passenger door.

First, a sleek black umbrella emerged. Then, long legs in impeccably tailored trousers and polished dress shoes. And finally—the man himself stepped out.

Recognition flashed through Mirena as her gaze locked with a pair of cool, ashen eyes.

Eyes belonging to the last person she ever wanted to see in this state.

Alexander Pierce.

For a moment, the world seemed to freeze. She stood motionless, rain plastering her hair to her cheeks, as his gaze swept over her—cold, assessing, leaving no detail unnoticed.

In several long strides, he closed the distance between them. He stopped just before her, his eyes traveling from her drenched hair to her mud-splashed shoes with a scrutiny that felt like a violation.

Then came the scoff. Sharp, derisive—it pierced what little dignity she had left.

"So this is what you've become, Mirena." His voice was velvet wrapped in ice, each word deliberate. "Who would have guessed the woman they hailed as the queen of investments could be brought so low—and for what? Love? How utterly pathetic."

The words stung, but she refused to let them show. A faint, defiant smile touched her lips, though her voice wavered as she replied, "Pathetic?" She gave him a slow, deliberate once-over. He looked impeccable—not that she'd ever admit it. "Then what does that make you?"

A flicker of something unreadable passed through his ash-gray eyes. A silent challenge hung between them in the rain-heavy air.

She took a step forward—into the dry space beneath his umbrella, boldly invading his sanctuary.

"It took me five years to fall this far," she said, her voice gaining strength. "Yet in all that time, you never once managed to surpass me. Tell me, Alexander—who's the real disappointment here?"

A crack formed in his carefully crafted composure, so rare that the very air seemed to still around them. His driver shivered involuntarily—even after all these years, only Ms. Mirena could unravel the Boss so completely.

"You still have no sense of self-preservation, Mirena," Alexander bit out, his voice sharp enough to draw blood. But she didn't flinch. After years of rivalry, she knew every one of his weaknesses.

"Am I wrong, Xander?" She tilted her head, deliberately using the nickname he despised. "I stepped away for five years—gave you every opportunity. And yet, you still couldn't swallow the empire I built."

A muscle twitched in his jaw. He seized her chin, his grip unyielding. "Be careful. I'm not the man I was five years ago. Even if you come back now, you may not be able to keep up."

"So what you're saying is… you only caught up because I was gone?" She laughed softly, stretching her neck like a proud swan, even as her pulse fluttered under his thumb. "You could say thank you. I'd accept it graciously."

Rage simmered in his eyes. He drew a slow breath, then released her. She took a half-step back but didn't leave the shelter of his umbrella.

"You've always been sharp with that tongue of yours. Pity you never used it on that family of yours." His tone was mocking, and Mirena went still. He had struck a nerve—and the flicker of satisfaction in his chest was edged with something darker, something like anger.

"That's none of your concern," she said coldly, her hands curling into fists.

"Oh, but it is," Alexander countered smoothly. "When my greatest rival takes a fall, of course I'll come to watch the show."

"Then let's see if you've earned the right to watch," she shot back—and this time, it was her hand that closed around his throat. He didn't look startled. If anything, a trace of approval flashed in his gaze. Good. Five years wasted, but she hasn't gone soft.

He waited, watching her, challenging her next move.

But before she could speak again, her steps faltered. She swayed—and collapsed against his chest.

He stiffened at the sudden contact, glancing down with a furrowed brow. "What are you—"

Before he could finish, her body went limp against his, slipping downward. His arms closed around her just before she hit the ground.

"Mirena?"

No response.

He reached out, the back of his gloved hand pressing against her forehead. Even through the leather, her skin burned.

He pulled back with a low, irritated click of his tongue. His gaze swept the rain-drenched street before settling again on her unconscious form. A heavy sigh escaped him.

Effortlessly, he scooped her into his arms with one swift motion while retrieving his phone from his coat pocket. His fingers moved across the screen, and within seconds, he was speaking into the receiver, his voice low and commanding.

"Be at the Pierce Estate in thirty minutes or forget your job."

He ended the call without waiting for a reply and turned toward the car, Mirena held securely against his chest.

"Drive fast," he ordered the driver as he settled into the backseat, his voice tight with an unfamiliar tension.

~~*~~

Upon getting home, Michael House, his personal doctor, was already waiting by the door.

He stared at Alexander like he'd suddenly grown two heads as he watched him carry a limp woman into his personal bedroom.

Once he'd set her on the bed, Alexander took a step back. "Are you waiting for an invitation to do your job?"

That was all it took. Michael moved swiftly, his practiced hands checking vitals, assessing her condition with quiet efficiency.

Half an hour later, he stepped away, shaking his head slightly.

"Well?" Alexander's voice was clipped. He stood by the window, hands in his pockets, his back to the light.

"Severe mental strain, prolonged reliance on antidepressants, and physical exhaustion," Michael reported, then added under his breath, "It's a miracle she's lasted this long. She must have incredible resilience—"

"Resilience?" Alexander cut him off, the word dripping with irony. "She held an empire in her hands and traded it for people who never valued her. Does that sound like strength to you—or profound foolishness?"

Michael studied him for a moment, then ventured carefully, "You don't seem particularly pleased, Mr. Pierce."

Alexander's gaze slid toward him, cold and assessing. "Taking up psychology now, Michael? Enjoy analyzing people?" His tone was deceptively smooth, edged with warning. "Keep it up, and I'll withdraw all medical equipment funding next year."

That shut Michael up. With a nervous chuckle, he added, "Her condition is stable. Call me if there's any change." He gathered his belongings with a respectful nod and left without another word.

The door clicked shut, leaving a heavy, weighted silence in its wake.

Alexander turned toward the bed, his gaze lingering on Mirena's still form.

Against the stark sheets, her face looked unnaturally pale. Her brow was furrowed, lashes trembling as if wrestling with some unseen torment. A single tear traced a path from the corner of her eye, followed by a soft, broken whimper.

He moved to her side with silent grace and rested his hand against her forehead. Almost instantly, the tension in her features eased, her breathing deepening into something more peaceful.

He watched her, unmoving, for a long moment. But as he began to withdraw his touch, the room's stillness was shattered by the shrill ring of her phone.

His eyes cut to the nightstand. The name flashing on the screen—George—darkened his expression in an instant.

In one fluid motion, he snatched the device, powered it off without a second thought, and tossed it carelessly onto the bed.

A nuisance like George had caused enough damage.

Let him wait. His reckoning will come.