Chapter 5

~CLAIRE'S POV~

{ONE YEAR LATER}

The woman staring back at me from the floor-to-ceiling mirror looked like she had walked straight out of a "revenge glow-up" P*******t board, and honestly? I was living for it.

I adjusted the lapels of my custom-tailored black Armani suit—yes, I was one of those people now who could casually drop designer names.

The fabric felt like butter against my skin, and the price tag? Let's just say my old self would have fainted, but my new self had simply handed over Alexander's black card with a smile.

Gone were the desperate puppy-dog eyes that Richard used to call "needy" (what a charmer, right?).

In their place was a look of amused confidence, perfectly framed by makeup that actually enhanced my features instead of trying to hide them because some man thought they were "distracting."

My chestnut hair, once long enough to sit on because Richard preferred it that way, now fell in a chic bob that screamed "I make my own decisions, thank you very much."

Even that little mole by my left brow—the one I used to cake concealer over—was now highlighted like the beauty mark it had always been.

"Looking absolutely lethal as usual, Miss Winfred," Marcus announced, appearing with my morning green juice like some sort of perfectly pressed British fairy godmother.

I accepted the glass and caught my reflection's eye in the mirror.

A year ago, I would have thanked him profusely, probably apologized for existing, and asked if he needed anything else.

Now I just raised an eyebrow and smirked.

"Tell me, Marcus," I said, taking a sip of the admittedly awful health drink, "do I look like a woman who settles for less?"

His reflection grinned back at me. "No, Miss. You look like a woman who gets exactly what she wants."

"Damn right I do.”

**********************

"Again!" Hans barked from across my penthouse gym, his German accent making everything sound like a military command.

I set down the barbell that would have crushed the old me and barely felt winded.

The crying mess who had stumbled into his studio a year ago was long gone, replaced by someone who could deadlift her own body weight and look good doing it.

"You remember the woman who cried through her first session?" Hans asked, handing me a towel.

I laughed….actually laughed….at the memory. "You mean the one who ugly-cried because her husband said she was 'soft'? That tragic creature?"

"She was not tragic," Hans said seriously. "She was just... sleeping."

"Well, she's wide awake now." I flexed in the mirror and had to admit, I looked pretty damn good. "And she's about to give Richard Blackwood the wake-up call of his life."

"This one," I decided, running my fingers along a midnight blue silk dress that clung in all the right places. "And the red one. The burgundy blazer. And definitely that."

I pointed to an emerald green number that would have made the old Claire look like a sickly plant.

Sophia, my stylist, clapped her hands together like a proud theater director. "Oh, these are going to be absolutely devastating on you. Your ex-husband won't know whether to apologize or propose."

The mention of Richard should have sent me into a wave of heartbreak. Instead, I felt a warm buzz of excitement. "He once told me these colors made me look 'washed out.'"

"Then he was either legally blind or criminally stupid," Sophia declared, holding up the emerald dress. "These colors make you look like a goddess of revenge."

I struck a dramatic pose in the boutique mirror. "Why thank you. I have been practicing."

**************************

"The desperation you carried when you first walked in here," Dr. Helena said, her Swiss accent making even criticism sound elegant, "it was like watching someone try to breathe underwater."

I curled up in the leather chair that had become my weekly therapy throne. "I genuinely thought I would cease to exist if Richard didn't love me. Like, literally just ‘poof’ into dust."

"And now?"

I grinned and took a sip of our usual tea. "Now I realize that what I thought was love was actually just really expensive emotional self-harm. I was not clingy—I was being systematically gaslit into thinking I was crazy."

Dr. Helena nodded approvingly. "You have learned to spot manipulation. More importantly, you have learned your own worth."

"Speaking of worth," I said, unable to keep the mischief out of my voice, "I may have accidentally acquired a billionaire fiancé."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Alexander Hayes?"

"The very same. And before you ask—yes, he knows this is all an elaborate revenge plot. Yes, he thinks it is hilarious. And yes, he is very attractive and surprisingly good company."

"And your feelings for him?"

I considered this, twirling my engagement ring—a sapphire the size of a small planet that made Richard's sad little diamond look like a Cracker Jack prize.

"Genuine affection. Mutual respect. Great chemistry. But not the soul-crushing, identity-erasing obsession I had with Richard." I paused.

"Which makes him perfect for what I have planned."

**********************

"Revenge," Alexander said, spreading maps of Manhattan across his Monaco penthouse table like we were planning a heist, "should always be served with a side of style."

I leaned over the blueprints, studying Richard's usual haunts with the focus of a general planning battle.

"The penthouse here gives me a perfect view of his office. I want to watch him squirm before I make my move."

Alexander laughed, and I had to admit it was a nice sound. "You have become absolutely diabolical, darling. It's one of your most attractive qualities."

I looked up and met his eyes.

We both knew exactly what this was—a partnership built on mutual benefit and genuine fondness, but not the desperate need I had once confused with love.

"You understand this is about destroying Richard, not building something real with you," I said, because honesty was apparently my new thing.

"Of course." His smile was pure mischief. "But that doesn't mean we can't have fun ruining his life."

---

My last day in Switzerland was crisp and clear, like the universe was giving me perfect weather for my dramatic exit.

I stood in my penthouse living room, surrounded by boxes of my old life, feeling like I was about to perform some sort of cleansing ritual.

Which, honestly, I kind of was.

The wedding dress went first.

That pure white silk that had once represented all my naive dreams of happily ever after curled and blackened in the fireplace.

I watched it burn with the satisfaction of someone deleting their ex's number.

"Goodbye, tragic Claire," I said to the flames. "Thanks for the lessons, but your services are no longer needed."

Next came the photo albums. All those pictures of Richard and me looking like the perfect couple everyone envied.

Our honeymoon in Bali where he had complained about the heat.

Christmas mornings where I had gotten him exactly what he wanted while he had given me generic jewelry from the mall.

Into the fire they went, one by one.

Finally, I opened the little velvet box containing my wedding ring. The "classic and understated" solitaire that I had treasured because it came from him, not because it was actually beautiful.

Now I could see it for what it was—cheap and small, just like his commitment to our marriage.

I dropped it into the flames without ceremony. "And goodbye to you too, you sad little symbol of my former delusions."

From my jewelry box, I pulled out Alexander's engagement ring—the sapphire that was bigger, bolder, and more expensive than anything Richard had ever dreamed of giving me.

I slipped it on and admired the weight of it. Heavy enough to remind me with every gesture that I was no longer the woman who accepted scraps and called them feast.

At the airport, boarding pass to New York squeezed in my perfectly manicured hand, I caught my reflection in the terminal window and had to smile.

The woman looking back at me was polished, powerful, and ready to absolutely wreck some lives in the most stylish way possible.

My phone buzzed with a text from Alexander: ‘The penthouse is ready. The stage is set. Ready to give Richard Blackwood the shock of his miserable life?’

I typed back without hesitation: ‘He thinks he broke me. He's about to find out he just made me dangerous.’

As I settled into my first-class seat (because why fly coach when you are plotting revenge?), I accepted the champagne with a smile that would have made my old self proud and my enemies nervous.

"Excuse me," the flight attendant said, "but I have to ask—you look absolutely radiant. Special occasion?"

I raised my crystal flute to the airplane window, watching Switzerland disappear below like a distant memory.

"You could say that," I replied, taking a sip. "I'm going home to destroy my ex-husband's life, and I have never looked better doing it."

The plane banked toward New York, carrying me not as the broken woman who had fled, but as the gorgeous, confident, slightly unhinged force of nature I had transformed myself into.

Richard Blackwood thought I was pathetic? Clingy? Disgusting?

He was about to learn that hell hath no fury like a woman who is finally learned her worth.

And honey, I was worth a whole lot more than he had ever imagined.