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THE DIVORCED WIFE RETURNS TO TAKE BACK WHAT’S HERS SEVENTY-SIX
ELENAThe revolving doors of Hart Capital Management swallowed me whole the moment I stepped inside. This was only my second time in the building, and my first without Uncle Alex at my side, quietly steering, quietly shielding. The air felt different today. Heavier and sharper, like the building knew I was alone and was testing whether I deserved to stand here.My heels clicked against the marble floors, each step measured, deliberate. I could feel eyes on me; employees pretending not to stare, security pretending not to assess, executives pretending not to whisper. I kept my spine straight, my chin lifted, my face carved into something cool and untouchable.Don’t let them smell fear, I reminded myself.Sharks always do.I stepped into the elevator and pressed 77. As the doors slid shut, my reflection stared back at me; tailored suit, sharp lines, lipstick the colour of intention. My pulse hammered beneath it all, but no one could see that. The elevator hummed upwards, my ears popping
THE DIVORCED WIFE RETURNS TO TAKE BACK WHAT’S HERS SEVENTY-FIVE
ELENAI woke up before the sun did, smiling like someone who had just been handed a secret she wasn’t supposed to have.For a second, I lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the house. No Angela padding down the hall yet, no voices, just stillness. The good kind. The kind that wraps around your chest and whispers, This is yours.I slipped out of bed and padded straight to my study, my bare feet cold against the marble floor. The violin case sat where it always did. Polished, patient, and accusing. I hadn’t opened it since the Golden Star Foundation event. Every time I’d walked past it, I’d felt… nothing. No pull, no ache, and no need. And that terrified me more than I ever admitted.But this morning? My hands were already reaching for it before my brain could catch up.I unclipped the latches carefully, almost reverently, like I might spook the thing if I moved too fast. The smell of aged wood hit me immediately, familiar and grounding. I lifted the violin o
THE DIVORCED WIFE RETURNS TO TAKE BACK WHAT’S HERS SEVENTY-FOUR
ELENAAfter the call with Damian, my chest feels like it’s been scraped raw from the inside. Not bleeding—no. Worse, tender, exposed, and bruised in places I didn’t know, I still hurt. I need my mother. Not for advice or for comfort. Just… presence. Someone solid. Someone who won’t demand explanations or negotiations or DNA tests.I head straight for her room. The door is too open. Her bed is perfectly made. Not recently made; carefully made. Hospital-corner neat. It's the kind of neat that means it hasn’t been slept in at all.I stop in the doorway, my heart doing that unpleasant drop it’s been perfecting lately.“Mom?” I call softly, then louder. “Mom?”Nothing.I step inside, checking the bathroom. Empty. Closet—untouched. Her handbag is gone. I exhale sharply and turn, walking down the corridor, my heels tapping faster than necessary.“Mom?” I call again.Still nothing. Then, a different voice that isn't my mother's response.“She left.”I turn to see Marina standing near the kitc
THE DIVORCED WIFE RETURNS TO TAKE BACK WHAT’S HERS SEVENTY-THREE
DAMIAN The door closes. Not softly nor politely. It thuds a final, satisfying sound that echoes through my office like punctuation at the end of a long, ugly sentence. I stand there for a moment, staring at the wood grain as if it might crack open and swallow the last few years of my life with it. My hands are shaking not from regret,but from restraint. I drag a hand down my face and let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding. The office smells faintly of Isabelle’s perfume. Too sweet and too loud, it suddenly feels suffocating. I press the intercom. “Cancel the rest of my meetings today.” A pause. “Yes, Mr. Blackwood.” The line clicks off. I drop into my chair, the leather creaking under my weight, and lean back, staring at the ceiling like it might offer absolution. It doesn’t. All I see is Elena standing on that stage, composed and powerful. Elena walking away from me without looking back. Elena holding Angela like she belonged there, because she did. My ch
THE DIVORCED WIFE RETURNS TO TAKE BACK WHAT’S HERS SEVENTY-TWO
ISABELLEI don’t wait. Waiting has never gotten me anything in this building. Damian’s assistant, that girl with the permanently apologetic face steps in front of me the moment the elevator doors open.“Miss Blake, Mr. Cole is in a meeting..."“I know,” I say sweetly, already walking past her. “That’s why I’m here.”“Please, you’ll need to wait—”I don’t. I never do. I march straight down the corridor, heels clicking with purpose, my heart hammering like it’s trying to escape my ribs. I can feel it; today matters. Today decides everything. Behind me, I hear her gasp, then hurried footsteps.“Miss Blake! I’ve already called security—”Good. Let them come.I reach Damian’s office and push the door open without knocking. The room goes silent.Six men, one woman in leather chairs. A massive screen paused mid-presentation. And him, Damian. His eyes lift to mine, and for the first time in years… they don’t soften, they don’t light up. They don’t even harden with familiar irritation. They ju
THE DIVORCED WIFE RETURNS TO TAKE BACK WHAT’S HERS SEVENTY-ONE
ELENA Hart Capital Management rises out of the city like it owns the skyline. Glass, steel, and confidence. The car slows at the entrance, and for a moment, I just sit there, fingers curled in my lap, breathing through the weight of it. This is not nerves; I recognise the difference now. This is awareness. The kind that sharpens your spine and straightens your back. This is mine. The doors open. The moment my heels touch the marble floor, the air shifts as people look up. Not because they recognise me, because most of them don’t, but because presence doesn’t need an introduction. It announces itself. I feel it ripple outwards as I walk beside Alex, my stride steady, my expression unreadable. The lobby is vast and minimalist. White stone, dark accents, quiet wealth. There’s a faint scent of coffee and something expensive I can’t name. Screens display market movements, numbers flickering like nervous hearts. Whispers start immediately. “Is that...?” “That must be...” “She’s young
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