The CEO's Shattered Vows

The emerald silk clung to Isabella's frame like a second skin, the fabric cool against her nervous fingers as she smoothed it down one more time. She'd chosen green deliberately—Damien's favorite color, though he'd never actually told her that. She'd learned it by watching him over five years of marriage, noticed how his eyes lingered on emerald cufflinks, how he always ordered mojitos with extra mint, how the leather chair in his study was that exact shade of deep forest green.

That was what wives did, wasn't it? They noticed things. They paid attention. They tried.

"You look beautiful, Mrs. Reeds," her stylist, Monica, said with professional warmth as she made final adjustments to Isabella's upswept hair. The mirror reflected a woman Isabella barely recognized—polished, elegant, the perfect accessory for a billionaire's arm. The girl who used to wear paint-stained jeans and lose herself in secondhand novels felt like a distant memory, someone who'd existed in another lifetime.

"Thank you," Isabella managed, though her stomach twisted with an anxiety she couldn't quite name. Tonight felt different somehow. Damien had personally asked her to attend this charity gala, had even mentioned she should "look her best." For weeks, he'd been distant—more so than usual—locked away in his study or coming home well past midnight smelling of expensive perfume that wasn't hers.

But tonight, he'd asked for her specifically. That had to mean something, didn't it?

Grace had called earlier, her best friend's voice tight with concern. "Bella, I have a bad feeling about tonight. Damien's been weird lately, and his mother—"

"Grace, please," Isabella had interrupted, desperate to hold onto the fragile hope blooming in her chest. "Maybe he's finally ready to try. To really try with us."

The silence on the other end had spoken volumes, but Grace had simply said, "Call me the second it's over. Promise me."

Now, standing in the hallway of their sprawling penthouse, Isabella checked her reflection one final time. The dress was perfect. Her makeup was flawless. She'd even worn the diamond earrings Damien's mother had given her—though Victoria's accompanying comment, "Try not to embarrass the family tonight," still stung.

The sound of footsteps made her turn. Damien emerged from his study, devastating in a tailored black tuxedo that probably cost more than Isabella's entire wardrobe. At thirty-two, he was everything the tabloids claimed—sharp jawline, dark eyes that could strip a boardroom of oxygen, presence that commanded attention without effort. He'd barely aged since their wedding day, while Isabella felt like she'd lived several lifetimes in those same five years.

Their eyes met, and for a breathless moment, Isabella thought she saw something flicker in his expression. Recognition maybe. Appreciation. But it vanished so quickly she wondered if she'd imagined it.

"Ready?" His voice was clipped, professional, like she was a business associate rather than his wife.

"Yes," Isabella said softly, gathering her clutch and shawl. "You look handsome."

Damien didn't respond. He was already checking his phone, his attention elsewhere. Always elsewhere.

The car ride to the Manhattan Grand Ballroom was silent except for the rhythmic tap of Damien's fingers against his phone screen. Isabella watched the city lights blur past, each block bringing them closer to whatever tonight held. She wanted to reach across the leather seat, take his hand, ask him what was wrong—but five years had taught her that Damien Reeds didn't appreciate uninvited touch or unsolicited questions.

So she stayed quiet, perfecting the skill she'd mastered as his wife: making herself small.

The ballroom was exactly what Isabella expected—dripping with old money and new wealth, crystal chandeliers casting prismatic light across women in designer gowns and men in tuxedos that cost more than most people's monthly rent. The charity gala was supposedly for underprivileged children, though Isabella suspected most attendees cared more about the networking opportunities than the cause.

She recognized faces from society pages and business magazines. There was Senator Whitmore with his fourth wife. The tech billionaire whose name she could never remember. The fashion designer who'd dressed three First Ladies. And everywhere, people watched them—watched Damien—with a mixture of admiration and fear.

He was a king in this world, and she was... what? The queen? No. Queens had power. She was decoration, a pretty face that proved even ruthless billionaires could attract beauty.

"Isabella, darling!" A voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. Margaret Chen, wife of one of Damien's business partners, air-kissed near Isabella's cheeks. "You look absolutely radiant. That dress is stunning."

"Thank you, Margaret. You look wonderful too."

"Oh, this old thing." Margaret waved dismissively at a gown that probably cost fifty thousand dollars. "Tell me, how are you? I feel like we haven't seen you at events lately."

Because Damien stopped bringing me, Isabella thought but didn't say. "I've been busy with some personal projects."

"How lovely! You must tell me more." But Margaret's attention had already shifted past Isabella's shoulder, her eyes widening slightly. "Oh my. Is that Sophia Laurent? I heard she was back from Paris."

Isabella's blood turned cold. She turned slowly, following Margaret's gaze across the ballroom.

Sophia Laurent stood near the bar, a vision in crimson silk that hugged curves Isabella could never achieve without surgical intervention. Her dark hair cascaded in perfect waves, her laugh carrying across the room like music. She was everything the society pages claimed—beautiful, sophisticated, born into the kind of wealth that made even billionaires feel inadequate.

She was also the woman Damien had loved before their arranged marriage.

"I didn't know she was in town," Isabella managed, her voice barely steady.

"Oh yes, I heard she's been meeting with Damien about some European expansion." Margaret's tone was innocent, but her eyes held that gleam society women got when sensing drama. "Business, I'm sure. Though they do make a striking pair, don't they?"

Isabella wanted to vomit. Or scream. Or both. Instead, she smiled with practiced grace. "Excuse me, Margaret. I should find my husband."

She didn't want to find Damien. She wanted to leave, to run back to their penthouse and pack her things and disappear into a life where she didn't have to watch her husband look at another woman the way he'd never looked at her.

But she'd promised herself she'd try tonight. One more chance. One more effort to save something that might have never existed in the first place.

She found Damien near the stage, deep in conversation with several men in tuxedos. He was animated in a way he never was with her, his laugh genuine, his posture relaxed. This was Damien in his element—dealmaking, networking, conquering.

"Damien?" Isabella approached carefully, not wanting to interrupt but needing to ground herself in something familiar.

He glanced at her with mild irritation. "What is it?"

"I just wanted to check if you needed anything."

"I'm fine." He turned back to his conversation, dismissing her completely.

Isabella stood there for a humiliating moment, waiting for him to remember she existed, before retreating to a quiet corner near the champagne fountain. She accepted a glass from a passing waiter and took a long sip, letting the bubbles burn down her throat.

This was her life. Standing alone at parties, watching her husband pretend she wasn't there, smiling through the pitying looks from women who knew exactly how hollow her marriage was.

"Isabella Reeds?" A warm voice interrupted her spiral. She turned to find a handsome man in his early thirties smiling at her with genuine friendliness. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to intrude. I'm James Chen—Margaret's nephew. She pointed you out."

"Oh." Isabella managed a smile. "It's nice to meet you."

"I've actually been hoping to talk to you. I run a small art gallery in Brooklyn, and Margaret mentioned you used to work in a bookstore and loved literature. We're hosting a literary art exhibition next month, and I'd love to invite you."

For the first time all evening, Isabella felt something other than dread. "That sounds wonderful. I'd love to attend."

They talked for several minutes about books and art, conversation flowing easily in a way it never did with Damien's social circle. James was kind, interested in her opinions, treating her like a person rather than an accessory. It was such a foreign experience that Isabella almost didn't notice the crowd beginning to gather near the stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a voice boomed through the sound system. "If I could have your attention, please."

Isabella's heart stopped. That was Damien's voice.

He stood on stage, microphone in hand, looking every inch the powerful CEO commanding a room. The crowd quieted immediately, all eyes on him. Isabella felt herself moving forward instinctively, drawn by something she couldn't name—hope, maybe, or the last desperate gasp of a dying marriage.

"Thank you all for coming tonight," Damien continued, his voice smooth and controlled. "As many of you know, I've built Reeds Corporation on principles of honesty, integrity, and transparency. I don't believe in pretending or maintaining facades, especially when it comes to important matters."

Isabella's hands trembled. This felt wrong. Everything about this felt catastrophically wrong.

"Which is why I need to make an announcement tonight, in front of all of you—my friends, my colleagues, my peers." Damien's eyes scanned the crowd, landing on Isabella for just a moment. His expression was unreadable. "Some partnerships are meant to end. Some arrangements, no matter how well-intentioned, simply don't work."

No. No, no, no.

"Isabella and I have decided to part ways. Our marriage is over, effective immediately."

The ballroom erupted in gasps and whispers. Isabella couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't process what was happening.

Damien continued speaking, but the words became noise. Something about "mutual decision" and "moving forward" and "honesty." All lies. All carefully crafted lies delivered to 500 people while cameras flashed and phones recorded and Isabella's entire world collapsed.

A man in a suit appeared at Damien's side—his lawyer, Isabella realized dimly—holding a manila folder. Damien took it, opened it, and held up papers.

"I believe in doing things properly," Damien said, his voice carrying across the silent ballroom. "Isabella, if you could join me on stage, please."

This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening.

But her legs moved anyway, carrying her toward the stage on autopilot. The crowd parted like a sea, everyone staring, judging, pitying. She climbed the steps in her emerald dress—his favorite color—and stood beside her husband under blinding lights.

"Sign these," Damien said quietly, his voice cold enough to frost glass. He wasn't even looking at her, just holding out the papers and a pen.

Divorce papers. He was divorcing her on stage, in front of everyone they knew.

"Damien," Isabella whispered, her voice breaking. "Please. Can we talk about this? Not here. Not like this."

For a moment—just a heartbeat—something flickered in his dark eyes. Regret maybe. Or guilt. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the ice she'd learned to recognize over five years.

"There's nothing to talk about. This marriage was a mistake. You were a mistake."

The words hit like physical blows. Isabella felt her knees weaken, felt the world tilt sideways. Somewhere in the crowd, she heard gasps. Whispers. The click of cameras capturing her humiliation for tomorrow's headlines.

Her hands shook so badly she could barely hold the pen. But she signed. What else could she do? What choice did he leave her?

The moment her signature appeared on the last page, applause broke out. Actual applause, like this was entertainment rather than the destruction of another human being.

Isabella looked up at Damien, desperate for some explanation, some sign that this wasn't real. Instead, she saw him looking past her, across the ballroom, his expression softening in a way it never had for her.

She followed his gaze and understood everything.

Sophia Laurent stood near the bar, stunning in her red dress, a small smile playing at her lips. And Damien was looking at her like she was oxygen and he'd been drowning.

"This has always been about her, hasn't it?" Isabella heard herself say, though the voice didn't sound like hers. "You never wanted me. You wanted her."

Damien didn't deny it. That was somehow worse than if he'd lied.

Isabella turned to leave the stage, to flee this nightmare, but she didn't make it far. The room spun violently, her vision tunneling to a pinpoint. She felt herself falling, heard screams, felt hands catching her before she hit the ground.

The last thing she saw before darkness claimed her was Damien, still on stage, pulling Sophia Laurent into his arms and kissing her. Kissing her while Isabella collapsed. Kissing her while cameras flashed and the crowd watched and Isabella's heart shattered into pieces too small to ever put back together.

Then, mercifully, there was nothing.