Chapter 3

A few days later, Ellie was discharged from the hospital.

She had found an apartment online—a bright, spacious place that felt like a true fresh start. The rent was paid annually. But when she went to withdraw the money, the ATM screen delivered a cold shock: her account held less than a hundred dollars.

Heather erupted on the spot.

"Derek Housten! The billionaire CEO of Lyeaton, and he's this cheap with his own wife? He drops millions on his mistress—fireworks, diamonds, a whole damn hospital wing! I'll bet he tips panhandlers more than he gives you. How can he treat a stranger on the street better than his own wife?

"Ellie, what kind of life have you been living all these years?"

A familiar, bitter ache twisted in Ellie's chest. Derek's contempt for her knew no bounds.

It all traced back to that night four years ago. Derek's grandmother, Catherine Housten, had invited her to the family estate. A sudden storm stranded her, and Catherine, ever the matchmaker, put her in the guest room right next to Derek's.

He'd been at a business dinner, his drink spiked by someone. He came home long after midnight, drunk and disoriented, stumbling into the wrong room—into her bed.

Catherine found them together the next morning and seized the opportunity, forcing a reluctant Derek to marry her.

From that day forward, he looked at her with pure loathing. In his eyes, she was a social climber, a schemer who had orchestrated the whole thing to trap him. And a man of Derek's pride and power made her pay for that perceived manipulation every single day.

Looking back now, her blindness was staggering.

The housekeeper, Mary, would sneer every time she doled out the meager "housekeeping allowance."

"You don't cook, you don't clean. What expenses could you possibly have? Be grateful the Young Master gives you anything at all!"

But Ellie had never complained. Her desires were simple. Just being with Derek had felt like the greatest happiness in the world. She hadn't even realized how pathetic that was.

Now, looking back, she saw how pitifully small her life as Mrs. Housten had been.

When she slipped the card back into her wallet, she noticed an old bank card tucked inside—a relic from her university days. It held her scholarship funds and competition prizes. Maybe it still had enough to cover rent.

She inserted it into the ATM—and froze.

The screen displayed a balance with a dizzying number of digits.

Heather leaned over, eyes wide.

"What the—did the machine glitch?"

She began counting under her breath. "Hundreds… thousands… million… ten million…"

Her jaw dropped. "Ellie! There's over ten million in here!"

Even Ellie was stunned. She quickly pulled up the transaction history. Every month, like clockwork, massive deposits rolled in from a major pharmaceutical corporation.

Then she remembered. In university, working under her mentor, she had been instrumental in developing a groundbreaking drug. They'd filed a patent together. Her professor had even secured her a full-ride Ph.D. position overseas.

But she, blinded by her infatuation with Derek, had turned it all down. She'd signed over her rights, walked away from her research, and chosen a life as his despised wife.

Her mentor had pleaded with her, but she wouldn't listen. As a last resort, he'd asked for her bank details. He never came to the wedding.

All these years, the royalty payments from the patent she helped create had been silently accumulating.

Heather stared at her as if seeing a ghost. "Ellie… you're a genius. You made over ten million from a university project?"

Ellie's gaze was distant, hazy with the shock of it.

After years of being "Mrs. Housten," she had almost forgotten—she was once a prodigy.

The fifteen-year-old valedictorian who entered the nation's top medical school.

The twenty-year-old researcher who developed a drug that revolutionized the entire pharmaceutical industry.

Her phone rang, snapping her back to the present. It was the real estate agent.

"Miss Winbury, about the apartment—are you still interested?"

She didn't hesitate. "Actually, could you ask the owner if they're willing to sell? I'd like to buy it."

The agent's voice shot up an octave. "Right away! I'll contact them immediately!"

By that afternoon, the deal was done. The apartment was hers.

Heather helped her move in and even threw a small, triumphant housewarming.

"Congratulations, Ellie! You're finally free of that scumbag. Everything's gonna be all right from now!"

That night, as Ellie was settling into her new home, her phone buzzed with an urgent call.

It was Rees Atkins, her late father's longtime driver. He never called this late unless it was something urgent.

"Rees?"

His voice trembled. "Miss Ellie… your parents' death… it wasn't an accident. It was murder."

Ellie's blood ran cold. "What? Rees, what did you find? Who was it?"

"The killer was your uncle, Carl. I don't have the proof in my hands yet, but I'm sure of it. Their deaths are tied directly to him."

Carl.

Her knees buckled. She sank onto the bed.

After her parents died, her uncle's family was the sole beneficiary. They took the company, the villa—everything her parents had spent a lifetime building.

She had thought them greedy. But she had never imagined—they would kill for it.

That night, she couldn't sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw her parents' funeral.

She woke from a nightmare gasping for air, a single, burning vow searing her mind: She would find the truth, and she would make the murderers pay.

The next morning, Heather dragged her out shopping.

"Ellie, you look awful. Didn't sleep?"

"Probably just not used to a new bed."

Heather applied a swipe of lipstick to Ellie's lips. "There. Now you look alive. You're too gorgeous to hide away. Let's find you something that makes you feel like the queen you are."

They went to the most exclusive mall in Lyeaton.

Ellie's eyes landed on a stunning pale silver, off-the-shoulder gown.

"You have an excellent eye, miss," the sales associate gushed. "That's a limited-edition piece straight from the runway. We only have the one."

As the associate handed it over, another hand shot out, grabbing the hanger.

"This one's perfect," a voice said smoothly. "Wrap it up."

Ellie turned—and her entire body went cold.

Standing opposite her, impeccably dressed and wearing a smirk of utter superiority, was her cousin, Lisa Winbury.

After Ellie's parents died, Lisa's family had moved into their villa as if they owned it. Lisa had made Ellie's life a living hell.

And after Rees's call last night, Ellie's hatred toward Lisa only deepened.

Her voice was pure ice. "I saw it first. Let go."

Recognition dawned in Lisa's eyes. She looked Ellie up and down with a contemptuous sneer. "This dress costs nearly 30 thousand. Are you sure you can even afford it?"

Heather stepped forward, a protective fury. "Who the hell do you think you are?" She snatched the dress back and thrust it toward Ellie. "Go try it on. Now."

But before Ellie could take a single step, a powerful, familiar hand clamped around her wrist.

A deep, commanding voice, cold and absolute, cut through the air.

"Give the dress to Lisa. You can choose anything else in the store. I'll pay for it."

Ellie froze, her heart turning to solid ice in her chest.

The man standing beside her cousin, the one so casually commanding her to surrender to her enemy… was her husband, Derek.