All Chapters of From Discarded Wife To Billionaire's Queen: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

A pair of papers lay between them like a grave marker—unassuming, cold, final.Divorce papers.Isla Merrick’s fingers hovered over the place where Callum Braxton had already signed. The ink was dry. So was his expression.Across the table, her soon-to-be ex-husband leaned back in his chair with all the interest of a man finalizing a transaction. No grief. No apology. Just silence.She lifted her gaze to him, searching for something—remorse, hesitation, anything human—but his face was carved in stone.“Is there truly no chance for us?” Isla asked softly.Her voice, stripped bare of pretense, cracked slightly. Her thick black glasses caught the dim light of the chandelier above, but they couldn’t hide the faint tremble in her eyes. She looked tired—yes—but more than that, she looked… ready.She had woken at dawn that morning, moved by one last surge of hope. She’d cooked Callum’s favorite meal from scratch. She’d cleaned the apartment until the wood floors gleamed. Ironed his shirts. Li

The sun had barely set when Lydia Phillips pulled up to Isla’s building like a woman on a mission. Her matte-black Benz purred at the curb, gleaming under the streetlamps like a panther in wait.She didn’t knock.She texted.Lydia: Five minutes. I brought wine, heels, and zero mercy.Upstairs, Isla was slipping into a silk blouse when her phone buzzed. She read the message, smirked faintly, then replied:Isla: I’m no longer married. Let’s make tonight count.Three minutes later, Lydia was at her door, champagne in hand.“You look criminally overdressed for a breakup,” she said, eyeing Isla’s sleek, minimalist outfit. “I was expecting a hoodie and a full meltdown.”“I cried three years ago,” Isla replied, grabbing her clutch. “Tonight, I drink.”Lydia grinned. “There’s my girl.”As they drove through the glittering veins of downtown Valmere, Isla rolled the window down slightly. The breeze teased her curls, and for the first time in years, the wind didn’t carry a weight.It carried fre

The Crimson Bar had never been louder.Or more silent.The chatter returned after the race, the music swelled again, but in the far corner of the VIP lounge, Callum Braxton hadn’t moved.He was still staring at the spot where Isla had stood.“Are you even listening?” Seinna huffed beside him, arms crossed. “Eliana’s going to be here any minute. Try not to look like you saw a ghost.”He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.That hadn’t been a ghost.That had been a reckoning.Isla—his Isla—had just shattered the last image he had of her.The obedient girl who folded herself neatly into his life was gone. Replaced by someone who didn’t ask permission to shine. Someone who wore danger like perfume.And she hadn’t even looked at him when she won.That bothered him more than it should have.Downstairs, Isla was already slipping back into her crimson fringe dress, the one that fit her like a second skin. Lydia leaned against the changing room wall, grinning.“You really left your mark out there.”Isl

The gates of the Braxton estate creaked open as Isla’s black town car pulled through, tires whispering over the cobblestones like a ghost returning to its grave.But Isla wasn’t here to haunt.She was here to bury something.The front doors opened before she knocked. The housekeeper gasped softly at the sight of her. Not for her presence—but for how she carried it.High heels clicked like a metronome of purpose. Her outfit, a sculpted black pantsuit with sharp lapels, contrasted vividly against the soft ivory walls. Her makeup was precise, her lips painted in unapologetic crimson.Gone was the housewife in beige.This woman dared you to underestimate her.In the sitting room, Leah Braxton—Callum’s grandmother—rose slowly with her cane. Her sharp eyes lit with something close to delight.“Miss Isla,” she said, reaching a hand toward her. “I was beginning to think you’d grown too powerful for old women like me.”Isla offered a warm smile and took her hand gently. “Never too powerful for

The door to Leah Braxton’s study clicked shut behind them, muffling the faint sounds of conversation and crystal from the lounge.Inside, the room smelled of old paper, cedarwood, and history. Books lined the walls like witnesses. A low fire cracked in the hearth. No cameras. No audience.Only truth.Callum stood stiffly near the door.Leah moved slowly to her chair, each step deliberate, her cane tapping like a metronome of judgment.“Sit,” she said.He did.Not because she asked.But because, for once, he didn’t know how to stand tall.Leah studied him.Not as a grandmother.Not as family.But as a woman who had survived men like him.“You saw her tonight,” she said. “Not the girl you married. The woman she became.”Callum said nothing.“You always liked the quiet ones,” she continued. “The ones who smiled and stepped aside. You called it grace. I call it erasure.”His jaw tensed.“You married Isla because she was safe,” Leah said. “But you never bothered to find out what she was ma