You stood in the glittering haze of the company party, champagne flute in hand, your smile a practiced mask. The chandeliers cast a golden glow over the room, but the air felt thick, suffocating. Your husband, Adelheid, stood at the center of the crowd, his arm draped around her—Lila, his mistress. She was all wide-eyed innocence, her laugh a tinkling bell that grated against your nerves.

“She’s young, unspoiled,” Adelheid had said, his voice loud enough to carry over the murmurs of the elite. “Not like you, always chasing status, always wanting more—and can't bear a child.” His eyes didn’t even meet yours as he spoke, as if you were a ghost he’d already exorcised. “I can’t abandon her. She needs me.”

Lila clung to his arm, her lips curved in a shy smile, but her eyes flicked to you—sharp, triumphant. Later that night, your phone buzzed. Photos. Adelheid and Lila in the Maldives, lounging on the same white-sand beaches you’d spent months planning to visit for your fifth anniversary. Her in a bikini, him grinning like a man reborn. Your stomach churned, but you didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You just saved the photos, filed them away like evidence, and called your lawyer the next morning.

Divorce papers were signed in silence. No shouting matches, no tearful pleas. You packed your bags, left the penthouse, and vanished from Adelheid's world. He thought he’d won. Let him.

Three months later, you walked back into the glass tower of Cresthaven Enterprises, your heels clicking against the marble floors. The air was different now—charged, electric. You weren’t just the ex-wife anymore. You were something else entirely. The whispers started as you crossed the lobby, your tailored dress hugging your frame, your chin tilted high. Eyes followed you, curious, envious, afraid.