Chantelle’s POV

“Are you sure about this? Once you sign these papers, you’ll be declaring war on your own husband. There’s no undoing it.”

I stared down at the divorce and resignation papers, my hands trembling slightly—not with fear but with a bitter laugh.

Lachlan Gurfinchel made that decision for me the moment he chose her mistress over our seven years of marriage.

And the worst part—I didn’t find out until our anniversary.

I was four months pregnant when I got into a car crash. There was so much blood, I honestly thought I might die.

And where was my loving husband while I was bleeding out on the side of the road?

His goddamn phone was off.

Days later, after I was discharged, I found the answer—hidden in the clothes he’d carelessly tossed aside.

Four Disneyland tickets and a happy portrait of a family of four.

The date on the tickets?

The exact day I lost our baby.

In the photo, Lachlan and Kirsten Horvath posed like the perfect mom and dad.

Just then, my phone buzzed. It was a message from her.

[Did you like my anniversary gift? The twins I had with him are already four. Hate to break it to you, but you were the secret mistress all along.]

Before I could even process it, she sent a series of videos.

I tapped one.

And there it was—my husband, naked, moving over her like he didn’t have a wife.

“I promised you,” he said, his sweet voice playing loud and clear from the speaker, “the twins will inherit the family fortune. As for Chantelle, I’ll just spend the rest of my life making it up to her.”

At that moment, I knew—our seven years of marriage was long over. It was time to take back all the love I had ever wasted.

“Mr. Coulthard.” I looked up, my voice steady. “I don’t need an escape route. I accept your offer. Please find the best hospital for my mother, and I’ll report for work at your company in seven days.”

——

After I hung up the phone, my gaze drifted down to the terms written on the divorce papers in my hands. But my mind was already slipping somewhere else.

I wasn’t just the CEO’s secretary—I was his wife. We’d been married in secret for seven long years.

I still remember the morning of our anniversary. That day, I found out I was pregnant.

I’d tucked the test into my bag, rehearsing how I’d tell him over dinner. But on my way back to the estate, a car came out of nowhere and slammed into me.

The world spun in a blur of screeching tires and shattered glass, and the first thing I did was to shield my belly.

Blood was everywhere. I could barely hold my phone, but I managed to dial his emergency number.

It rang. And rang. But Lachlan never picked up.

By the time I stopped calling him, darkness pulled me under.

When I woke up, the first thing I did was to feel my belly.

It was… flat.

Remembering what my baby bump used to feel like shattered my heart felt like someone dug it out of my chest.

I didn’t need to ask. The pity in the doctor’s eyes told me everything.

Somehow, I made it home and moved on autopilot—shoes off, coat hung, laundry started.

That’s when I found it—a crumpled receipt in my husband’s pockets. And beside it… a photo.

There he was—my husband, smiling, arm around Kirsten. Standing beside them were two children, a boy and a girl, who looked identical. Probably twins.

Their features were unmistakable—they looked like him. And the four of them together looked like a family.

My legs nearly gave out from the pain. Still, I caught myself on the edge of the washing machine and unfolded the receipt with shaking hands.

It was from an amusement park, the same one located near where my accident happened.

‘So Lachlan already has kids with Kirsten…’

‘So that day, while I was bleeding in the ER, they were at a theme park enjoying a family day…’

‘So while I was losing the baby I hadn’t even gotten to tell him about… he was having fun with his two kids…’

The realization hit like another collision, the pain so sharp I couldn’t straighten up. My vision blurred again, but this time from tears.

I wiped my face, shoved the photo and receipt back where I found them, and forced myself upstairs.

By the time Lachlan stepped out of the shower, towel slung low, displaying his abs, I had already braced myself.

That’s when I saw them—scratches running down his back. Long, thin, fresh.

He paused when he saw me, just for a second. Then, as if nothing had happened, he reached into a bag and tossed me a necklace.

“Don’t be mad,” he said lightly. “I just took a client’s family to the amusement park that day. I’ll make it up to you, alright?”

My heart clenched.

‘A client,’ I repeated in my head. ‘As if any client needed a billionaire CEO to personally escort their wife and kids to Disneyland!’

If he cared about me at all, he wouldn’t lie to my face with something that ridiculous.

I caught the necklace without a word. My hands felt numb.

That night, he climbed into bed and pressed against me.

“Babe, I’ve been away on business so long. Did you miss me?”

His deep voice was seductive, but the scent of jasmine clung to his skin.

That familiar feminine perfume made me feel like I was suffocating; I had to push him away to breathe.

Seeing the confusion contorting on his face, I said flatly, “I’m not feeling well tonight.”

He frowned but didn’t push. He just kissed my forehead, got up, and when he came back, he handed me a cup of chamomile tea.

He still acted like the perfect husband. But as I sipped the warm tea, all I felt was cold. The warmth didn’t melt the dread in my heart.

I closed my eyes… but all I could see was blood. The crash. The way it felt to lose everything in one breath.

The trauma robbed me of sleep that night.

Sometime in the middle of the night, his phone rang. He answered quickly, dressed even quicker, and slipped out the door without a sound.

The soft click behind him was the only goodbye.

I opened my eyes. The room was silent again. Too quiet.

In my hands, I was still holding both agreements—divorce and resignation.

I stared down at them, the paper trembling slightly in my grip… when suddenly, a voice came from behind me.

“Chantelle? What’s that you’re holding?”

Chantelle’s POV

“You’re just in time. Sign this, it’s—”

Before I could finish, Lachlan snatched the documents from my hands.

“Forget it,” he replied, not even looking at me. “We agreed—no work at home. Your efficiency’s just too damn poor anyway.”

I froze mid-motion. The sting in my chest spread fast, bitter and cold.

Well… he wouldn’t have to worry about my work performance much longer.

Just as he was about to flip through the documents, his phone rang. He moved quickly to answer it, but not quick enough—I caught the caller ID.

[Kirsten]

Just like that, he dropped the papers without a second thought and rushed out the door.

I bent down to gather the scattered pages. Just as I was about to stand, he came storming back in—and kicked me, hard, right in the stomach.

Pain exploded through my abdomen like needles stabbing into my flesh; I had just suffered a miscarriage.

I swallowed the taste of blood rising in my throat and shot him a look in disbelief.

“Chantelle, you shouldn’t have done this,” he said calmly, but there was ice in his eyes. “You kidnapped my kids, just because I took them to an amusement park?”

A cold shiver ran down my spine at that accusation.

Before I knew it, he already grabbed me by the neck, his fingers digging in. I was like a wounded animal, barely breathing, completely at his mercy.

“Stop messing around. Where did you hide my twins?!” he demanded.

My vision swam with darkness as his grip tightened. I used what little strength I had left to croak out the words from my dry throat.

“I… I don’t know.”

The Lachlan I once knew—he would’ve scooped me up, panicked and worried.

No. The Lachlan I used to love wouldn’t have laid a hand on me in the first place.

I trembled violently, like someone already on the brink of death.

His eyes flickered with what looked like pity—but his grip didn’t ease.

“You’ve been bad, Chantelle,” he murmured. “And bad women need to be punished.”

Then he dragged me out of the house. I didn’t even have the strength to fight back.

Next thing I knew, we were on a helicopter, rising fast above the clouds.

Ten minutes later, the ground was nothing but a blur beneath us.

“Chantelle,” Lachlan said, his voice weirdly gentle, “you still have time. Just tell me the truth.”

He gave a soft, almost amused laugh, only to pull the cabin door open.

The wind roared, and my knees buckled.

“Lachlan!” I gasped. “Please! It wasn’t me! You know I’m terrified of heights!”

But he didn’t listen. Instead, he strapped a parachute tightly around me as he said in a coaxing voice, “You went too far this time,” he said. “Tell me where they are, and I’ll bring you down safely.”

He knew about my phobia. He’d seen me freeze on third-floor balconies. And now here we were—thousands of feet up, strapped in, terrified—because of Kirsten. And her children.

I was crying now, unable to stop shaking. “Lachlan… it wasn’t me. I swear. I’ll say it one last time.”

His eyes narrowed. And then came that cruel, icy laugh.

Without a word, he shoved me out of the helicopter.

And as I fell, as the air screamed around me, everything just… felt nothing.

At a moment I used to fear the most, ten years of love flashed through my mind.

‘How did we end up here?’

When I first became his secretary, I warned myself every day. “Don’t fall for him. Keep it professional.”

But Lachlan spent three years tearing my walls down, one sweet moment at a time.

On my birthday, he lit up the entire Las Vegas with fireworks just for me.

He even knelt and proposed ninety-nine times. Nine-nine! I was not exaggerating if I said the villa was full of his gifts—every room, every corner.

I tried to suppress my feelings until he said, “Don’t be afraid. I’ll fight against the world just to love you.”

It was that promise that made me say yes on his hundredth proposal.

And once we were married, he meant every word—at first.

Whatever I liked, he’d get it for me before I even asked.

He even agreed to keep our marriage a secret, just because I didn’t want public attention.

I thought what we had was different… until I heard Kirsten’s name.

She was the one who’d saved him once—his so-called first love.

But when Lachlan’s family went bankrupt, she ditched him and ran off to Berlin.

Four years ago, her own life tanked, and suddenly she was back in Nevada, clinging to what used to be.

Since then, she started inserting herself into every private moment I had with my husband.

All it took was a phone call, and he would leave me behind to run to her.

I fought with him so many times over it. And every time, he’d hold me close and gently explain, “It’s not like that. I just owe her for saving me back then. But she left me once, too, without thinking twice—how could I still have feelings for her? Besides, I have you now.”

Blinded by love, I chose to believe him. I played dumb—four years passed like that.

And now… their twins were already four.

When I woke up in the hospital, I stared at the ceiling in a daze.

“You’ve just suffered a miscarriage,” the doctor said quietly. “And your body endured heavy trauma. It might be hard for you to conceive again.”

My lips twitched as tears spilled uncontrollably down my face.

When I finally made it home, I didn’t even step inside before I heard her voice.

“Locke, you really want me and the kids to move in? What if Chantelle gets mad when she comes home? What if she hurts the kids again? I just… I don’t know what I’d do,” she sobbed.

Through the cracked door, I saw him. Lachlan. Pulling her into his arms like she was the one who needed saving.

“Don’t be scared,” he whispered. “I won’t let her touch you or the kids. If she tries… I’ll make sure she suffers even more.”

That made me scoff. ‘So, throwing someone with a fear of heights out of a helicopter wasn’t harsh enough?’

Just then, a gust of wind blew the slightly open door wide, and my eyes met Lachlan’s.

He quickly pulled away from Kirsten, guilt flashing in his face.

I said nothing. Just walked past them, heading upstairs.

“Chantelle, wait,” he said calmly.

I turned around, only to see him frowning like I had done something wrong. “Aren’t you going to ask why they’re here?”

Right on cue, the twins ran over and timidly hugged his leg.

Pain flickered in his eyes.

His eyes darkened with pain. “Because of you, they still cry at night. Kirsten’s anxiety attacks are worse. Don’t you feel any guilt?”

Before I could respond, Kirsten tugged gently at his sleeve. “Let it go, Locke. I’m sure Chantelle didn’t mean it.”

That deserved a cold laugh.

But then, out of nowhere, she shrieked and flung herself into his arms.

“Locke, I’m scared…”

And he wrapped her up like some damsel and kissed her cheek. “Don’t be afraid. I’m here. She won’t hurt you.”

I watched them. The act. The melodrama.

And I turned, heading upstairs without a word.

But before I made it far, Lachlan grabbed my hand.

“Chantelle,” he muttered, his eyes full of accusations, “this time you really crossed the line. You’ve seen what you’ve done to Kirsten and the kids. You should make it up to them.”

I tried to pull free, but he held on. I could steady myself and look him in the eye.

He hesitated, then continued. “Give me the amethyst pendant I gave you.”

I froze in place, staring at him in disbelief.

He added, “They just need it for a few days. I’ll return it when they’re better.”

My chest ached as if my heart had been ripped in two.

That pendant—he made it for me himself seven years ago.

Back in school, when I was barely keeping it together after all the bullying—and wouldn’t go near a therapist or meds—he disappeared for a week.

Turns out, he’d spent days teaching himself how to solder and shape amethyst, just to make that pendant from scratch. Said if I wouldn’t take meds, maybe I’d wear something made with love instead. Something to hold onto when things got bad.

And now, because of a baseless accusation, he wanted to take it back—from me—for the very person who used to make my life hell.

How could I say yes to that?

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kirsten’s gaze flicking to me, her lashes lowering just enough to hide the shift in her expression.

She took a slow step forward, and with a sweet voice I knew she was just faking, she said, “If you don’t want to, that’s fine, Chantelle. The kids and I will just tough it out.”

Her fingers brushed my arm. Then, without warning, she dug in and twisted—right where the old injury still flared up on bad days.

She looked me in the eye, her fake sweetness slipping for half a second—long enough for me to see the smirk hiding underneath.

And that was it.

No warning. No words.

I shoved her.

Hard.

Chantelle’s POV

“Ah!”

Kirsten let out a shriek as she stumbled back—straight into Lachlan’s arms.

He caught her instantly, his eyes burning when they snapped to me.

“Damn it, Chantelle!” His voice cut through the air like a whip. “You still haven’t learned your lesson, have you? You laid a hand on Kirsten again?! Falling from ten thousand feet clearly wasn’t enough to knock sense into you, huh?”

I stood my ground, though my voice wavered. “She was the one who bullied me. Back then… in school.”

For a second, something flickered in his eyes. Doubt? Memory? But it vanished almost immediately.

“I… I don’t know what she’s talking about,” Kirsten whispered, her voice trembling.

“Why would I ever do something like that?” In his arms, she looked up at him with wet eyes. “I… I really don’t know how else to prove myself, Locke.”

Her sobs grew louder, as if on cue. A heartbeat later, the twins started crying too, clinging to her legs and wailing.

Lachlan looked torn for only a heartbeat—then wrapped them all in his arms like some kind of savior.

“I know,” he murmured gently. “I know you’re not like that.”

When he glanced at me, his voice sharpened. “Chantelle’s clearly lost it. I should’ve taught her a harsher lesson the first time.”

The way he looked at me—it was frighteningly cold.

Before I could move, two bodyguards stepped forward. I barely had time to flinch before they grabbed me by the arms and dragged me down the hallway.

“Take her to the storage room,” Lachlan ordered. “And bring in nine hundred and ninety-nine jasmine flowers.”

He didn’t even glance my way. His voice left no room for mercy.

“You hurt Kirsten and the children, and now you’re trying to pin the bullying on her? Looks like you deserved it back then.”

With that, the door slammed shut behind me with a heavy thud.

Within seconds, the scent hit me—thick and suffocating. My throat closed up almost instantly, panic rising fast.

I staggered back, coughing hard, my lungs refusing to work. My eyes burned. My skin prickled.

Jasmine.

The one thing I couldn’t be around. My allergy—my worst episodes—started because of the flowers Kirsten used to stuff in my locker every single day in high school.

Back then, the doctors called it stress-induced. Lachlan had called it cruelty when he found out. He banned jasmine from the estate and the company after we got married. Even patterns on curtains weren’t allowed.

Now he’d locked me in with nearly a thousand of them.

Because of her.

My eyes swelled shut. I couldn’t even cry.

Whatever part of me had still been holding onto hope for Lachlan…

It broke.

I woke up in a hospital bed, throat raw, eyes swollen. My chest ached like it had been scrubbed raw.

Lachlan sat at my side, typing something on his laptop. Business as usual.

When he noticed I was awake, a flicker of something soft passed through his eyes.

He set the laptop aside and picked up a bowl of soup.

He brought it to my lips, but I turned my head away.

His hand froze mid-air. That brief flicker of warmth in his eyes? Snuffed out in an instant.

“You went too far this time,” he said quietly, the edge returning to his voice. “I’ve already been more than tolerant.”

I didn’t answer. Just kept my gaze on the ceiling, refusing so much as to glance at him.

The silence must’ve gotten under his skin, because the next moment, he yanked the pendant from around my neck.

His tone turned cutting, bitter. “You seem perfectly fine to me. From now on, this pendant belongs to Kirsten. You’re not getting it back.”

He stared at me, like he was waiting—daring me—to protest. To react.

I didn’t give him the satisfaction. Just met his gaze and nodded once.

For a split second, something shifted in his eyes. Panic? Guilt? Whatever it was, it vanished almost instantly, replaced by rising fury.

“Chantelle! How long are you planning to keep this up? I’ve already humbled myself enough, and you’re still acting like some victim—still playing hard to get?”

I didn’t answer. Just pointed at his phone on the nightstand.

The screen was lit up.

Kirsten was calling.

His expression changed immediately. He snatched up the phone and walked out without another word, voice soft and coaxing as he answered her call.

It never even crossed his mind that I wasn’t talking because I physically couldn’t.

Back then, he would’ve noticed the moment something felt off—would’ve dropped everything to ask what was wrong.

Now? Even if I died right in front of him, I wasn’t sure he’d flinch.

Before he returned, I checked myself out of the hospital.

Back at the estate, I moved on instinct.

Seven years of memories with Lachlan—all of them packed into drawers, boxes, albums. I dragged them out one by one.

Photos of us laughing at the beach.

Ninety-nine love letters, all in his handwriting.

The journals I’d filled every single day we were married—tracking the highs, the lows, the quiet mornings where I thought we’d grow old together.

I stood by the fireplace and fed them in, page by page, memory by memory. Watched it all curl and blacken into ash.

I was tossing in the last journal when the front door slammed open.

“Chantelle!”

I turned, just as Lachlan walked in with Kirsten and the twins behind him.

His eyes landed on the fire—and what was burning inside.

“What are you doing?!”