Isabel's POV

The heavy white folder hit the bedside table with a sharp, echoing slap. "I cannot have a cripple wife," Gerald said, his voice flat and detached. "Sign these. I already sent money to your account."

I stared at the black ink printed across the front page: PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE.

The accident had taken my legs three weeks ago, leaving me trapped in these stiff hospital sheets, but his words hit harder than the shattered bone. A dry bitter laugh escaped my throat.

"A cripple wife?" I looked up, catching his cold gaze. "Is that what I am to you now, Gerald? Three weeks in a hospital bed and I become a burden you can just pay off?"

Gerald did not blink. He stood at the foot of my bed, hands jammed into his tailor-made trousers. "Be realistic, Isabel. Look at you. You cannot walk. I am a busy man, and I run a top company. I do not have the time or patience to play nurse to a woman who will spend the rest of her life in a wheelchair."

"I am working with the physical therapist every single day," I said, my chest heaving as anger beat down the tears. "The doctors said there is a chance. I just need time!"

"I do not have time," he snapped, stepping closer. "And frankly, I am tired of waiting. First, you failed to give me a child of my own after all these years. Now this? I have given you a comfortable life, Isabel. I shielded you from my family when they called you a low-class leech. I played the loving stepfather. I have done enough."

I swallowed hard, my eyes darting toward the corner of the room. Seven-year-old John sat frozen in a plastic chair, his little fingers clutching a broken race car. His shoulders were hunched, his chin tucked tight against his chest.

"Do not talk about John like he is a chore," I whispered, my voice trembling. "You promised him you would always be his dad. You gave him your name!"

Gerald turned his head slightly, giving John a cold, dismissive glance before looking back at me with utter contempt. "He is not my son, Isabel. You knew what this was when I married you. I took in another man's mistake because I thought you were worth the trouble. But let us not pretend he carries my blood." The word burned like acid. Another man's mistake.

My mind flashed back to the shame of my past. Years ago, my father needed an urgent, expensive surgery that I couldn't afford. My boss, Rose, offered to pay every single cent on one condition: I had to blindfold myself and take her place in a dark hotel room with a man I was never allowed to know. I did it to save my father's life, only to end up pregnant out of wedlock. When Rose's father found out, he fired me on the spot and threw me onto the street.

Years later, while working late night shifts as a poor bartender, I met Gerald. He was completely broken and drinking himself to death because his fiancée who happened to be my former boss, Rose, had dumped him to marry a rich man overseas. I helped clean Gerald up that night, tended to him, and got him a place to rest. From that day on, we got acquainted, fell in love, and married. He knew I had a child with a man I never met, but he swore it didn't matter. Now, looking at the ice in his eyes, the tragic irony crushed me.

"You sat in my bar completely helpless, crying over a woman who treated you like trash, and I picked you up," I said, my voice cutting through the quiet room. "I rebuilt you, Gerald. And now you walk in here and kick me while I cannot even stand on my own two feet?"

"That was years ago, Isabel!" Gerald barked, his eyes flashing with sudden anger. "You washed glasses for a living, and I gave you a status most women would kill for. Do not pretend you saved me. I paid that debt back tenfold by putting a roof over your head and giving your bastard a luxury life! But my pity has run out."

He pulled a heavy silver pen from his coat pocket and slammed it onto the folder.

"Sign the papers," Gerald demanded, his tone dropping back into that icy, heartless quiet. "The money in your account will cover your medical bills and a small place to live. If you fight this, my lawyers will drag you through the mud, and you will end up on the street with nothing. Spare yourself the humiliation."

I looked from the pen to my son, who was quietly wiping a tear from his cheek. I had no money, no working legs, and no strength left to battle a multi-millionaire in court.

My hands shook violently as I picked up the pen. I pressed the tip to the paper and signed my name... Isabel.

Gerald immediately snatched the folder off the table, zipping it into his briefcase with a harsh metal click. He adjusted his tie in the wall mirror, not bothering to check on my condition or offer a final word to the boy who had called him father for years.

Without a single glance back, Gerald turned on his heel, opened the heavy door, and stepped out into the bright hallway, leaving me paralyzed in my bed with my traumatized child.

Merciless rap of knuckles against the thin wood of our door made John jump in his seat. My heart skipped too, but I said, "Stay here, sweetie," I murmured, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Getting up off the edge of the mattress was a slow, agonizing process. My legs burned with a dull, throbbing ache as I forced my feet onto the cold linoleum floor. Months of grueling, soul-crushing physical therapy had finally brought me back to my feet, but walking was still a daily battle. I leaned heavily against the wall for support, taking small, cautious steps toward the entryway.

Our cramped, rented room smelled of damp plaster and cheap instant soup. Every meal we ate was a harsh, daily reminder of how far we had fallen since Gerald threw us away. The money he had dumped into my account was swallowed whole by hospital bills, therapy sessions, and a security deposit on this tiny box of an apartment.

The heavy knocking slammed against the door again, rattling the rusted brass lock.

"I am coming," I said, my breath catching in my throat as I finally unlocked the door and pulled it open.

A tall man in a cheap leather jacket stood in the dimly lit hallway. He had a thick neck, a faint scar running down his jaw line, and eyes that held zero warmth. Two hulking men stood right behind him, blocking the narrow corridor.

"Isabel?" the man asked, his voice low and raspy.

I gripped the edge of the door frame to keep my knees from buckling. "Yes. Who are you?"

He did not bother introducing himself. Instead, he reached into his jacket, pulled out a thick stack of folded papers, and slapped them flat against my chest.

"Your old man left behind a gift," he said with a cruel grin. "Three hundred thousand dollars. He took out the loan six months ago and used your name, your signature, and your ID as the guarantor."

My blood ran cold. The air left my lungs all at once. "What? No, that is impossible. My father died years ago, and I never signed anything for him!"

"Take a look at the second page, sweetheart," the man sneered, leaning in close enough for me to smell the stale tobacco on his breath. "Your name is right there on the line. And since the old bastard is six feet under, the debt falls straight onto your shoulders."

My hands trembled violently as I looked at the signature. It was my name, forged in a rough imitation of my handwriting. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

"I do not have this kind of money," I whispered, panic rising in my chest like a dark tide. "Look at this place! I just got out of a wheelchair. I am barely paying rent!"

"That is not my problem," he said flatly, his grin disappearing. "The boss wants his money. You have forty-eight hours to pay the full amount, or we take these papers to the police. Fraud, unpaid debts, breach of contract. You will be in a orange jumpsuit by the end of the week, and your little boy over there will go straight to a state foster home."

I looked back over my shoulder. John was peeking around the corner of the small kitchen wall, his large eyes wide with fear, clutching his little hands together. The thought of being dragged away from him, of leaving him at the mercy of the system, made my stomach turn completely upside down.

"Please," I begged, lowering my voice so John would not hear. "There has to be another way. I will work. I will pay you back in installments, whatever I can make!"

The man stared at me for a long, agonizing moment. Then, a dark, calculated look settled into his eyes. He reached into his pocket once more, but this time, he pulled out a folded gray fabric and a laminated blue badge.

"Actually, my boss is feeling generous today," he said, stepping closer and dropping the items into my hands. "There is one way to wipe the entire three hundred thousand dollar debt clean. No police, no jail, no taking your kid."

I looked down at the heavy gray shirt in my hands. Stitched in white thread across the chest pocket was the logo of a massive, multi-million dollar corporate empire.

VANE ENTERPRISES. Gerald's company. My hands went completely numb. "What is this?"

"You start on Monday," the collector whispered, leaning down until his lips were inches from my ear. "A night-shift cleaner on the main executive floor. You keep your head down, you scrub the floors, and you gather every document, drive, and financial record you can find from Gerald Vane's private office. You feed us the information, and your debt disappears."

My jaw tightened, horror washing over me. "You want me to spy on my ex-husband?"

"You either walk back into that building as a cleaner and spy for us," the man said, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp threat, "or you ride in the back of a police cruiser by Wednesday morning. Choice is yours, Isabel."

Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel and walked down the dark hallway, his heavy boots echoing off the concrete walls until the building went dead quiet again.

I stood in the doorway, my fingers clutching the rough cotton of the cleaning uniform. My legs shook, but deep inside my chest, the fear began to burn away, replaced by a cold, deadly fire.

I looked down at the blue badge bearing my name and the company logo. I was going back into Gerald's world, not as the wife he discarded, but as the ghost that would burn his entire empire to the ground.

The plastic clip bit into my thumb as I fastened the blue badge to my chest pocket: Isabel- Maintenance.

HR had not even looked up from their paperwork during my quick interview two days ago. To a sprawling corporate juggernaut like Vane Enterprises, custodial staff were invisible. A quick background check cleared, a short onboarding video watched, a plain gray uniform handed over—that was all it took to walk right into the lion's den.

I gripped the cold metal handle of my cleaning cart and pushed it into the high-gloss corridor of the executive floor.

The smell of polished marble, expensive leather, and imported coffee hit me like a physical blow. Just a few months ago, I was his wife. Now, wearing an oversized uniform that hung off my thin frame, I kept my eyes fixed on the floor, my rubber-soled shoes squeaking softly against the tile.

A sudden chorus of sharp heels and heavy dress shoes echoed down the main hallway.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a wild animal trying to escape. I pulled my cart to the side of the hall, squeezed myself against the wall, and ducked my chin.

Gerald walked out of the elevator. He looked pristine in a dark charcoal suit, his hair neatly styled, his posture commanding total authority. He stopped right in front of my cleaning cart, his cold eyes sweeping over my uniform before landing on my face.

A faint, arrogant smirk touched his lips. "Oh, so you are the new cleaning staff?" Gerald said, his voice dripping with smooth condescension. "You came all the way here just to show me you can walk now?"

An ache squeezed my chest, but I kept my back straight, refusing to look down. "I am here to earn an honest living, Gerald," I said, my voice steady and quiet.

Gerald let out a soft, amused breath and adjusted his watch. "You should really get over me, Isabel. I thought you saw the news. Rose and I are married. A real marriage this time."

Hearing it out loud hit like a physical punch to my gut. Just one year. It had only been twelve months since he left me paralyzed in a hospital bed, and he had already put a ring on the finger of the woman who ruined my life. The betrayal burned through my veins, hot and bitter.

"I do not care who you marry, Gerald," I replied assertively, locking eyes with him without flinching. "Your personal life means nothing to me. I am here to do my job, so please get out of my way."

Gerald’s smile vanished, his jaw tightening at my lack of tears.

"Everything needs to be flawless, Gerald darling," a purring voice called out from behind him. Rose stepped into view, her arm looping intimately through Gerald's. She wore a tailored white dress that screamed money, her golden hair resting perfectly over her shoulders.

She stopped dead in her tracks, her sharp hazel eyes narrowing into tiny slits as recognition flashed across her face, followed by an ugly spike of malicious insecurity.

Rose had spent months trying to win Gerald back after her foreign marriage fell apart, only to throw a massive fit when she found out Gerald had married me—the pathetic maid she had once used and thrown away. Where did a nobody like me get the balls to step into her shoes? It had taken Rose months of sweet-talking, begging, and waiting for my tragic accident to finally claw her way back onto Gerald's arm. Seeing me standing here on my own two feet made her skin crawl with hatred.

"Gerald, go ahead to the office," Rose said softly, her voice tight. "I need to give the cleaning staff a quick instruction."

Gerald scoffed lightly, throwing me one last dismissive look. "Do not be long. We have a meeting with the investors," he said, stepping into his corner office without looking back.

The moment his door clicked shut, Rose dropped her sweet smile. She took two slow steps toward me, her red-painted lips curling into a vicious sneer.

"Well, well," Rose whispered, her voice dripping with poison. "Look what the tide pulled in. The little maid comes crawling right back where she belongs."

"I am just doing my job," I said, holding my ground.

"Your job?" Rose let out a sharp, nasty laugh. "You had the absolute nerve to marry my man, Isabel. You actually thought you could play high-society wife with my ex-fiancé just because I left for a little while? You have no idea how hard I had to work to get Gerald to look at me again after he married a piece of trash like you."

She stepped closer, her expensive perfume choking me. "You stole my place for years," Rose sneered, her eyes flashing with pure malice. "And now you are back under my shoe. I am going to make sure you regret the day you ever let Gerald put a ring on your finger."

For the next four hours, Rose made sure my first day was living hell. She ordered me to scrub the floor of the main boardroom on my hands and knees—a floor that was already spotless—watching from the doorway with a satisfied smile as I dragged my healing, aching legs across the hard ground. When my shift was supposed to end, she assigned me three extra floors of grueling overtime, ensuring my body throbbed with agony by the time the sun began to set.

By seven in the evening, the executive floor was packed for the company's private investor cocktail event. Men in tuxedos and women in shimmering evening gowns milled around, sipping champagne under the crystal chandeliers.

I stood near the edge of the room with my mop and bucket, my knees trembling from exhaustion as I waited to be dismissed so I could go home to John.

"Cleaner! Over here!"

Rose's voice sliced through the low chatter of the room. She stood near the center of the floor, surrounded by a circle of wealthy investors. Gerald stood right beside her, a glass of scotch held loosely in his hand.

I swallowed hard and pushed my heavy bucket into the middle of the crowd. Every eye turned toward me.

"Yes, ma'am?" I asked, keeping my head low.

"You missed a spot," Rose said sweetly.

Before I could answer, Rose tilted her crystal glass and deliberately poured dark red wine straight onto the gleaming white marble floor, letting it splash heavily over the toes of my plain sneakers.

The room fell into an awkward, dead silence.

"Clean it up," Rose commanded, her voice ringing out clearly for everyone to hear. "Get on your knees and wipe it off my floor."

Humiliation burned hot against my cheeks. I slowly raised my eyes, locking gaze with Gerald, who stood only two feet away. He stared down at me with cold, indifferent eyes, taking a calm sip of his drink and saying absolutely nothing as his new wife degraded me in front of the entire elite world.