One billion dollars. That was the value of the contract I had just secured for my husband’s Paul company.

I stood on the stage of the grand ballroom. I looked down at Paul, my husband of five years, expecting to see pride, but his expression was unreadable. Yet, I continued with my speech.

"Thank you everyone," I said, my voice echoing through the hall. "This deal isn't just for the company. It's for the future of our family." I placed a hand on my stomach, a smile breaking across my face. "Paul and I... we are expecting."

Paul didn't smile. He didn't rush the stage to embrace me just like I imagined. Instead, he signaled the AV technician. The massive screen behind me, which had been displaying the company logo, flickered.

"Expecting?" Paul’s voice boomed from the floor, cold and sharp as a blade. "Expecting whose child, Olivia?"

My smile faltered. "What?"

"You secured the deal, didn't you?" Paul sneered, stepping into the light. "We all wondered how you managed to pull a billion-dollar contract out of thin air when the company was drowning. Now we know."

The screen behind me changed.

It wasn't a spreadsheet. It was a video. Grainy, night-vision footage. It showed a woman who looked exactly like me entering a hotel room. A man followed—the CEO of the rival firm I had just signed with. The door closed. The time stamp showed 2:00 AM.

"Paul," I whispered, the microphone picking up my ragged breath. "That’s not... that’s not me."

"Don't lie to me!" he roared, hurling his glass against the stage. It shattered, shards of crystal skittering across the floor. "You sold yourself for this deal. You slept your way to the top, and now you try to pass off a bastard child as mine?"

"No!" I screamed, looking at the faces in the crowd. Disgust. Pity. Judgment. "It’s a lie! I never went to that hotel! Paul, please!"

"You are a whore, Olivia," he spat, turning his back on me. "Get her out of here. She’s polluting the air."

Security guards rushed the stage. They grabbed my arms, their grip bruising.

"Paul!" I shrieked, fighting them. "I’m pregnant with your son! Listen to me!"

He didn't look back.

The humiliation crashed over me like a tidal wave. The flashing cameras, the whispers, the sheer cruelty of the man I loved. The room spun. The lights blurred into streaks of white.

My knees gave out. Darkness swallowed me whole.

I woke up to the smell of antiseptic and expensive cologne.

I wasn't in a hospital. I was in our master bedroom. My head throbbed, a dull rhythm against my skull. I tried to sit up, but my body felt heavy, leaden with exhaustion.

Voices drifted through the slightly ajar door connecting to Paul’s study.

"You are so great with that edit, baby," a woman’s voice purred. "The deepfake was seamless. Even I believed she was screwing him."

Jennie. Paul’s secretary.

My heart stopped. I held my breath, ignoring the nausea rolling in my stomach.

"It had to be convincing," Paul’s voice replied. He sounded relaxed. Triumphant. "Olivia is smart. If I just accused her, she’d fight back. But public humiliation? Shame? That breaks a person."

"So, does this mean you are finally going to divorce her?" Jennie asked. I heard the rustle of fabric, the sound of her sitting on his lap. "And marry me?"

"Not yet," Paul said.

I froze.

"Why not?" Jennie whined. "You humiliated her. You destroyed her reputation. What else is there?"

"She still holds forty percent of the shares," Paul explained, his voice dropping to a cold, calculating tone. "If I divorce her now, she takes half my empire. I need to use her a little longer. I need to break her spirit completely. I need her to believe she is nothing without me so she signs over the assets willingly."

"You’re wicked," Jennie giggled.

"I’m a businessman," Paul corrected. "She was just a stepping stone."

Tears pricked my eyes, hot and angry. I wasn't a wife to him. I was an asset. A stepping stone. And he had just destroyed my life for leverage.

I didn't scream. I didn't burst into the room. The shock had burned away, leaving only a cold, hard clarity.

I reached for my phone on the nightstand. My hands were shaking, but I forced them to be steady. I dialed the number for Arthur Blackwood, my personal attorney.

He answered on the first ring.

"Ms. Olivia," he said.

"Arthur," I whispered, keeping my eyes on the door. "I need you to file a lawsuit immediately. Against Paul. Defamation, libel, emotional distress. I want a restraining order."

I waited for his outrage. I waited for him to tell me he would destroy Paul for me.

Silence stretched on the line.

"Arthur?" I hissed. "Did you hear me?"

"I’m sorry, Ms. Olivia," Arthur said, his voice devoid of emotion. "I cannot do that."

"What do you mean you can’t?" I gripped the phone tighter. "I pay you. You work for me."

"Actually," Arthur said, "as of this morning, your accounts have been frozen pending an investigation into corporate fraud and embezzlement. Your husband has power of attorney over your assets due to your... medical instability."

"My what?" I gasped.

"Paul ordered it," Arthur said flatly. "I only obey your husband’s orders now. You don't have the funds to hire me, Ms. Olivia. In fact, as of this moment, you don't have any power... in everything."

I walked down the stairs, the smell of burnt bacon assaulting my senses. My head still throbbed from the stress, but the silence in the house was worse. It was too quiet. Too controlled.

I pushed open the kitchen door and froze.

Jennie was standing at my stove. She was wearing one of Paul’s oversized dress shirts, her hair messy in a way that suggested she hadn’t just woken up in the guest room. She was humming, flipping eggs in my pan.

She turned, spotting me. A bright, sickeningly sweet smile plastered onto her face.

"Good morning!" she chirped, waving the spatula. "Are you okay, Miss Olivia? You took quite a tumble yesterday. I made breakfast."

My stomach turned. The audacity was suffocating.

"What are you doing here?" I demanded, my voice raspy but cold. I gripped the doorframe to steady myself. "I don't want you in my house. Get out."

Jennie’s smile didn't falter. She just tilted her head, looking at me like I was a petulant child.

"Paul asked me to stay," she said innocently.

"I don't care what Paul asked," I snapped. "This is my home. Get out."

"What is happening here?"

Paul’s voice boomed from the hallway. He walked in, buttoning his cuffs, looking fresh and unbothered. He didn't even look at me. He walked straight to Jennie.

"She’s trying to kick me out, Paul," Jennie pouted, leaning into him. "I was just trying to be nice. I made eggs."

Paul finally looked at me. His eyes were hard, void of any warmth.

"She stays," he said simply.

"Excuse me?" I let out a sharp, disbelief-filled laugh. "You want your mistress living in our house? Are you insane?"

"She is not just my mistress," Paul said, grabbing an apple from the bowl. "She is my assistant. And from now on, she will be your companion."

"My companion?" I repeated, the word tasting like bile.

"To make sure you don't embarrass me again," Paul said, taking a bite of the apple. "To make sure you don't go running off to hotels with clients. You clearly can't be trusted on your own, Olivia. Jennie will watch you."

I stared at him. He was serious. He was going to keep me prisoner in my own home, guarded by the woman he was sleeping with.

"You have to be kidding me," I scoffed. "I’m not a child, Paul. And I didn't sleep with anyone. You know that video was fake."

"I know what I saw," he said dismissively.

"Fine," I said, straightening my spine. "If I’m such a whore, if I’m such an embarrassment to the great Paul, then divorce me. Let me go."

The room went silent. Jennie stopped cooking. Paul stopped chewing.

He swallowed slowly, then laughed. It was a dark, mocking sound.

"Divorce you?" he sneered, stepping closer. "And let you take half my company? Let you run off into the sunset? No."

He stopped inches from my face, his breath smelling of mint and cruelty.

"You aren't going anywhere, Olivia. You are my wife. You belong to me. Besides, where would you go? I froze your accounts. I ruined your reputation. You have nothing without me."

"I have my dignity," I spat. "And I have options. Maybe I’ll go find those men you think I fucked. Maybe they’ll treat me better than you do."

Paul’s face twisted. The mask of indifference cracked. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh.

"You will not," he growled. "You are my wife. You will act like one."

He shoved me back, his mood shifting instantly from rage to a terrifying, patronizing calm.

"Look, we can fix this," he said, smoothing his tie. "I can forgive you, Olivia. I’m a generous man. Just follow my rules. Do what I say. Stay here with Jennie, keep your mouth shut, and we can be a happy family. I’m willing to overlook your... indiscretions."

I looked at him—really looked at him. He was delusional. He had framed me, and now he was offering me "forgiveness" for a crime I didn't commit, just to keep me under his control.

I didn't argue. I didn't scream. I just rolled my eyes.

"You're pathetic," I muttered.

I turned on my heel and walked toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Paul barked.

I didn't stop. "To the clinic."

"What clinic?"

I paused at the doorway, looking back over my shoulder. "To get an abortion. I’m not bringing a child into this hell."

"No!"

Paul moved faster than I thought possible. He crossed the kitchen in two strides and slammed the door shut, blocking my exit.

"You will not touch that child," he hissed, his face red.

"Why do you care?" I asked, tilting my head. "You said it wasn't yours. You announced to the world that it was a bastard. Why would you want another man's baby?"

Paul faltered for a second. His eyes darted to Jennie, then back to me. He shrugged, regaining his composure.

"Grandpa wants an heir," he said coldly. "He’s dying. He won't sign over the rest of the estate until he sees a great-grandchild. I don't care whose blood is in it. I just need the baby."

"You're a monster," I whispered. "You're going to use an innocent child for money?"

"I'm using everything for money, Olivia," he said. "Including you."

He grabbed my shoulders and spun me around, marching me out of the kitchen and toward the basement stairs.

"You aren't going to the clinic," he said. "You aren't going anywhere."

"Paul, stop!" I struggled, but he was too strong.

He shoved me into the guest room—the one with the heavy oak door and no windows. I stumbled, catching myself on the bedframe.

"Stay here," he ordered. "Jennie will bring you food. But you don't leave this room until that baby is born."

"You can't do this!" I screamed, rushing the door.

He slammed it in my face. I heard the distinct click of the deadbolt sliding home.

"Paul!" I pounded on the wood. "Paul, let me out!"

"Rest up, honey," his voice came through the door, muffled but clear. "You're eating for two now."

I heard his footsteps fade away, followed by Jennie’s giggle.

I slid down the door until I hit the floor, the silence of the room swallowing my scream. I was trapped.

Paul had dragged me out of my room, shoved me into a gown that was too tight, and paraded me into the ballroom like a trophy he had magnanimously decided not to break.

"Smile, Olivia," he hissed, his fingers digging into my waist as we walked through the crowd. "Remember, you're the repentant wife. You're lucky I even brought you."

I forced the corners of my mouth up. My face felt like plastic.

"Oh, look who it is," a voice drawled. Mrs. Vanderwaal, one of the board members' wives, approached us with a glass of champagne. "I'm surprised you showed your face, dear. After... everything."

"She's trying, aren't you, darling?" Paul said smoothly, squeezing my arm. "We're working through it. It's been hard on everyone, especially me, but family comes first."

"You are a saint, Paul," Mrs. Vanderwaal gushed, placing a hand on his arm. "Truly. Most men would have thrown her out on the street. To take back a woman who... well, who did that for a contract? It shows such strength of character."

I felt the blood drain from my face. They all believed it. Every single person in this room thought I was a whore who had cheated on her husband for money.

"It wasn't just for the contract," another woman chimed in, leaning close. "I heard she was... unstable. Maybe it's post-partum depression early? Or just plain greed."

"Now, now," Paul said, his voice dripping with fake sympathy. "Let's not be too harsh. Olivia has been... confused. She's in therapy now. We're hoping she can be rehabilitated. Maybe it was my fault for pushing her too hard."

He looked at me, his eyes daring me to speak. Daring me to scream the truth.

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. I looked at the floor.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, the words tasting like ash. "I'm working on myself. Paul has been... very patient."

"See?" Paul beamed, patting my hand. "She's learning."

The women cooed over his forgiveness, ignoring me completely. I was a prop in his play of martyrdom.

"Go get yourself a drink, darling," Paul said, dismissing me with a wave. "Stay where I can see you. And don't talk to any men."

I nodded, keeping my head down, and walked away. The whispers followed me like a swarm of bees. Whore. Gold-digger. Lucky he kept her.

I needed air. I needed to scream.

I slipped through the crowd, avoiding eye contact, and found the service elevator. I pressed the button for the roof.

The night air hit me like a physical blow, cold and sharp. The city lights twinkled below, indifferent to my misery. I walked to the edge, gripping the railing until my knuckles turned white.

I was trapped. Paul had won. He had destroyed my reputation, stolen my voice, and locked me in a cage of his own making.

"Rough night?"

I jumped, spinning around.

A man was leaning against the ventilation unit, a cigarette glowing in the dark. He was tall, dressed in a black suit that cost more than my car, his features sharp and shadowed.

I knew him. Everyone knew him.

Ysmael Hale.

Paul’s cousin. His rival. The man who had been ousted from the family company years ago and built his own empire out of spite. The man who had once, a lifetime ago, asked me to dance at my own engagement party and told me I was making a mistake.

"Ysmael," I breathed.

He took a drag of his cigarette, the ember illuminating his dark eyes. He didn't look at me with pity or disgust. He looked at me with... curiosity.

"I heard the rumors," he said, his voice low and smooth. "Whore of York City, apparently. Though you don't look like you're enjoying the title."

"I didn't do it," I said automatically. Then I stopped. Why was I defending myself to him? He was nothing now. He was the enemy.

"I know," Ysmael said simply.

I blinked. "What?"

"I know Paul," he said, flicking ash onto the concrete. "He's not smart enough to catch a cheater. But he is petty enough to frame one. And you..." He looked me up and down. "You look like you're about to jump."

"I'm not going to jump," I said, though the thought had crossed my mind. "I'm just... thinking."

"Thinking about what?"

"About how to kill him," I muttered.

Ysmael laughed. It was a genuine sound, rich and dark. He pushed off the wall and walked toward me, stopping a few feet away.

"Murder is messy," he said. "And prison orange wouldn't suit you."

"I have nothing left," I said, my voice cracking. "He took my money. He took my reputation. He's keeping me prisoner in my own house. I have no power."

"Power is a funny thing," Ysmael mused. "It shifts. You just need a lever."

I looked at him. Really looked at him. He was powerful. Feared. And he hated Paul almost as much as I did.

An idea formed in my mind. It was reckless. Insane. But I had nothing to lose.

I took a step closer to him.

"Are you married?" I asked.

Ysmael raised an eyebrow. "No."

"Are you seeing anyone?"

"No."

"Good," I said, my heart pounding against my ribs. "How about marrying me?"

Silence stretched between us, heavy and charged. The wind whipped my hair around my face.

"Marry you?" Ysmael repeated, a slow smile spreading across his face. "You're Paul's wife."

“Well, ex-wife if you help me.”