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.”

I walked through the glass doors, my head held high despite the whispers that started the moment I stepped into the lobby.

"Whore," someone muttered near the reception desk.

"Gold digger," another voice hissed from the elevator bank.

I ignored them. I kept my eyes fixed on the elevator doors, my hand clutching my briefcase. I had a job to do.

When I reached the executive floor, my office—the corner suite with the panoramic view—was gone. My nameplate had been removed. Jennie was sitting at my desk, her feet propped up, sipping a latte.

"Oh, look who's back," she smirked, not bothering to get up. "Paul said you're in the supply closet now. Down the hall."

I didn't argue. I didn't scream. I just nodded.

"Thank you, Jennie," I said calmly.

I walked to the small, windowless room at the end of the corridor. It smelled of toner and stale coffee. A single desk was crammed between boxes of paper.

Perfect. No one would bother looking in here.

I sat down and opened my laptop. Paul thought he had stripped me of my power. He thought I was just a disgraced wife trying to earn her keep. But he had forgotten one thing: I built this company with him. I knew every password, every loophole, every hidden account.

For the next six hours, I worked in silence.

I accessed the encrypted server. I downloaded the client list. I copied the offshore account details. I found the hidden contracts that proved Paul was embezzling from the pension fund.

Click. Send.

Every file went straight to Ysmael’s secure server. Every asset, every secret, every weakness. I was dismantling Paul’s empire from the inside out, one email at a time.

Around 4 PM, I needed to get Paul’s physical signature on a transfer document to finalize the "merger" he thought I was working on. I walked down the hall to his office.

The door was slightly ajar.

"Mmm, Paul..."

I froze.

Through the crack, I saw them. Jennie was bent over his desk, her skirt hiked up. Paul was behind her, his hands gripping her hips, his face buried in her neck.

"You like that?" he groaned. "Better than my useless wife?"

"So much better," Jennie moaned. "When are you going to kick her out?"

"Soon," Paul promised, biting her shoulder. "Once I get the last of her shares. Just play along a little longer."

I pulled out my phone. My hand was steady. I recorded ten seconds of video—enough to prove adultery in any court, enough to destroy his "devoted husband" act.

I saved the file and backed away silently.

I returned to my closet office and sent the video to Ysmael.

Evidence secured, I typed.

His reply came instantly. Good girl.

That evening, Paul insisted we visit his grandfather at the family estate.

"He wants to see you," Paul said in the car, checking his reflection in the rearview mirror. "He's heard the rumors. You need to be humble, Olivia. Apologize. Grovel if you have to. He controls the trust."

We walked into the grand library. The old man, Alistair, sat in a leather armchair, looking frail but fierce.

"Grandfather," Paul said, bowing slightly. "I brought Olivia."

Alistair’s eyes snapped to me. They were cold, filled with disgust.

"So," he rasped. "The whore returns."

I flinched. "Grandfather, I—"

Slap.

His hand connected with my cheek, hard and fast. My head snapped to the side. The sound echoed in the silent room.

"Don't you dare speak to me!" Alistair roared, shaking with rage. "You disgrace this family! You spread your legs for a contract like a common streetwalker! And now you carry a bastard child?"

I touched my stinging cheek, tears springing to my eyes.

"Grandfather, please," Paul interjected, stepping between us. He put a protective arm around me, his voice soothing. "Don't hit her. She's pregnant. She made a mistake, yes, but she's trying to fix it. She's in therapy. I've forgiven her."

"You are too soft, boy!" Alistair spat. "She should be thrown out on the street!"

"She is my wife," Paul said firmly, squeezing my shoulder. "And she carries the next heir. Even if the paternity is... questionable, the child will be raised as ours. For the sake of the family."

"I'm sorry," I whispered, looking at the floor. "I'm so sorry, Grandfather. I'll do better. I promise."

"Get out of my sight," Alistair growled.

Paul led me out, his arm still around me. As soon as the library doors closed, he shoved me away.

"You see?" he hissed. "You see what I have to deal with because of you? You're lucky I defend you."

"Thank you, Paul," I said meekly. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

He smirked, adjusting his cuffs. "Exactly. Now go wait in the car."

For the next three days, I played the part perfectly.

I cooked his dinner. I ironed his shirts. I sat silently while he berated me over breakfast. I went to my closet office and worked diligently, sending more and more data to Ysmael.

I was the perfect, broken, obedient wife.

Paul relaxed. He stopped locking my door at night. He started leaving his phone unlocked on the counter. He thought he had won.

On the fourth morning, I was pouring his coffee when my phone buzzed in my pocket.

I checked it under the table.

It was a message from Ysmael.

It's done. The papers are filed. The assets are transferred. You are legally divorced as of 9 AM this morning. The judge signed the emergency order based on the abuse and adultery evidence.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

A second message popped up.

Prepare. Let's get married, so you can leave that damn bastard.