[If you don't call me back this instant, you'll never see me again.]

A process server delivered the divorce papers to his high-rise office while he was in the middle of a board meeting.

I blocked his number, leased a loft apartment downtown, and began assembling my architectural portfolio. After we married, Wesley had convinced me to abandon a promising career path right after Yale to be a full-time housewife, always at his beck and call, a supporting character in his endless psychodramas.

He’d sworn he loved me so deeply that he had to keep testing that love, reaffirming it with each cruel scenario. He insisted the cold, selfish men he played weren't the real him—it was just an act.

Looking back, I realized the cold, selfish, cruel man he portrayed was never a role. That was the real him.

Wesley was incandescent with rage after being served. He somehow got my new address from the building manager and cornered me in the lobby.

"Are you insane? You actually had me served with divorce papers at my company?" he snarled, his handsome face contorted with fury.

I strode toward the entrance. “You're the one who ended it. I'm just making it official.”

“Make it official? Nothing is official until I say it is! I decide when the game ends!”

“You said the words, Wesley. It’s time you learned to live with them.” I added calmly, “I wish you all the success you were looking for,” then turned and walked into the building, leaving him fuming on the sidewalk.

With my qualifications, I quickly landed a job as a project assistant at a prestigious architectural firm. The pay was decent—enough to cover my rent and living expenses.

The interview went smoothly, and my start date was the following Monday.

But that night, I discovered all our joint credit cards had been frozen.

Over the phone, his voice was pure venom. “So you’re really determined to see this little rebellion through?”

“This isn’t a rebellion,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady.

He let out a short, cruel laugh. “I’m just helping you become ‘independent,’ Sloane. Isn’t that what you wanted? To prove you could make it on your own?”

“Unfreeze the cards, Wesley!” I shouted.

“Don’t you dare challenge me,” he shot back.

True to his word, Wesley’s retaliation was swift and brutal.

On my first day at the new firm, I had barely finished orientation when a senior partner called me into his office.

He looked deeply uncomfortable. "Sloane, I have no doubt about your abilities, but we've received some… troubling feedback."

"What kind of feedback?" My stomach plummeted.

"A Mr. Wesley Harrington contacted us," he said, choosing his words carefully. "He implied that you are… mentally unstable at present and are entangled in some complicated financial disputes."

He painted me as an emotionally volatile madwoman, claiming I was trying to extort a fortune from him in the divorce. It was a lie, crafted to destroy my career and leave me with nothing. It was Wesley’s handiwork.

The partner’s expression was grave. “I want to believe you, Sloane, but this could affect the firm’s reputation. Perhaps it’s best if you… take a leave of absence for now.”

It was a polite firing. As if on cue, my phone rang.

Wesley’s triumphant voice crackled over the line. "See? I told you you’d regret this."

"You're despicable," I snarled.

"I gave you a chance," he chuckled. "One last chance. Come home, get on your knees and beg, and maybe I’ll find it in my heart to forgive you."

"In your dreams," I seethed, and hung up.

There was no world in which I would ever beg him for anything.

I walked for hours in Seattle’s cold autumn rain, soaked to the bone, before finally stumbling back to my apartment building.

As I stepped into the hallway, an unfamiliar, aggressive perfume assaulted my senses.

Cassidy was leaning against my door, striking a victorious pose with a smirk on her lips.

"What are you doing here?" I asked icily.

"I came to see how the poor, abandoned wife is holding up," she mocked.

She ran her eyes over my drenched, pathetic state and laughed. "You look dreadful. Lost your job already, didn't you? Wesley said he’d make sure you couldn't survive in Seattle—that he'd make you crawl back to him."

"He can wait," I said, pushing past her to unlock my door.

“Still trying to sound tough, are we?” She sauntered in behind me, her gaze sweeping across the small apartment before landing on the unfinished oil portrait of me my mother had been painting.

She strolled over to the easel and picked up a glass of red wine from the table beside it. "Your mother would be so disappointed to see you like this."

"Don't touch that," I warned, my voice low.