Claire had made a show of sincerity by hiring a weekly housekeeper. But a paid stranger wouldn't hand-wash intimate apparel or obsessively rearrange and color-code an entire wardrobe.

Standing before the master bedroom closet, I stared at the unnatural orderliness. A cold knot tightened in my stomach. Every neatly folded shirt, every aligned hanger screamed that this house had acquired a new male master.

Then I saw it.

A new addition to the photo wall. Claire holding the child, leaning into Colin's arm. She was smiling gently—a soft, domestic look I rarely saw anymore.

It had been taken on Claire's birthday. Colin had shown up in a crisp white shirt, holding a small homemade cake. He'd smiled shyly, asking for a picture to "share in the birthday girl's luck." I hadn't thought twice before snapping it for them.

I never imagined he'd print it out and hang it in our master bedroom.

A silent, brazen provocation.

Voices drifted in from the living room.

"He was at fault first," Claire said, defensive. "You were just being kind. If he doesn't appreciate it, that's his problem. Why apologize?"

A pause—likely listening to Colin—then: "Ruby is young and talented. Smooth sailing her whole life, never suffered real hardships, so she has a temper. I don't want you two fighting because of me. I'll apologize to her first. You soften your attitude, and we'll consider it closed."

Her voice lowered, but the walls were thin.

"I just don't want you suffering," she murmured. "He doesn't know what's good for him…"

Through the crack in the door, I saw Colin place a hand over her lips. His eyes held a cloying, sticky affection that made bile rise in my throat.

"Hush," he said softly. "I know how hard it is for you. I can handle a little unfairness. It's nothing."

That was it.

The last shreds of hope disintegrated. I closed my eyes, letting the anger burn away my remaining hesitation.

When I opened them, I was calm. I walked out.

They sprang apart in panic, but I didn't care. I looked at my wife expressionlessly.

"Claire. I can't live with you anymore."

I didn't blink. "Pick a day. Let's get a divorce."

Claire froze. She stared at me, then took a deep breath and turned to the man beside her. "Colin, you can't fix this. Go home."

To my disbelief, tears instantly welled in his eyes. He stepped toward me, pitiful.

"Ruby, don't say that," he pleaded, trembling. "Divorce is such a heavy word. It brings bad luck to say it so casually."

He pressed a hand to his chest. "I came to apologize. I overstepped. I thought because we were friends, I could help out, but I had no boundaries. It's all my fault. A thousand times, my fault."

He sniffled, wiping his eyes. "From now on, I'll keep my distance. Just me and my son, alone. I'm used to it. But please, don't divorce Claire because of me. She's such a good woman…"

He broke into theatrical sobs, shoulders shaking.

Claire's expression hardened. She looked at his weeping form, hands clenching into fists. When she turned back to me, her eyes were cold.

"Ruby, Colin has humiliated himself enough. I don't want to fight with you."

She stepped closer, voice dropping to steel. "You know this. A divorce right now would destroy your career. Don't bring it up again. I'll pretend I never heard it."

My jaw tightened.

We'd joined the same conglomerate before our marriage. Different departments, but when the company promoted a new Vice President, we were the final two candidates.

Back then, to help my parents accept her faster, I'd withdrawn my candidacy.

I handed her the victory.

Claire Vance had won. No suspense there.

She claimed gratitude for my contributions, using her shiny new VP title to "escort and protect" my team.

In reality, my team had provided the ink for every stroke of brilliance on her resume.

Only I knew the truth: I never needed her protection. I'd played the supporting role solely to feed her fragile ego.

And now she was weaponizing that concession against me?

Ridiculous.

I didn't bother arguing. I gave her one cold look, turned, and walked into the bedroom to grab my suitcase.

Claire frowned, composure slipping. "Where are you going?"

I ignored her and walked out.

In the corridor, a small figure was curled in the corner. When the child saw me, his eyes lit up—then panic replaced the gloom.

"Auntie Ruby... Daddy! Mommy!"

My footsteps froze. I turned slowly to face the two people behind me.

Claire went rigid. Beside her, Colin flushed a deep, guilty crimson.

"Silly Joseph, this is Auntie Claire." Colin grabbed the boy, pulling him behind his legs like a shield. His voice dripped with practiced helplessness. "Ruby, listen. It was just one time. Claire and I took him to the amusement park, and I casually mentioned Auntie Claire would protect him like a mom. I didn't expect him to take it literally..."

As he finished his frantic explanation, he glanced at Claire. His eyes didn't hold apology—they rippled with lingering, sickening intimacy.

The scene before me was clearly a tacit family of three.

When they'd visited the amusement park no longer mattered. The betrayal was already woven into the child's vocabulary.

I looked at Claire. She opened her mouth, then closed it, hesitation written across her face.

I raised my left hand.

She could have blocked it. She saw it coming. Yet she let it fall.

Smack.

The sharp sound echoed through the hallway, punctuated by Colin's startled gasp and Joseph's frightened shriek.

I quietly admired the result. The red handprint on her left cheek now perfectly matched the one on her right.

"So you've already become a mother, Director Vance." My voice was dangerously calm. "Deeply devoted. Congratulations."

I smoothed my cuffs. "On the day of your wedding banquet, send me an invitation. I'll use my own appointment letter—the one with my name on it—as your wedding gift."

The words landed, and Claire's lowered eyes snapped up. Guilt vanished, replaced by defensive arrogance.

"You want to take over my position?" She scoffed. "You still don't have the ability."

"Whether I do or not," I replied, meeting her gaze, "you know better than anyone."

I didn't wait for a response. I turned toward the elevator.

Behind me, her voice cracked into a hoarse, angry roar.

"Ruby Stephens, don't you dare!"

What is there that I don't dare do?

Years ago, Claire said she wanted to get married. I married her without hesitation.

I was born into an affluent family in a prosperous district. She was a scrapper—a child who'd fought with every ounce of strength to escape the deep mountains of her youth.

That year, she had no house, no car, and a dowry of barely two thousand dollars.

People joked that even my enemies felt sorry for me, watching a high-flying executive settle for so little.

But I knew the truth. When it came to ambition, Claire Vance was my equal.

In just one year, I helped her rise, turning the pity in my enemies' eyes back into red-hot jealousy.

No one understood that I never placed a bet without preparation. I never lacked for the things I wanted. And what I was willing to sacrifice, I had the power to reclaim.

I watched the elevator doors slide shut, cutting off Claire's twisted expression.

I knew it, and she knew it too.

I took a taxi straight back to my parents' estate.

When I lay down in a bedroom larger than the entire living room of our marital apartment, I finally exhaled, tension draining from my shoulders.

In truth, I'd never gotten used to that cramped apartment. It wasn't just the size—the walls were paper-thin, leaking city noise. Central location, but suffocating.

When Claire had insisted on buying it, my mother objected first.

I'd comforted her then, saying the road ahead was long and I wouldn't let my potential go to waste.

I'd always been confident. I believed that in life, as in business, effort guaranteed return on investment.

But Mother, known for her decisiveness, had simply sighed.

"Marriage does not follow reason, Ruby. It is not the same as work."

At the time, arrogant and high-spirited, I hadn't understood.

Now I finally did.

In the cold, transactional reality of adulthood, heartbreak was worthless currency. Grievances didn't pay bills. Emotional wounds didn't convert into bonuses. They weren't even lessons worth savoring—just waste.

I stared at the ceiling until the intricate relief patterns blurred into gray haze. When I finally wiped my eyes, my hand came away slick with tears.

Even the most rational person could be reduced to a fool by love.

That night, I didn't wallow. I called a lawyer.

The next morning, I marched into Claire's office and slapped the divorce agreement onto her desk.

"If the terms are acceptable, sign it." My voice was flat. "I want this finalized by afternoon."

Claire looked haggard—dark circles bruising her eyes, a testament to a sleepless night. She didn't even read the document. Just glared at me, defensive and bitter.

"Ruby, don't you think being married to you is exhausting?" she snapped. "You demand perfection in everything. Always have to be the strong one, the one who never loses. I admitted my mistake, didn't I? But you had to take it out on me and Colin. Hit us both. On what grounds do you get to demand a divorce and expect me to just sign?"

She finds me exhausting now.

The irony was bitter. Years ago, she'd looked at me with adoration, called me a "blue snowflake"—a perfect fusion of ice and fire, a confident chaser of light.

When you're in love, quirks are treasures. When love fades, they become scars.

I opened my mouth to retort, but a sharp knock cut me off.

Claire's assistant pushed the door open, eyes darting between us with a skittish expression.

"What?" Claire barked.

"Director Vance... you need to check your email. Immediately."

Beyond the glass walls, the usual hum of the workspace had spiked into clamor, then died into suffocating silence.

A cold premonition settled in my gut. I pulled out my phone.

There it was. An anonymous company-wide email.

The target was me.

A sprawling, melodramatic diatribe that twisted my entire career into a narrative of manipulation—claiming my achievements were nothing more than milestones in a quest for fame, fueled by nepotism.

Whispers drifted through the crack in the door.

"So Ruby's actually married to Director Vance? Don't we have a policy against undisclosed office romances?"

"Read the email—it says Claire was forced. Think about Ruby's attitude lately. She's a tyrant. No wonder her department's performance beats ours; she's been bullying her way to the top with her wife's backing."

"Exactly. Leadership always tells us to learn from her. I can't learn those kinds of dirty tactics."

Every mocking word struck like a lash.

Claire's face had drained of color. "Ruby, I didn't do this."

"I know."

I knew Claire. Manipulative, but not reckless. This email was crafted with specific intent—zero evidence, no photos, no timestamps. It merely spun a story where I'd blackmailed Claire for career advancement.

It painted her as the helpless victim while branding me the villain.

The sender didn't understand corporate politics. But they understood emotional manipulation perfectly.

A face surfaced in my mind—innocent, pitiful, hiding behind a mask of gentleness.

Colin.

I let out a cold laugh and dialed a number.

"Hello? I'd like to report a case of defamation."