I sacrificed my Hollywood career for Marcus, becoming his devoted wife for twelve years.

"Kimberly, I messed up the address." His assistant handed me the Victoria's Secret box meant for his mistress Ivy.

My son Dylan screamed at me, "Why isn't it you who's sick, you old vixen?! Ivy should be my stepmom!"

I discovered Dylan was running hate accounts against me while worshipping the woman destroying our family.

When I confronted them, Marcus shoved me down the stairs without hesitation.

I packed my bags, left divorce papers on the table, and walked away.

Six months later, I returned to Hollywood as Bella Sterling—transformed, stunning, and unstoppable.

This time, the vixen would bite back.

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1

“Kimberly, I messed up the address.” The assistant looked at the Victoria’s Secret box in my hands, her face a mask of embarrassment. “You haven’t opened it, have you?”

I glanced down at the tell-tale pink box. You didn't need a label to know what was inside.

I smiled and handed it back. “Nope. Here you go.”

She snatched it, apologized profusely, and hurried away.

Just last night, on the eve of our anniversary, Marcus Wellington had asked me, “Honey, do you think lace thongs are sexier than cotton ones?”

I put down my wine, thinking he was planning a surprise. I teased him with a smile, “Why? You want to see me in one?”

I have to be fitted for my lingerie. My size is a bit unique, sometimes requiring custom orders.

In twelve years of marriage, Marcus had never bought me a proper gift. He’d just wire money to my account. So for him to ask so directly, it was a miracle. I patiently taught him about brands and styles, even “accidentally” leaving a pair of my black lace panties on his pillow.

The next day was our anniversary. To say I was hopeful would be an understatement.

But then the package arrived, and so did his assistant.

My heart sank, but I tried to reason with myself. He was a guy, clueless about this stuff. It was normal for him to get it wrong the first time.

I waited all afternoon. No word from Marcus.

But I did get news about someone else.

“Ivy Cesar posts sick-bed photo on Instagram, likely to miss the Golden Globes.” As a hot contender for Best Supporting Actress, the gossip exploded on Twitter.

I saw the news while my son, Dylan, was glued to his phone. I glanced at his screen, and he slammed it face down on the table. The raw anger on his face shocked me. Before I could react, a couch pillow hit me square in the face. “Why isn’t it you who’s sick, you old vixen?!”

My brain stalled, trying to process who this monster was.

Dylan used to be a sweet kid. But in the last year, he’d morphed from a shy boy who blushed easily into a little jerk who dropped F-bombs in every sentence.

I’d lost count of how many times he’d cursed me out.

My face went cold. Before I could say a word, he leaped off the sofa and yelled, “If you hadn’t been so desperate to trap my dad, Ivy would be my stepmom by now! She’s so hot, not like you, old and fat!”

As if afraid I hadn’t heard, he shouted louder, “And your stupid fans are just as pathetic as you! They said Ivy deserved it! I hope you die so she can finally be with us!”

Smack! My palm stung.

Dylan clutched his face, his eyes instantly turning red with disbelief. “You… you hit me?!”

“Say that again, and I swear I’ll rip that tongue out of your mouth!”

He glared at me with pure hatred. “Having a mother like you is a fucking embarrassment!”

With that, he stormed off to his room.

I stood there, frozen, taking a deep breath to calm the stabbing pain in my chest. The moment his door slammed, all my strength drained away, and I collapsed onto the sofa.

Dylan’s phone was still on the table, its screen lit up with a Twitter feed. From where I sat, I could see the vile, photoshopped pictures of me and the vicious comments. It was a hate account. And my son was the one running it.

My heart went numb. I reached for the phone and saw the tweet he’d just posted.

“Today, we’ll flood that old vixen’s tags!”

Old vixen—that was their name for me. Before I left the business, I was famous for my slightly upturned, fox-like eyes. But the haters preferred to call me a vixen.

I used to be a big deal. Even after twelve years away, the haters were still buzzing around me like flies.

But the real dagger in my heart was that my own son hated me this much.

The phone slipped from my hand. I looked up at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows—puffy, overweight. I could only stand to look for a few seconds before tearing my gaze away.

Twelve years had changed everything. My glory was gone. Now, I was just an old fox, hated by everyone.

Night fell.

The Golden Globes were live on TV. Even though Ivy was absent, the award for Best Supporting Actress went to her. The host announced that a special guest would accept it on her behalf.

The audience buzzed. Everyone knew what that meant.

Everyone in Hollywood knew Ivy was the one that got away for Marcus back in school.

She was the first actress his company signed, and he’d been championing her ever since.

And I was seen as the wicked woman who’d schemed her way into his bed and broken them up.

But I only cared about Marcus’s attitude. He’d promised me he and Ivy were just business. That he’d never cross the line.

After all, Ivy could have just sent her agent to accept the award.

The next second, a handsome man in a designer suit stood up. Under the gaze of millions, he walked to the stage, took the award, and said in that damn sexy voice of his,

“Thank you, everyone, and thank you to Ivy’s fans for their endless support. In my heart, she will always be the best.”

He didn't care that this would make me a laughingstock across the country. In that moment, he only cared about Ivy.

It was August, but I felt a winter chill creep into my bones.

Suddenly, Dylan burst out of his room, grabbed his phone, and ignored the anniversary dinner I’d prepared.

As he passed the shoe rack, he deliberately stomped on my favorite pair of Jimmy Choo heels. His eyes held a strange glint as he muttered, “Ivy would never wear such basic shoes,” before slamming the door behind him.

I picked up my phone. Still no messages. Everyone had forgotten it was our twelfth anniversary.

I remembered last year’s anniversary. Marcus had claimed to have a board meeting, Dylan had locked himself in his room playing video games, and I’d eaten a dinner for two all by myself.

I planned every holiday for them. When it came to me, I was a joke.

I stood up, tore down the stupid decorative streamers, threw the silverware in the trash, and scraped the entire meal into the garbage disposal.

Just as I finished, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Marcus, saying a board meeting had come up and he’d be home late. I was about to reply when I scrolled and saw Ivy’s new Instagram post.

Her caption read: “Time passes, but the one who loves you is always there for you.”

Beside her was a Victoria’s Secret box. I didn’t need to zoom in. It was the exact style of sexy lingerie I had told him to buy just last night.

Then, my feed refreshed. A post from my son.

“My goddess won! God, I wish she were my mom… Don’t we look like a happy family?”

The post had a few selfies. In one, Marcus and Ivy were standing close together in a fancy Beverly Hills restaurant, a huge celebratory cake in front of them.

So that was his “board meeting.”

I looked at the picture of the radiant Ivy and laughed, though my heart felt like it was being shredded.

She was three years younger than me, right in a woman’s prime.

Her allure, her killer body—it was no wonder so many men were drawn to her.

I remembered one of my birthdays years ago. She’d posted something about it being a good night for a drink. As if on cue, Marcus made a lame excuse and rushed out.

It was a rare rainy day in LA, and I went to bring him an umbrella, only to see him emerging from a bar with Ivy. The rain soaked his shoulders, but he had taken off his jacket to shield her.

At that moment, I saw my own reflection in the car window and could only laugh at myself. If it had been me, his jacket probably wouldn't have even fit around half of me.

I used to be one of the top beauties in Hollywood. I could pull off any style, and my figure was the envy of many.

But everything changed after I had my son. My body blew up like a balloon, and no amount of exercise could slim it down.

I could feel Marcus’s attitude getting colder by the day.

The only physical contact we had was when I accidentally brushed against his back when I rolled over in bed.

Yet I still ran this house tirelessly. And now it was clear that everything I did was taken for granted.

Maybe you only see what you had when it’s slipping through your fingers.

I liked both of their posts, then screenshotted them and sent them to my husband.

“Too bad. You could have gotten a discount at Victoria’s Secret if you’d bought the whole set.”

Then, I turned off my phone and started packing.

At one in the morning, the front door finally opened.

Dylan bounced in like an excited puppy, with Marcus trailing behind him.

They flipped on the lights and seemed surprised that I wasn't waiting for them in the living room.

Dylan didn’t care if I was asleep or not. He yelled toward the bedroom, “Do my laundry! I left it on the sofa!”

Then he started reliving the night. “Dad, Ivy is so hot! You have to take me with you again, I fucking love her!”

Marcus chuckled. “Of course. You’ve got good taste. She’s officially the sexiest woman in Hollywood right now.”

He noticed the streamers in the trash and paused for a second before pulling out his phone and wiring a hundred thousand dollars to my account.

As the money hit my account, I was watching them on the hidden security camera I’d hastily installed in a wall lamp.

Marcus loosened his tie, thirsty, but his glass was empty. He opened the fridge to find not a single bottle of water, not a single piece of fruit.

I