“Do you want to make them pay?”

I trembled, my weak hands clutching his expensive suit jacket just to stay upright. “Why… why would you care about me? I’m just a dying, discarded wife.”

Elias’s eyes, cold and deep as the ocean, narrowed. He didn't offer me a soft smile or words of pity.

“Because I despise Sandro Rossi,” he said brutally. “But more than that, I hate seeing someone accept defeat so pathetically. You have two choices, Candice. You can lay down on this hospital floor and die crying… or you can stand up and take back what is yours.”

His words hit me like a bucket of ice water. But my heart was still bleeding for only one thing.

“My baby…” I choked out, fresh tears spilling over. “Is he okay? He hit his head—”

Elias didn’t even blink. He simply snapped his fingers.

From the shadows, an assistant in a sharp black suit stepped forward and handed Elias a sleek medical tablet. Elias glanced at it, then tilted the screen toward me.

“Your son is perfectly fine. A minor bruise. Nothing more,” Elias stated flatly.

A massive wave of relief washed over me, but it was instantly shattered. Elias tapped the screen again, bringing up a live security feed from the doctor’s private office down the hall.

The audio crackled to life.

“Sandro, I’m so scared!” Paula’s voice echoed from the tablet, accompanied by loud, dramatic sobs. “She’s crazy! She tried to hurt him! What if she comes back and tries to steal him again?”

“Shh, it’s okay, Paula. I’ve got you,” Sandro’s voice replied, soft and sickeningly sweet.

“I can’t sleep knowing she’s out there. Please, Sandro. Get a restraining order. Keep her away from us!”

I stared at the screen in horror. Paula was faking a panic attack, burying her face in Sandro’s chest while he rubbed her back.

“I will,” Sandro agreed without a single ounce of hesitation. “I’ll have my lawyers draft it today. She will never come near our son again.”

Our son.

Hearing him say that—hearing him legally erase me from my own child's life—did something to me. The heavy, suffocating sorrow that had been drowning me suddenly evaporated.

In its place, a burning, absolute rage ignited in my chest.

My tears stopped falling. My trembling hands curled into tight fists.

Elias watched the shift in my eyes. A dark, satisfied smirk played on his lips. He handed the tablet back to his assistant and looked down at me.

“Marry me.”

I froze, staring at him in shock. “What?”

“Become my wife,” Elias said, his tone entirely business, yet dripping with a lethal promise. “If you agree, I will fly in the top oncologists in the world to fight your cancer. You will not die. More importantly, I will give you the wealth and the power to completely destroy Sandro’s company. You will ruin Paula’s perfect little facade. And you will legally take your son back.”

He stepped closer, his towering presence demanding an answer. “Do we have a deal?”

I thought of my mother’s disgusted face. I thought of Sandro’s cruel slap. I thought of Paula’s fake, venomous tears.

A spark of life—of pure, unadulterated vengeance—finally returned to my soul.

“I accept,” I whispered, my voice turning to steel.

An hour later, I returned to the Rossi mansion to pack my few belongings.

The moment I pushed the front door open, the sound of laughter hit me like nails on a chalkboard.

I walked into the living room. Sandro, Paula, and my mother were sitting on the expensive leather couches, drinking tea and celebrating the baby's return from the hospital. They looked like a perfect, happy family.

The laughter died the second Sandro saw me.

His face hardened into a mask of pure disgust. He stood up, grabbed a thick document from the coffee table, and threw it violently at my feet. The papers scattered across the marble floor.

“Sign it,” he barked. “It’s a permanent restraining order and a gag order. You are leaving this house tonight. You will never speak to us, and you will never see the boy again.”

From the couch, Paula adjusted the baby in her arms and gave me a sickening, triumphant smirk.

They expected me to break. They expected me to fall to my knees, to cry, to beg for scraps of their mercy just like I always did.

I didn't shed a single tear.

I stepped forward, my muddy shoes planting directly onto the restraining order.

Sandro’s eyes widened in shock as I closed the distance between us. I looked him dead in the eye, my gaze completely numb to the man I once loved.

I reached into my bag, pulled out a sleek black folder, and slapped it hard against his chest.

“I'm not here to beg, Sandro,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I'm here to give you my divorce papers.”

Sandro stumbled back a step, catching the folder. He stared at it, stunned, before a cruel, mocking laugh erupted from his throat.

“Divorce?” he sneered, looking me up and down. “You have no money. You have no family. You really think a judge will let you take my son?”

I didn't answer him.

Instead, I raised my left hand. Slowly, deliberately, I slid the diamond wedding ring off my finger.

I dropped it.

It hit the marble floor with a sharp clink. I raised my foot and kicked it across the room. It skidded to a halt right at Paula’s feet.

“Keep the trash, sister,” I said coldly.

I turned my back on them, pausing just before I walked out the door.

“I'm coming back for my son. And when I do, I will take everything from you.”

My words hung in the heavy silence of the living room.

Sandro stared at the diamond ring resting near Paula’s feet, his chest heaving. For a split second, I saw genuine shock in his eyes.

He couldn't comprehend that his docile, dying wife—the woman who had spent years begging for his scraps of affection—was walking away.

Then, the shock melted away, replaced by a dark, furious red that crept up his neck.

His mocking laughter died. He snatched the black folder from his chest, his knuckles turning white as he violently tore the divorce papers in half, then in half again, throwing the shredded pieces at my feet.

"You don't leave until I say you leave," he snarled, his voice dropping into a vicious, controlling register. "You think you can just walk out of here and make demands? You aren't getting a divorce, Candice. You are going to sit down, sign the gag order, and sign the full parental surrender tonight. If you don't, I promise you, I will make whatever miserable months you have left a living hell."

From the couch, Paula clutched my baby tighter to her chest, her eyes wide with manufactured terror. "Sandro, don't let her go!" she cried out, perfectly playing the victim. "She's crazy! What if she goes to the press and ruins our reputation? She'll tell them lies about us!"

I didn't even look at her. I didn't look at my mother, who was watching me with silent condemnation.

I simply turned my back on all of them and continued walking toward the heavy mahogany front doors.

Being ignored completely shattered the last of Sandro’s restraint.

"I'm talking to you!" he roared.

I heard his heavy footsteps behind me just a second before he lunged. His large hand clamped down roughly on my arm, yanking me backward.

"What on earth is going on here?!"

The sharp, authoritative voice cut through the foyer. My mother—Eleanor—finally stepped out of the living room, her face pale with fury.

But her anger wasn't directed at Sandro for manhandling me. It was directed entirely at me.

"Are you out of your mind, Candice?" Eleanor hissed, marching toward us. "A divorce? You are not leaving this house! Do you have any idea what a scandal will do to the company shares your father left you?"

I stared at her, my chest aching. "Is that all you care about? The shares? My husband is sleeping with Paula, he stole my child, and I am dying, Mother!"

"Don't call me that!" Eleanor snapped, her upper lip curling in absolute disgust.

The words struck me like a physical blow. The entire room seemed to hold its breath.

Eleanor glared at me, years of hidden venom finally spilling over. "I am not your mother. I never was. I should have left you in the gutter where your whore of a mother died!"

My blood ran cold. My breath caught in my throat as the floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet.

"What... what are you saying?" I whispered, my voice trembling.

"You really thought my husband would leave his entire legacy to you out of love?" Eleanor laughed bitterly. "You are the bastard child of his favorite mistress! He forced me to take you in to save his reputation. He gave you the controlling shares of the company out of guilt! I only married you off to Sandro so we could keep the business in the family and keep you under control!"

She pointed a trembling, manicured finger at my face. "You owe us everything, you ungrateful wretch! You will stay here, you will sign those shares over to Sandro, and you will die quietly without ruining Paula's future!"

Heartbreak, sharp and agonizing, tore through my chest.

My whole life was a lie. The woman I had spent twenty-four years trying to please, the sister I had loved, the husband I had devoted my soul to—they had all been using me.

I was nothing but a pawn, a dirty secret they kept around just to drain my father's inheritance.

The tears I had sworn not to shed pricked my eyes, but as I looked at their greedy, hateful faces, the sorrow instantly hardened into ice.

"You can keep the shares," I whispered, my voice eerily hollow. "Keep the money. Keep the lies."

With a sudden, violent burst of adrenaline, I ripped my arm out of Sandro's grip.

Before he could grab me again, I shoved the heavy mahogany doors open and stumbled out into the freezing, pouring rain.

The storm soaked me to the bone instantly, but I didn't stop. I hurried down the marble steps of the porch, the cold wind whipping my hair across my face.

"Candice!" Sandro roared, chasing me out onto the covered porch. "If you walk down those steps, you're dead! I'll freeze your accounts! You'll die in the streets!"

I kept walking down the driveway, the rain washing away my tears.

"Guards! Grab her!" Sandro barked into the storm.

Two burly mansion security guards rushed out from the side of the house, sprinting through the rain to intercept me.

But before they could even reach me, the blinding glare of headlights pierced the darkness.

“Don’t you dare touch what’s mine,” a voice thundered.

Sandro’s POV

“Don’t you dare touch what’s mine.” The voice thundered over the pouring rain.

Before my guards could even take another step toward Candice, the doors of the black SUVs flew open. Men in sharp suits poured out.

In seconds, my two best security guards were slammed face-first onto the wet concrete. Blood pooled around their jaws, mixing with the freezing rain.

I froze on the porch. My fists clenched so hard my knuckles popped.

Elias Thorne.

The man who had been bleeding my company dry for months. The billionaire who looked at the rest of us like we were dirt beneath his custom-made shoes.

And now, he was stepping out of the lead car, holding an umbrella over my dying, pathetic wife.

Candice. The woman who had spent the last three years hanging onto my every word. The woman who used to look at me like I was a god. I had trained her to be quiet. I had trained her to take whatever scraps of affection I threw at her.

She was supposed to break tonight. She was supposed to fall to her knees and beg me to let her hold the baby.

Instead, she was standing tall.

“You’re trespassing, Thorne!” I roared, stepping out into the rain. The cold water soaked through my shirt, but the heat of my anger burned it away. “Let her go! She’s my wife!”

Elias didn’t even flinch. He looked at me with eyes as cold and dead as the ocean.

“Not anymore, Rossi,” he said, his voice slicing through the storm. “She’s mine now.”

He opened the car door. Candice slipped inside.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t look back. She didn’t beg.

That was what pissed me off the most. The absolute emptiness in her eyes when she looked at me.

The door slammed shut. The engines roared, a low, guttural sound that vibrated in my chest.

I watched the taillights disappear into the dark, my chest heaving with rage.

Let her go.

She was weak. She was penniless. She wouldn’t last a day out there. She had no friends. I made sure of that. She had no family who cared about her. Eleanor made sure of that.

She would come crawling back the second she realized she couldn't survive without my money. She always did.

And when she did, I would make her beg. I would make her sleep on the floor outside the nursery just to hear the kid cry.

I turned around and stormed back into the mansion.

The heavy mahogany doors slammed shut behind me, cutting off the sound of the storm.

“Sandro!” Paula rushed toward me, clutching the baby. Her eyes were wide, playing the perfect, terrified victim. “Did you stop her? What if she goes to the press? What if she ruins us?”

“Shut up, Paula,” I snapped. I didn't have the patience for her whining tonight. She was beautiful, yes. She was the woman I actually wanted in my bed. But when she panicked, her voice grated on my nerves.

“Don’t you tell her to shut up!” Eleanor shrieked, marching down the stairs. Her face was pale with absolute panic. Her expensive silk robe billowed behind her like a bat’s wings. “Do you realize what just happened? She left! If she actually files for divorce, the shares go with her! My husband’s entire legacy, gone! We will be ruined!”

“She’s not getting a divorce,” I growled, walking over to the crystal decanter. I poured myself a heavy glass of scotch. My hands were shaking, but I downed it in one burning swallow. “She has no money for a lawyer. I’ll freeze her accounts. I’ll starve her out.”

As I turned toward the living room, something caught my eye.

Lying on the marble floor, half-hidden under the console table, was a thick manila folder.

Candice must have dropped it during the struggle.

I walked over and snatched it up.

The logo of the city’s top oncology center was stamped on the front.

I ripped it open.

Pages of lab results. Scans. Blood panels.

My eyes scanned the heavy black text.

Stage IV.

Metastasis.

Terminal.

Estimated time: Three to four months.

The breath caught in my throat.

She wasn’t lying.

She wasn’t pulling a pathetic stunt for attention. She was actually dying.

A bizarre thrill shot through my veins. I had spent years pretending to care about her. Years touching her skin when I was thinking of Paula.

Years waiting for the moment I could finally take full control of her father's empire without having to look at her naive, trusting face anymore.

“What is it?” Eleanor demanded, snatching the papers from my hand.

Her eyes darted across the medical jargon. She froze.

For a second, the room was dead silent. Only the ticking of the grandfather clock echoed in the vast foyer.

Then, a slow, dark smile crept across my face.

“She’s dying,” I whispered.

Eleanor looked up, her panic instantly morphing into cold, calculating greed. The old woman was a snake, just like me.

“If she dies before she signs the transfer…” Eleanor muttered, her mind spinning. “The shares go into probate. The board will tear us apart.”

“No,” I said, the realization hitting me like a rush of pure adrenaline.

“If she dies while we are still legally married… I inherit everything. As her widower, I get the controlling shares. I get the company. I get it all.”

Paula smiled from the couch, rocking the baby. “So we just have to wait?”

“Exactly,” I laughed, tossing the medical file onto the floor like a piece of trash. It landed right where Candice had stood an hour ago.

“Let her run to Thorne. Let her play her little games. I will drag this divorce out in court for years if I have to. I’ll bury her in paperwork. She’ll be dead before a judge even looks at the first page. We won.”

I slept like a king that night.

I dreamt of the board of directors bowing to me. I dreamt of Candice’s funeral, wearing a sharp black suit, pretending to wipe a tear for the cameras while I pocketed billions.

I woke up the next morning feeling untouchable.

The storm had passed. The sun was shining through the massive windows of my bedroom.

I poured myself a cup of black coffee and walked down the hallway toward my home office. I was ready to call my lawyers. I was ready to freeze her credit cards, lock her out of her own trust funds, and block every legal move she tried to make.

I turned the brass handle.

But when I opened the door, my blood ran cold.

Sitting perfectly in the center of my mahogany desk was a sleek, black envelope.

My security system hadn’t tripped. My guards hadn’t seen a thing. The cameras showed nothing but static for exactly three minutes at 4:00 AM.

Someone had been in my house.

Someone had stood in the very room where I kept all my secrets.

My hands trembled as I picked it up. The paper was heavy, expensive.

I broke the wax seal.

Inside was a single, terrifyingly thick stack of papers.

Expedited Decree of Divorce.

Already signed by a judge.

But that wasn’t what made my stomach drop. That wasn't what made the air leave my lungs.

Beneath the divorce decree was a second stack of papers.

Bank statements. Offshore account numbers. Wire transfers.

Every single dime I had embezzled from the company over the last three years, documented down to the penny. The shell corporations. The fake vendors. The money I used to buy Paula her diamonds and her silence.

And beneath that… high-resolution photographs.

Me and Paula. In hotel rooms. In my car. Kissing in the shadows of the company parking garage. Dates, times, locations. Everything.

A small, heavy cardstock note fell from the bundle and landed on my desk.

The handwriting was sharp and elegant.

Sign the divorce papers by 9:00 AM, or these go to the District Attorney and the press.

Enjoy prison, Rossi.

— E. Thorne.