After My Husband Cheated with His Golf Instructor

The funeral parlor was cold. It smelled of stale lilies and damp carpet. Everyone had already left, leaving me alone in the dim room with a cardboard box of Grandma’s things.

I sat on a wooden bench and picked up her worn leather Bible. The edges were soft and frayed from years of use. When I opened the cover, a small piece of folded paper slipped out and landed on my lap.

I unfolded it with trembling fingers.

The handwriting was neat and familiar.

*You were never small, my darling. You just loved someone who needed you to believe you were.*

My breath hitched. The words felt like a match dropped onto dry grass. A strange, quiet heat spread through my chest. For the first time in days, my hands stopped shaking. I folded the note carefully and slipped it into the inner pocket of my coat, right over my heart.

The door creaked open.

Heavy footsteps echoed against the tile floor. I didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

Bryce walked in. He wore a crisp wool overcoat, completely dry. He hadn't brought flowers. He didn't look at Grandma’s framed photograph on the altar. His eyes landed straight on me, full of annoyance.

"You're hard to track down, Isla," he said, stopping two feet away.

I looked at his polished shoes. "What do you want, Bryce?"

"We need to talk," he said, crossing his arms. "You made a massive scene at the golf club. You ruined my reputation with my clients. And then you vanished."

He sighed, shaking his head like a tired parent dealing with a difficult child.

"Look, I know you're upset about your grandmother," he continued, his tone dripping with fake patience. "And I admit things got a little out of hand at the hotel. But you’re being dramatic. You ran off, and now the rent is due. My cards are hitting limits. It’s time to stop throwing a tantrum and come home."

I looked up at him.

He didn't care that Grandma was dead. He didn't care that he had kept me from holding her hand as she died. All he cared about was his free ride. He needed his servant back.

"You want to fix this?" I asked quietly.

"Of course," he said, a confident smirk touching his mouth. "I’m willing to forgive you. We can put this behind us."

"Good," I said.

I reached into the box and pulled out a thick manila folder. I set the papers on the small table between us and placed a black pen on top.

"What's this?" Bryce frowned.

"Divorce papers," I said, keeping my voice dead even. "I won't come back unless we wipe the slate clean. If you sign, I'm giving you everything. The car. The accounts. All of it. I'll take nothing."

Bryce’s eyes widened with greed. "Everything? You’re walking away with zero?"

"Zero," I said softly. "You keep it all. Just sign, and I'll handle the rest."

Bryce let out a short, breathy laugh. He looked at me like I was the biggest fool on earth. "Well, if you're offering."

He snatched the pen. He didn't bother to read a single line. He flipped straight to the signature tabs and scribbled his name across every page.

He didn't read the fine print.

He didn't see that every asset of value had already been transferred out of his name days ago. He didn't notice the debt clauses, or the back taxes, or the unpaid commercial credit lines. With a few strokes of ink, he had just signed himself into absolute financial ruin.

Bryce tossed the pen onto the papers with a satisfied grin.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Isla," he sneered, turning on his heel. "Good luck surviving out there on your own. You won't last a month without me."

He walked out the door, whistling softly.

I picked up the signed documents, neatly tapped them against the table, and slipped them back into the folder.

A moment later, the low rumble of an engine purred outside.

Through the front glass, I saw a sleek, black Rolls-Royce pull up to the curb. Two men in dark suits stepped out, opening large black umbrellas. Then, the rear door opened.

A tall man stepped onto the sidewalk. He had silver hair at his temples and an immaculate charcoal suit. Steven Morrison.

My father.

It had been eight years since I had looked at his face. Eight years since I walked out of his home, screaming that I chose love over money.

The heavy glass door opened. Dad stepped into the foyer. His sharp eyes softened the second they found me. He took in my cheap, wet coat, my pale face, and the dark circles under my eyes.

He didn't say *I told you so.*

He simply walked over, placed a warm, heavy hand on my shoulder, and said, "Welcome home, Isla."

Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, but I swallowed them down. I nodded once. "Thank you, Dad."

We walked out to the car together. The rain pounded against the umbrellas held above us. The driver held the rear door, and I sank into the buttery leather seat.

The interior was warm and smelled like rich cedar. The driver pulled away from the curb, heading toward Greenwich.

Dad tapped his leather notebook on his knee. "Tomorrow morning, you resume your position as heiress apparent of the Morrison Group. Everything that belongs to you will be restored. No one in this city will ever look down on you again."

I stared out the window at the rain blurring the streetlights. "I understand."

"And one more thing," Dad said.

He nodded toward the front passenger seat.

A young man sat there in a tailored black suit. He was broad-shouldered, with sharp, carved features and pitch-black hair. He had been completely silent the entire time, sitting so still he barely looked real.

"This is Adriel Kennedy," Dad said. "He is your personal bodyguard. From this moment on, he will be your shadow. He will keep you safe."

Adriel looked up. His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror.

They were dark, quiet, and completely unreadable.

I reached into my pocket, fingers brushing against Grandma's letter.

"Okay," I whispered, holding his gaze in the glass. "Let's go home."