From Ashes: The Unwanted Wife's Return

Ellie Gilbert POV:

The fifteen days were a descent into a special kind of hell. Jace moved me from the clinic back to our penthouse, the gilded cage where I had once believed I was happy. My body was a landscape of pain, the stitches from the hysterectomy a constant, pulling reminder of what he had stolen from me. The phantom ache of a lost pregnancy was even worse, a grief that had no shape, no voice.

Fallon, of course, was ever-present. She had moved into the penthouse, her laughter echoing in the halls, her expensive perfumes clinging to the air like a miasma. Jace doted on her, his every action a twist of the knife in my gut.

"Jace, darling," Fallon cooed one evening, draping herself over his shoulders as he sat reading. "The annual Sharpe Foundation polo match is next week. I simply must go. And I want to ride."

"Of course," Jace said, not looking up from his book. "I'll arrange it."

Fallon's eyes, glittering with malice, found me where I sat huddled on a sofa, a cashmere throw pulled up to my chin. "Ellie should come too. It will be so good for her to get some fresh air."

The thought of the crowds, the polite smiles, the public spectacle, made my stomach clench. "I'm not well enough," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

Jace finally looked at me, his gaze cold. "Fallon is right. You've been moping around long enough. You'll go."

The day of the polo match was bright and cold. The manicured lawns of the Greenwich Polo Club were swarming with New York's elite, a sea of pastel linen and wide-brimmed hats. I felt like a ghost haunting a party, my dark dress a stark contrast to the vibrant colors around me.

Among the crowd, I saw them. The men who had made the original bet. They stood in a small, smirking circle, their eyes following me with predatory amusement. One of them, a slick real estate mogul named Marcus Thorne, sauntered over.

"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in," he drawled, his eyes raking over me with contempt. "I have to hand it to you, Gilbert. You played the long game. But it looks like your time is up. Trading you in for a newer model, is he?"

His words were a public flogging. I could feel the stares, hear the whispers. I just stood there, my hands clenched into fists, the humiliation a physical weight pressing down on me.

Fallon, dressed in pristine white riding gear, looked like a goddess. She swung herself onto a magnificent black stallion, her movements fluid and confident. "Oh, Ellie," she called out, her voice carrying across the field. "Don't you want to ride? I had Jace get a horse just for you. A nice, gentle one."

She pointed to a sad-looking mare tethered nearby.

"I can't," I said, the memory of the surgery a fresh stab of pain. "I've had... an operation."

Fallon's brow furrowed in mock concern before her lips curved into a cruel smile. "Oh, that's right. The procedure. How clumsy of me to forget. Well, surely a little trot won't hurt."

Jace appeared at my side, his hand gripping my arm. "Don't be difficult, Ellie. Fallon went to the trouble of arranging it. Get on the horse."

"Jace, I can't," I pleaded, my voice breaking. "The doctor said-"

"I am telling you to get on the horse," he said, his voice low and menacing. His fingers dug into my arm, a silent threat.

Defeated, I allowed a groom to help me onto the mare. Every movement sent a jolt of agony through my abdomen. The crowd watched, a mixture of pity and morbid curiosity on their faces.

Fallon, meanwhile, was a vision of equestrian grace. She galloped across the field, her laughter ringing out as the crowd applauded. Jace watched her, his face alight with pride and adoration. He threw her a kiss, a public declaration that I was the past and she was the future.

My own attempts to ride were a clumsy, painful disaster. The mare was skittish, and my body was too weak to control her properly. I became a laughingstock, the disgraced wife struggling to keep up.

At one point, the mare stumbled, throwing me to the ground. I landed hard on my side, a cry of pain escaping my lips. The impact tore at something inside me; a sharp, searing agony erupted in my lower body.

Jace didn't even glance in my direction. He was too busy congratulating Fallon on her victory lap, wrapping her in a passionate embrace as the crowd cheered.

I lay on the grass, the world spinning, pain and humiliation washing over me in waves. No one came to help. Eventually, I dragged myself to my feet, my dress stained with grass and dirt, and limped back towards the clubhouse, a solitary, broken figure.

When I asked one of Jace's staff for a first aid kit, he looked at me with open disdain. "Mr. Sharpe is with Ms. Valentine. He left instructions not to be disturbed."

The rest of the evening was a blur of pain. I found a deserted corner and curled into a chair, watching Jace and Fallon on the dance floor, their bodies pressed close, his lips whispering in her ear. Later, I saw a picture of them on a society blog, posted just minutes before. The caption read: "Love Reunited: Jace Sharpe and Fallon Valentine, the couple we've all been waiting for."

My heart, which I thought could not break any further, splintered into a thousand more pieces.