He Tried to Kill Me for His Mistress

I stood outside Victoria Chen's office building, my hands trembling slightly as I clutched my purse. The glass tower reflected the morning sun, nearly blinding me as I gathered my courage. One week had passed since I discovered Kian's betrayal, and I was still reeling from the revelation that I'd been living as a substitute for my own aunt.

"Ms. Barnes?" The receptionist's voice was coolly professional. "Ms. Chen will see you now."

Victoria Chen's reputation preceded her—the divorce attorney who had brought some of New York's most powerful men to their knees. Her office was minimalist and imposing, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan.

"So," Victoria said, not bothering to look up from the tablet where she was making notes, "you want to divorce Kian Russell."

I nodded, then realized she wasn't watching. "Yes."

"And your grounds?" She finally looked up, her sharp eyes assessing me. "Infidelity?"

"Emotional infidelity," I clarified, my voice stronger than I expected. "He's been obsessed with my aunt—the same woman he called out during..." I swallowed hard. "During our anniversary."

Victoria's eyebrow arched slightly. "And financially?"

"He bought her a forty-five-thousand-dollar diamond necklace. Sent it to Paris."

"Without your knowledge?"

"Yes."

She made a note. "Any prenuptial agreement?"

I shook my head. "He said he had nothing to lose when we married. That his work was just beginning to gain recognition."

A smile flickered across Victoria's face—the smile of a predator spotting weakness. "Then he's in for a rude awakening." She leaned forward. "His patent royalties alone are worth millions. And without a prenup, you're entitled to half."

The number made my head spin. "Half?"

"Stay in the penthouse for now. Don't give him any warning. But secure your assets immediately." Her tone was clipped, efficient. "Withdraw half of your joint savings today. Cancel any credit cards you can access."

"I don't want his money," I protested weakly.

"Eleanor." Victoria's voice softened slightly. "This isn't about what you want. It's about what you deserve."

* * *

The bank manager's smile faltered as I explained my request.

"Half of our joint savings?" he repeated, glancing nervously at his computer screen.

"Yes. In certified funds, please."

"Mrs. Russell, I really should call your husband—"

"Mr. Russell," I corrected him, sliding Victoria's card across the counter. "And my attorney advised that I am within my legal rights."

Two hours later, I walked out with a cashier's check for $1.2 million—half of what Kian and I had saved during our marriage. The weight of it in my purse felt surreal.

Next, I called the credit card company.

"I'd like to cancel my husband's Black Card," I said, reciting the card number from memory.

"May I ask why, Mrs. Russell?"

"Change in marital status," I replied calmly.

I was just leaving the bank when my phone buzzed with a text from Kian.

"What the hell, Eleanor? The card was declined at lunch with investors."

I stared at the message, feeling a strange sense of power. No apology. No explanation. Just anger that his convenience had been disrupted.

I slipped the phone back into my purse without responding.

* * *

"If you're going to do this," Isabella said, holding up a crimson dress against me, "you need to stop hiding."

My old friend and former art dealer looked at me with concern. The boutique around us hummed with activity, but I felt oddly detached from it all.

"I don't even recognize myself anymore," I admitted, fingering the bold fabric.

"That's because you've been wearing his version of you." She thrust the dress into my hands. "Try this."

In the dressing room, I peeled off the beige dress Kian had once complimented. The woman in the mirror looked like a stranger—pale, muted, invisible.

The crimson dress fit like a second skin, hugging curves I'd hidden for too long.

"Perfect," Isabella breathed when I emerged.

Next, we found a pair of emerald silk pants that made my eyes pop, and a black blazer with gold accents that screamed confidence rather than compliance.

"These aren't me," I said, looking at the pile of bags we'd accumulated.

"They're more you than anything you've worn in the past year," Isabella countered.

Our last stop was a small salon tucked away on a side street.

"How short?" the stylist asked, scissors poised above my hair.

"Short enough that he'll know I've changed," I replied.

The first snip of the scissors sent a lock of hair cascading to the floor. With each cut, I felt lighter, as if I were shedding more than just hair—I was shedding the woman who had dimmed her light for a man who couldn't even see it.

When the stylist spun me to face the mirror, I gasped. The woman staring back at me had a sharp, chic bob that framed her face perfectly. She looked fierce. She looked free.

She looked like Eleanor Barnes—not Eleanor Russell.

As we left the salon, my phone buzzed again. Kian's name flashed on the screen, but I didn't need to read the message to know he was furious.

For the first time in months, I smiled—a real smile that reached my eyes.