His Cruel Game, Her Final Word

On my first day at the new firm, I had barely finished orientation when a senior partner called me into his office.

He looked deeply uncomfortable. "Sloane, I have no doubt about your abilities, but we've received some… troubling feedback."

"What kind of feedback?" My stomach plummeted.

"A Mr. Wesley Harrington contacted us," he said, choosing his words carefully. "He implied that you are… mentally unstable at present and are entangled in some complicated financial disputes."

He painted me as an emotionally volatile madwoman, claiming I was trying to extort a fortune from him in the divorce. It was a lie, crafted to destroy my career and leave me with nothing. It was Wesley’s handiwork.

The partner’s expression was grave. “I want to believe you, Sloane, but this could affect the firm’s reputation. Perhaps it’s best if you… take a leave of absence for now.”

It was a polite firing. As if on cue, my phone rang.

Wesley’s triumphant voice crackled over the line. "See? I told you you’d regret this."

"You're despicable," I snarled.

"I gave you a chance," he chuckled. "One last chance. Come home, get on your knees and beg, and maybe I’ll find it in my heart to forgive you."

"In your dreams," I seethed, and hung up.

There was no world in which I would ever beg him for anything.

I walked for hours in Seattle’s cold autumn rain, soaked to the bone, before finally stumbling back to my apartment building.

As I stepped into the hallway, an unfamiliar, aggressive perfume assaulted my senses.

Cassidy was leaning against my door, striking a victorious pose with a smirk on her lips.

"What are you doing here?" I asked icily.

"I came to see how the poor, abandoned wife is holding up," she mocked.

She ran her eyes over my drenched, pathetic state and laughed. "You look dreadful. Lost your job already, didn't you? Wesley said he’d make sure you couldn't survive in Seattle—that he'd make you crawl back to him."

"He can wait," I said, pushing past her to unlock my door.

“Still trying to sound tough, are we?” She sauntered in behind me, her gaze sweeping across the small apartment before landing on the unfinished oil portrait of me my mother had been painting.

She strolled over to the easel and picked up a glass of red wine from the table beside it. "Your mother would be so disappointed to see you like this."

"Don't touch that," I warned, my voice low.