His Loss, The Tycoon's Gain: The Lost Heiress Returns

Joaquin walked into the living room wearing a custom Italian suit.

He stopped when he saw her standing there, soaking wet, bleeding, with a cheap suitcase at her feet.

His eyebrows pulled together in deep annoyance. He reached up and tugged at his silk tie.

"You really went all out for this little stunt," Joaquin sneered, his eyes dropping to her torn jacket. "Ripping your clothes? Rolling in the mud? You are pathetic, Kinsley."

She looked at the man she had loved for three years.

The last bit of warmth in her chest turned to ash.

She reached into her bag, pulled out the divorce papers she had drafted weeks ago, and slammed them onto the marble coffee table，"Joaquin, let's get a divorce. I've been giving you chances all along, but I never expected you to go this far this time. You ignored my desperate calls for help—I almost died!"

Joaquin read the bold title on the first page. His arrogant smirk vanished, replaced by a flash of genuine anger.

"You think you can play hard to get?" He stepped closer, towering over her. "You are an orphan from the foster system. You have nothing. If you leave the Stafford family, you will starve."

"I would rather live in a trailer park than smell Ember's cheap perfume on your shirts for one more day," she said, her voice dead and flat.

His face flushed red. He lunged forward and grabbed her jaw, his fingers digging into her skin. "Do not ever disrespect Ember. She saved my life."

She did not flinch. She slapped his hand away with enough force to make a loud cracking sound. A red mark blossomed on her chin.

Joaquin laughed, a cruel, ugly sound. He pulled out his phone and called his private lawyer.

Twenty minutes later, the lawyer stood in their living room, printing a supplementary agreement from his briefcase printer.

"Mrs. Stafford must forfeit all marital assets," the lawyer read aloud, adjusting his glasses. "Furthermore, you will sign a strict Non-Disclosure Agreement. You cannot speak a word about the Stafford family to the press."

Joaquin leaned back on the white leather sofa. He crossed his arms, waiting for her to cry. He expected her to beg.

She did not even read the rest of the pages. She flipped straight to the back, picked up the heavy gold pen, and signed her name.

The scratching of the pen nib against the thick paper was the only sound in the room.

She tossed the signed contract back at the lawyer. She grabbed the handle of her old suitcase.

Joaquin stood up, his chest heaving. "You will be washing dishes in a diner by next week!" he shouted.

She stopped at the door and looked over her shoulder. "I wish you and that liar a long, miserable life together."

She slammed the heavy oak door shut behind her.

Inside, she heard the loud crash of a million-dollar Ming vase shattering against the wall.

She took the elevator down to the street. The rain was still falling hard. The wind off the Hudson River cut through her wet clothes.

A black Maybach pulled up to the curb. The rear window rolled down.

Julianne, her former mother-in-law, sat inside wearing a diamond necklace and a fur coat. She looked at her muddy shoes and laughed.

"Look at you," Julianne spat, her voice dripping with venom. "A trashy little orphan, finally kicked out of high society where you never belonged."

She snapped her fingers. Her driver tossed a cheap, broken umbrella out the window. It landed in a dirty puddle at her feet.

She did not look at the umbrella. She stared directly into Julianne's eyes, her face completely blank.

Kinsley's silence infuriated her.

"Drive!" she shrieked. The Maybach sped off, splashing dirty street water onto her legs.

She stood alone in the freezing rain. She gripped the plastic handle of her suitcase until her knuckles ached.

She turned to walk toward the subway station.

Suddenly, eight massive, black bulletproof Cadillac Escalades turned the corner. They moved in perfect synchronization, blocking both ends of the street and stopping all traffic.

The vehicles formed a tight circle around her. The presence was suffocating.

The door of the center car, a custom Rolls-Royce, opened. A man stepped out. He wore a bespoke trench coat and carried a large black umbrella.

He walked straight toward her.