His Neglected Wife Is A Genius Auctioneer

Chloe Hayes pushed open the heavy glass door of the private clinic. The early winter wind was biting, like a knife cutting through her skin. She pressed her lower abdomen, the excruciating pain from the fallopian tube removal surgery making her gasp. Julian Carlisle should have been here. But he wasn't. This cruel reality weighed on her chest like a boulder. She dragged her exhausted body to the side of the road, each step incredibly difficult, before collapsing into an Uber.

She slammed the car door shut; the driver barely looked back. The engine roared to life, and the car sped away. The city rushed past, and a wave of nausea washed over her. Her phone buzzed: Mrs. Gabor.

"Chloe, where have you been?" The butler's voice was cold and devoid of warmth. "Mr. Carlisle has a business dinner at the barbecue restaurant tonight, and he needs you to be there at eight o'clock."

“I can’t.” Her voice was weak and hoarse. This was the first time in five years that she had said “no.”

“What? You can’t? This concerns the family’s reputation. It’s your duty as Mrs. Carlisle.”

Chloe let out a hoarse growl. She hung up the phone and tossed it onto the seat next to her. The driver's gaze flickered in the rearview mirror. She didn't care. Five years of polite, indifferent smiles had made her a laughingstock, a well-dressed ornament.

She pressed her head against the cold car window. She had given up everything—a doctorate, a thriving career as a top auctioneer at Christie's. For what? A cold bed, and a husband who only cared about her social status.

The Uber slowly drove into the private underground entrance of the Astoria Hotel. She took the elevator directly to the penthouse. The elevator doors opened, revealing a vast and silent space in black, white, and gray.

Julian reclined on a low Italian sofa, a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand. He should have been on holiday in London with his daughter and secretary . He looked up, his expression inscrutable. He was tall and impeccably dressed.

“You didn’t come tonight ,” he said as he walked toward her, “and you look terrible.”

He reached out and grabbed Chloe's shoulder, startling her. She instinctively recoiled, the movement tearing at her stitched wound. She gasped.

His hand froze, and the faint warmth in his eyes vanished. "What's wrong?" She remained silent, her gaze fixed blankly on the floor. He lowered his hand, turned, and walked back to the bar without a word. The silence was deafening, broken only by the clinking of ice cubes as he refilled his drink.

“Let’s get a divorce,” she said, her tone much calmer than she felt.

Julian didn't stop pouring. He filled the crystal glass, then leaned against the bar, facing her, with an air of nonchalance yet superiority. A slow, disdainful smile played on his lips. "Don't be so dramatic, Chloe."

She walked to the center of the room and stopped in front of the glass table. He strode over and threw a black American Express Centurion card onto the table. The card clattered to the floor—the same scornful sound she'd heard countless times, whenever he ignored her pain. "I married you so you could take care of Stella, and now you think the money isn't enough? Name your price."

“It’s not about the money,” she said, each word cold and sharp.

He had completely misunderstood her. He narrowed his eyes. "Is it because of Stella? Just because I was with her last weekend? You knew my responsibilities to my daughter when we got married. I don't have time for your scheming. You can't even be a proper stepmother."

After five years of struggling, this accusation should have crushed her. But it didn't. Instead, she felt relieved. She finally saw his true colors—he was no longer her husband, but a Wall Street capitalist who viewed their marriage merely as a merger and acquisition deal.

“A competent stepmother?” she retorted, her voice sharp despite the pain. “I gave up my doctorate, I gave up my career as a top auctioneer, just to be your beautiful but silent appendage. For five years, I’ve tried to be a competent stepmother. You’ve never taken me seriously, just a decoration at your business dinners.”

He gritted his teeth, his eyes blazing with fury. "Before I came along, you were nothing. A girl who lived on scholarships in high society. The Carlisle name gave you everything."

“Everything?” She smiled, her voice hollow and broken. “A cold bed, a black card, and ignored privileges. That’s what you gave me.”

He put down his glass, strode towards her, his face darkening. "You think you can just walk away like that? You won't even last a week."

She abruptly shook off his outstretched hand, wiping her chin as if to wash away the grime on her body. "I'd rather have nothing than make a deal with you."

Without waiting for his reply, she turned and walked towards the guest room, each step seeming to proclaim something. His cold, mocking laughter echoed behind her.

“Chloe, you will come back eventually! You can’t live a day without the Carlisle name.”

She didn't turn around. She gripped the cold metal doorknob tightly, enduring the excruciating pain, and straightened her back. The door clicked shut.

Alone, her feigned strength crumbled instantly. Her legs gave way, and she slid down the door, crashing heavily onto the cold floor. Her wounds burned, but beneath the pain, a memory surfaced—the blinding spotlights of the auction house, the heavy gavel in her hand, and the cheers of the crowd.

from outside the door . He went back to his room .

She groaned and climbed onto the bed in the guest room. From this cage-like bed, she could overlook Manhattan, a dazzling, brightly lit world. Outside the window, the wind howled.

She closed her eyes. In the ashes of despair, a faint but tenacious spark ignited.