His Stand-In Wife's Billion-Dollar Revenge

Anna stood there clutching the transfer contract for the exhibition, her eyes brimming with tears.

"Simon, this is all my fault. I had no idea Iris minded so much."

"I don't want this exhibition anymore. Please don't fight because of me. I'll tear up the contract right now..."

Simon's gaze sharpened, and he pulled her into his arms. "Anna, stop. This has nothing to do with you."

Then he turned, and his face went cold.

"Iris, you're being completely unreasonable."

"Anna is sick. Do you really have to be this aggressive? Will you not rest until you've driven her to her death?"

I stared at the man and woman locked in each other's arms, and suddenly, five years of devotion felt like nothing more than a joke.

"Fine. I won't pressure you."

I let out a bitter laugh, pulled the gallery's backup drafts and reference materials from my bag, and tore them to shreds right in front of them.

"Simon, the exhibition is yours. I don't want it anymore."

The moment I turned to leave, my phone buzzed.

It was Dr. Theodore Finch from the private hospital.

"Mrs. Stephens, the rush results from yesterday's prenatal panel just came in."

"Your progesterone levels have plummeted. You're at extremely high risk for a threatened miscarriage."

"You need to get to the hospital immediately to stabilize the pregnancy. Absolutely no emotional stress."

As I listened, a wrenching cramp tore through my lower abdomen, as if something inside me was falling.

The pain doubled me over. Through blurred vision, I caught the notification glowing at the top of my phone screen, a reminder I'd set myself:

Countdown to leaving the Stephens family: less than 24 hours.

Icy wind laced with rain lashed against my face.

So this marriage, already riddled with wounds, wouldn't even grant me the dignity of walking out on my own terms in these final twenty-four hours.

I braced myself against the glass facade of the building, my legs buckling beneath me.

At some point, the sky had opened into a downpour. The cold seeped straight into my bones.

Sweat soaked through the back of my clothes while the cramping in my abdomen ground on without mercy.

The pain drove me to my knees on the curb. I dialed Simon's number.

It rang for a long time before he finally picked up.

"Simon, my stomach hurts so bad. I think I'm bleeding. It's pouring outside and I can't get a cab."

"Can you come get me..." My voice cracked.

His tone shifted instantly, urgent and concerned.

"Iris? Don't be scared. I'm nearby. I'm turning around right now. Stay where you are. Ten minutes, I promise."

I pressed my hand against my stomach and clenched my teeth.

Five minutes. Ten minutes. Twenty minutes.

My vision was already swimming when, at last, through the curtain of rain, I spotted Simon's black Maybach.

I forced myself upright and tried to wave, but in the next second, the car veered in the opposite direction at the intersection less than fifty yards from where I stood, and sped away.

"Simon!" I screamed, the sound ripped from pure despair.

Seconds later, my phone chimed. A voice message from Simon.

His words tumbled out, laced with panic:

"Iris, I'm sorry. Anna went to the estate to pick something up and got trapped in the elevator."

"Her claustrophobia is acting up. She could die."

"You just have a little stomachache. Be good, okay? Take a cab to the ER yourself."

"I'll come find you as soon as I've got Anna settled."

In the background of the message, I could hear Anna sobbing.

I stood in the downpour, feeling the slow, warm trickle sliding down my inner thigh.

I hurled my phone against the pavement.

I don't know how long I stood there before a stranger's car pulled over. They carried me, barely conscious, to the emergency room.

"Move! The patient is hemorrhaging. Threatened miscarriage. Get an OR prepped now!" a nurse shouted.

"Where's the family? We need a family member to handle the paperwork!"

I clung to my last shred of consciousness and told the nurse, "Use my phone. Run the joint card."

The nurse hurried back moments later, her face stricken with panic.

"Ms. Young, your joint account is completely empty! It shows a massive transfer cleared it out just half an hour ago!"

I froze.

Seconds later, a text from a real estate agent lit up my screen:

Mr. Stephens, the full payment for the penthouse security suite purchased for Ms. Anna Henson in the city center has been processed. Wishing Ms. Henson a pleasant move-in.

So he hadn't just drained my gallery funding. He'd emptied our entire joint account to buy her an apartment outright.

Simon Stephens, you heartless bastard.

"I still have money..." I used the last of my hidden prenuptial trust fund, the one I'd kept concealed throughout our marriage, and signed my name on the consent form for the emergency procedure to save my baby.

I lay in the hospital bed, scrolling through my phone.

Anna's social media had been updated ten minutes ago.

In the photo, Simon was carrying her out of an elevator. The caption read:

Even in the darkest elevator, my knight wouldn't hesitate to drop everything and chase away my fears.

I stared at the screen, at the profile of his face tight with worry as he shielded her. Not a single tear came. I had none left.

I closed the page calmly and dialed the number of the divorce attorney famous in the industry for making cheating husbands leave with nothing.

"Attorney Dickerson, it's me. Iris Young."

"I want a divorce. I want Simon Stephens ruined. Destroyed. Left with nothing."