His Unwanted Wife Is Another Man's Treasure

Ellie Vance POV

I spent two weeks in a safe house-a small, dusty cottage on the edge of the Vance territory that nobody used.

I painted. I slept. I filled my lungs with air that didn't smell of Marcus's cologne or Izzy's perfume.

Then came the summons: The Children's Hospital Charity Gala.

It was the biggest event of the season, and my absence would be interpreted as a declaration of war between the families.

I had to go.

I donned a dress of emerald green silk. It was backless, dangerous. I wore my hair up, exposing the long line of my neck. I looked like a weapon sheathed in satin.

When I walked into the ballroom, the conversation died.

Marcus was there, near the center. Izzy was on his arm. She was wearing white, like a mock bride. They were laughing, holding court like royalty.

When Marcus saw me, his smile faltered.

He scanned me, looking for the broken woman he had exiled two weeks ago. He looked for the red eyes, the slumped shoulders.

I gave him nothing.

I gave him a polite nod, the way one acknowledges a business rival, and turned away.

"Ellie!" Chloe, my one real friend in this snake pit, rushed over. "Oh my god, are you okay? I heard rumors..."

"I'm fine, Chloe," I said, smoothly taking a glass of champagne from a passing tray.

"But Marcus... he's here with her."

"I see that."

"Doesn't it hurt?"

I took a sip. "People change, Chloe. We made our choices. It's all in the past."

Marcus had drifted closer. He was listening. I knew he was. He expected me to cause a scene, to fight for him.

He stepped into my line of sight. Izzy clung to his bicep like a barnacle.

"You look... healthy," Marcus said. His tone was accusatory, as if my wellbeing was a personal insult to him.

"Thank you," I said, looking past him to a painting on the wall. "The country air is good for the constitution."

"You've been gone a long time, Ellie. People are talking."

"Let them talk. It's what they do best."

I turned my back on him to speak to an old donor. I felt Marcus's gaze boring into my shoulder blades.

He was confused. He was used to being the sun; he didn't know how to handle a planet that had broken orbit.

Later in the night, the organizer announced a game: The "Wheel of Truth."

It was a stupid tradition for the high rollers-a spectator sport where you spun the wheel, then answered a brutal question or paid a massive donation.

The spotlight hit Izzy. She giggled, spinning the digital wheel on the screen.

It landed on: Ask a Question to the Person You Least Respect.

The room tittered. Izzy took the microphone. Her eyes locked onto me across the room.

"Well," she purred. "I think I'll ask Mrs. Thorne."

The silence was deafening. Marcus looked at Izzy, then at me. He didn't stop her. He wanted to see me bleed. He wanted to see if I still cared.

"Ellie," Izzy said, her voice amplified through the speakers. "After everything... do you really think you still have the qualifications to talk about love? Or to even be here?"

It was a direct attack on my status, my marriage, my worth.

I felt the heat rise in my cheeks. Every eye was on me. The pity again. The scorn.

I set my glass down. I didn't take the microphone. I just projected my voice, clear and steady.

"Love has nothing to do with qualifications, Izzy. It's about choice. And dignity."

I paused, letting the words hang in the heavy air.

"I chose to say goodbye to the past. I chose to walk away from things that are beneath me."

Beneath me.

I had just called her-and him-beneath me.

Marcus's face turned a violent shade of red. His ego, fragile as crystal, shattered. I hadn't begged. I hadn't cried. I had dismissed him.

He grabbed the microphone from Izzy. But instead of speaking, he grabbed her face.

He kissed her.

Right there. In front of the cameras. In front of the families. In front of his wife.

It was a brutal, punishing kiss. A claim. A weapon.

The room gasped.

He pulled back, breathless, and looked straight at me. His eyes were wild, desperate to provoke a reaction.

"Some people," he growled into the mic, "are just history. Some people are the future."

He was trying to kill me. He was trying to stab me in the heart publicly.

But he missed.

I looked at him-really looked at him-and realized the man I loved was dead. This man? This man was just a pathetic bully in a tuxedo.

I smiled. A small, pitying smile.

And then I turned to the waiter. "Could I have a refill, please? This champagne is excellent."