Marriage for Sweet Revenge

The morning of my wedding to Remington Cole dawned with a clarity I hadn't felt in weeks. Four days since my discharge from the hospital—four days of meticulous planning, of documents signed and arrangements made. I stood in the small dressing room at city hall, staring at my reflection. The ivory dress I'd chosen was elegant in its simplicity, falling in clean lines to just below my knees. No veil. No flowers. This wasn't a celebration; it was a declaration of war.

Marcus knocked softly before entering, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror.

"Everything's ready, Ms. Campbell. Mr. Cole is waiting."

I nodded, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from my dress. "And the paperwork?"

"Filed and expedited as requested. It will be public record within hours."

A cold smile curved my lips. "Perfect."

The ceremony itself was brief and businesslike. Remington stood tall beside me, his dark eyes unreadable as we exchanged vows that meant nothing and everything simultaneously. His head of security, Elena Rodriguez, watched with sharp eyes, missing nothing. When the judge pronounced us husband and wife, Remington's hand on the small of my back was steady but impersonal—a reminder of our arrangement's boundaries.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Cole," he murmured as we exited the building.

"Thank you, Mr. Cole," I replied, my voice equally measured.

Marcus had already arranged for my belongings to be moved to Remington's penthouse. My apartment—the space I'd shared with Ian during weekend visits and intimate evenings—was stripped bare, as if Josephine Campbell had simply vanished.

I was in Remington's kitchen, methodically arranging a set of crystal glasses when my phone vibrated against the marble countertop. Ian's name flashed on the screen, and a bitter satisfaction bloomed in my chest. The news had reached him.

I let it ring three times before answering.

"What the fuck have you done?" His voice was raw, unhinged in a way I'd never heard before.

The ice that had formed around my heart since that day in the hospital thickened. "I've corrected my mistake," I replied, my tone glacial. "Lose my number."

I hung up and blocked his number with a single tap, then systematically blocked him on every platform we'd ever shared. It felt like cutting away diseased tissue—painful but necessary for survival.

Remington's penthouse was a study in minimalist luxury—all clean lines, neutral tones, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. My new husband showed me to my suite with courteous detachment.

"Your rooms," he said, pushing open a heavy oak door. "I've had them prepared according to your specifications."

The space was elegant and impersonal—exactly what I needed. A sanctuary without memories.

"Thank you," I said, maintaining the professional distance our contract stipulated.

Nights were the hardest. Sleep eluded me, memories of betrayal and loss playing on endless loop behind my closed eyelids. I would pace the length of my suite, reorganizing drawers, aligning books, anything to impose order on the chaos inside me. Sometimes, I'd venture into the kitchen at 3 a.m., meticulously arranging spices or glassware until my hands stopped shaking.

I knew Remington noticed. I'd catch his gaze following me during our brief interactions, observing the dark circles under my eyes, the way I compulsively straightened items on his desk when we discussed business. He never commented, never pushed—and for that, I was grateful.

Ian's campaign began three days after our wedding. The first bouquet arrived at Cole Enterprises—an ostentatious arrangement of red roses with a card I didn't bother to read. I instructed Marcus to donate them to the children's hospital and to do the same with any future deliveries.

The emails came next—long, rambling manifestos about his undying love, his devastation at losing me, his insistence that we could work through anything. I forwarded each one directly to my lawyer without reading past the subject line.

Then he started showing up at Cole Enterprises, creating scenes in the lobby, demanding to see me. Elena handled these incidents with quiet efficiency, but each one left me feeling more hunted than the last.

"He doesn't understand that it's over," I told Remington one evening as we reviewed documents in his home office.

Remington's expression hardened. "Men like Morrison never do. They believe everything and everyone belongs to them by right."

I looked up, meeting his gaze directly. "I don't belong to anyone anymore."

Something shifted in his eyes—respect, perhaps. Or recognition.

"No," he agreed quietly. "You don't."