Marriage, Lies, and Vengeance

I couldn't sleep. The image of Spencer sliding that diamond ring onto Gwen's finger played on repeat behind my eyelids. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard the crowd's applause, saw the way his gaze had softened when he looked at her—a look he'd never once given me in seven years of marriage.

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed two AM. I tossed aside the blankets and sat up, my prosthetic hand aching from the fall earlier. The mansion was quiet now, most guests having left after the engagement celebration. Celebration. The word tasted bitter in my mind.

I slipped out of bed, my bare feet silent on the plush carpet. Maybe a glass of water would help settle my racing thoughts. As I passed the master bedroom—our bedroom, technically, though Spencer hadn't slept there in months—I heard something that made me freeze.

Low voices. Movement. A feminine laugh that sent ice down my spine.

"It's about time," Gwen's voice drifted through the partially open door. "Seven years of waiting, and finally I get what's mine."

I should have walked away. Should have retreated to my room and pretended I'd heard nothing. But something kept me rooted there, my hand pressed against the wall for support.

"You were patient," Spencer replied, his voice husky in a way it never was with me. "More patient than I deserved."

"Patience has its rewards." Gwen's laugh was like broken glass. "Unlike some people who think they can just waltz in and take what isn't theirs."

I knew I should leave, but my feet wouldn't move. Instead, I reached for my phone with trembling fingers, opening the recording app. The screen's glow seemed impossibly bright in the dark hallway as I carefully positioned it to capture their voices.

"Did you see her face when she fell?" Gwen's voice rose with cruel amusement. "All those cameras capturing her pathetic little secret. God, her hand flying off like that—I almost died laughing."

"She's been through enough," Spencer said, but his tone lacked conviction.

"Enough? She stole from me. From us." Gwen's voice hardened. "Those designs were mine, and I made sure everyone knows it now."

"You didn't have to go that far," Spencer murmured.

"Didn't I?" Gwen's voice dropped lower. "You saw how quickly those reporters turned on her. By tomorrow morning, she'll be finished in this industry. No one will hire a fraud with a fake hand and a ruined reputation."

I pressed my free hand against my mouth to stifle a gasp. She'd orchestrated everything—the plagiarism accusations, the timing, all of it.

"You're brilliant," Spencer said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "Remind me never to cross you."

"Cross me?" Gwen laughed again. "You'll never want to leave me now."

I'd heard enough. Carefully, I stopped the recording and retreated to my room, my heart hammering against my ribs.

* * *

Morning light filtered through the curtains as I sat on the edge of my bed, phone clutched in my hand. The recording had captured everything—Gwen's admission about orchestrating the plagiarism scandal, her cruel mockery of my disability, Spencer's complicity.

But what could I do with it? Who would even believe me?

My finger hovered over Asher's contact. My adoptive brother had always been my rock, even from thousands of miles away in London. But I'd promised myself I wouldn't burden him with my problems anymore.

Still, as tears blurred my vision, I found myself dialing his number.

"Nyla?" Asher's voice was instantly alert despite the time difference. "What's wrong?"

The concern in his voice broke something inside me. "Everything," I whispered, my voice cracking. "Asher, everything's falling apart."

I told him everything—the proposal, the plagiarism accusations, the fall, and finally, what I'd recorded last night. As I spoke, the words poured out like water through a broken dam.

"He's been sleeping with her," I said, the words burning my throat. "All this time, while I tried so hard to make our marriage work."

Silence stretched across the ocean between us. Then: "I'm coming home."

"What? No, you don't have to—"

"Yes, I do." His voice was steel wrapped in velvet. "This ends now, Nyla. I won't let them destroy you."

As we talked, my phone buzzed with notifications. Social media was exploding with the story—#FakeDesigner and #ProstheticFraud trending across platforms. Video clips of my fall, my prosthetic detaching, were being shared thousands of times.

"They're trying to ruin me," I whispered, scrolling through the vicious comments.

"Let them try," Asher said firmly. "I'll be there tomorrow. We'll fight this together."

For the first time in years, I felt something dangerous spark to life inside me—hope. But as I hung up and stared at the growing storm online, I wondered if it was already too late to salvage anything from the wreckage of my life.