My Husband Killed Our Son, So I Married His Brother

Arabella's POV

I had barely stepped out of the car when Nathaniel came rushing through the front doors of the estate.

The panic on his face was so unguarded that even the careful mask he hurriedly assembled could not conceal it completely. His gaze darted first to the car parked outside, then to me, and although visible relief softened his features, I could still see the alarm lingering beneath it.

“Arabella,” he called as he strode toward me. “Where have you been? I was worried.”

Worried.

The word almost made me laugh.

The bitterness of it sat heavy on my tongue. Perhaps another woman might have been moved by his concern, but after everything I now knew, his worry felt hollow, another performance polished by years of practice.

I forced a gentle smile.

“I went out to prepare something for next week.”

Nathaniel slowed.

“For next week?”

I tilted my head and watched him carefully.

“For our anniversary.”

For the briefest second, his expression emptied.

“Our anniversary?”

“Yes,” I said softly. “Our wedding anniversary.”

I held his gaze just long enough to make sure he understood exactly what I meant.

“Did you forget?”

He cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair.

“No, of course not,” he said quickly, giving a strained laugh. “How could I forget something that important? I’ve just been overwhelmed with work lately. You know how things have been.”

Liar.

I lowered my gaze and nodded as though satisfied.

“Well, I wanted to surprise you, so I won’t spoil it. You’ll see soon enough.”

His smile returned, though it lacked ease.

“I’m looking forward to it. You should have called me. I would’ve gone with you.”

“It’s alright,” I said quietly. “You’ve been busy. I didn’t want to burden you.”

Something flickered in his eyes.

Guilt.

Or perhaps discomfort.

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to my cheek, but the gesture felt lifeless. His touch, once capable of grounding me, now felt colder than marble.

“I’m glad you’re home.”

“So am I,” I lied.

I walked past him and entered the house.

Behind me, I heard the quiet breath he released.

Relief.

He believed I had seen nothing.

He believed his secrets remained buried.

If only he knew.

I climbed the stairs and entered our bedroom.

The moment I crossed the threshold, nausea rose in my throat.

This room had once felt sacred to me. It held memories of whispered promises, quiet laughter, and nights when I still believed love could survive anything.

Now every memory felt contaminated.

Every surface felt stained by betrayal.

The door opened behind me.

I turned, expecting Nathaniel.

Instead, Genevieve stood there.

She leaned against the doorway with infuriating ease, her lips curved into a smug smile while amusement gleamed in her eyes. She carried herself with the confidence of someone who believed victory had already been secured and had come only to savor the humiliation of the woman she defeated.

“You saw us, didn’t you?” she asked.

I kept my face blank.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Genevieve laughed softly and stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

“Oh, Arabella,” she said, shaking her head. “Don’t insult me by pretending. I saw you standing there.”

I said nothing.

She moved closer, studying me with deliberate cruelty.

“You should’ve stayed longer,” she continued. “You might have learned something useful.”

I gave a careless shrug.

“If that’s all, you should leave. Nathaniel is probably waiting downstairs, and I’d like to rest.”

Her expression shifted.

That was not the reaction she expected.

For a brief moment, uncertainty cracked her confidence before she recovered.

“Very well,” she said lightly. “I suppose I should return and continue where we left off. Feel free to watch next time.”

She turned and left.

The moment the door closed, I took out my phone and sent a secure message to Matteo.

Phase one is complete. Be ready.

His response came almost instantly.

A single silver heart appeared on the screen.

Despite myself, a cold smile touched my lips.

Over the next two days, Nathaniel rarely left my side.

He hovered constantly, watching me with quiet vigilance, as though some instinct warned him that something had shifted between us even if he could not identify what. His suspicion made every step of my preparation more difficult, and by the second day, even my patience had begun to fray.

If instinct would not draw him away, jealousy would.

Using an encrypted number, I sent Genevieve a carefully crafted message.

It was cruel by design.

Nathaniel seems tired of you. He barely leaves my side now. Keep lying to yourself if you want, but he’s still mine.

I knew exactly what that message would provoke.

Genevieve’s pride would never allow her to believe she was losing control.

Before long, Nathaniel’s phone began lighting up repeatedly.

Calls.

Messages.

Repeated attempts from Genevieve.

At first, to my annoyance, he ignored every one of them.

But eventually, just as I began to worry the bait had failed, he excused himself and stepped outside to answer.

When he returned several minutes later, his expression had turned solemn.

“My love,” he said gently, “something urgent has come up overseas. I need to leave tonight.”

I lowered my eyes and feigned disappointment.

“For how long?”

“Three days.”

I let silence hang between us before answering.

“Our anniversary is in four days.”

Guilt flashed across his face.

“I know, and I’m sorry. But I promise I’ll be back before then. I wouldn’t miss it.”

He kissed my forehead.

Inside, triumph surged through me.

Three days.

I had expected only a few hours.

Instead, he had given me exactly what I needed.

Perfect.

The next three days passed in relentless preparation.

Every document was finalized.

Every legal arrangement confirmed.

Every step of the plan secured.

Ironically, Genevieve made everything easier.

Whenever doubt threatened to weaken my resolve, she sent fresh photos and videos of herself with Nathaniel, convinced each new image would deepen my suffering.

Instead, each one hardened my resolve.

I saved every file.

Soon, she would regret sending any of them.

At last, our anniversary arrived.

It was also the day Nathaniel was due to return.

I stood alone in the grand foyer while my thoughts raced faster than my heartbeat. Slowly, I picked up my phone and sent Nathaniel one final message.

Happy anniversary. I left your gift in the grand hall.

Then I placed the signed divorce papers on the table.

Beside them, I arranged the evidence of his betrayal: the files from his study, the videos I had recorded, and the photos Genevieve had so eagerly handed me herself.

After that, I blocked both Nathaniel and Genevieve.

No calls.

No messages.

No access.

The final thread between us had been cut.

I drew a steady breath and picked up my suitcase.

When I stepped outside, Matteo White was already waiting.

A knowing smile curved his mouth.

“Ready?”

He extended his hand.

I took it without hesitation.

A private jet waited beyond the estate, its sleek silver body gleaming beneath the fading light.

I stared at it briefly but lacked the energy to comment.

As the crew prepared for departure, I turned toward Matteo.

He met my gaze.

I gave a small nod.

His smile deepened.

Then he opened his phone and executed the final step.

Within seconds, the evidence was sent to media outlets, board members of Ashford Holdings, major investors, and every influential name in high society.

By morning, the truth would be everywhere.

Nathaniel Ashford’ empire would begin burning before sunrise.

Matteo’s voice was quiet when he finally spoke.

“Now,” he said, watching the jet engines come alive, “the real game begins.”