My Husband Threw Me Away for His First Love

It was Tuesday afternoon. The cold upstate was brutal. The wind howled through the bare trees and bit right through my thin costume dress. My lips felt numb and stiff. I sat on a wooden apple box behind a heavy lighting rig. I held a cold turkey sandwich in my bare hands. The bread was hard. The plastic wrapper crackled in the wind. I took a small bite anyway. I had to keep my energy up.

I knew Kane was in Greenwich. He was supposed to be playing the devoted fiancé at the Nichols family estate. I also knew Marcus would make the call. I just had to wait.

I heard the noise before I saw it. A loud, rhythmic thumping echoed in the gray sky. The crew stopped working. The sound grew deafening. A sleek black helicopter descended over the tree line. It kicked up a massive cloud of snow and dead leaves. The production manager yelled something, but the wind stole his words.

I didn't look up. I just chewed my cold sandwich. He was right on time.

The helicopter landed in an empty clearing near the set. The side door slid open. Kane stepped out. He wore a long black cashmere overcoat. He looked like a king descending into a slum. He looked completely out of place among the cheap tents and freezing crew.

His dark eyes scanned the chaotic set. They were frantic. Then, he spotted me.

He marched through the snow. His heavy boots crunched loudly. The crew parted for him automatically. Wealth and power radiated from him. Diana Whitmore, the director, stepped forward. She looked annoyed but intimidated by his sheer presence.

Kane didn't even glance at her. He walked straight to my apple box and stopped.

He stared at me. He looked at my thin, ragged dress. He looked at my blue lips. He looked at the half-eaten cold sandwich in my red, chapped hands. He looked at my cheap, worn-out boots in the snow.

His jaw clenched so hard the bone popped. A muscle twitched in his cheek. His chest heaved under the expensive cashmere. He was vibrating with a rage I had never seen before. Not even when he lost his company.

He whipped around to face Diana. His voice was low. It was a dangerous, deadly growl. It carried clearly over the freezing wind.

"Who put her here?"

Diana blinked. She took a step back. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. The production manager froze. The whole set went dead silent.

I stood up slowly. My legs were stiff from the bitter cold. I brushed a layer of snow off my thin skirt. I kept my face perfectly calm. I didn't shiver. I didn't cross my arms for warmth.

"No one put me here, Kane," I said quietly.

He froze. He turned back to me. His dark eyes were full of shock. He looked like I had just slapped him.

"You did," I added.

I didn't raise my voice. I didn't sound angry or bitter. I just stated a simple fact. I looked him dead in the eye, letting him see my blue lips and pale skin.

Then, I turned my back on him. I threw my sandwich into a nearby trash can. I walked toward the camera setup. I felt his eyes burning into my back. I knew he was watching my shivering shoulders. I knew something inside him was finally cracking. The great Kane Nichols was feeling the crushing weight of what he threw away.

I didn't look back. Kane was gone by the time the director yelled cut. But the damage was done. My trap had snapped shut.

Two weeks later, I was back in Manhattan. I sat in Rosie’s warm apartment. The heater hummed softly. She poured me a cup of hot black tea.

"He lost his mind," Rosie said with a sharp, satisfied smile. "My contacts at his firm told me everything."

I took a sip of the tea. The heat seeped into my palms. "Tell me."

"He flew back to the city in a blind fury. He didn't go back to the Greenwich estate. He left Irene waiting there alone." Rosie sat across from me. She pulled her knees up. "He launched a massive private investigation. He brought in his best forensic team."

I nodded slowly. "And?"

"It took them two solid weeks," Rosie continued. Her eyes gleamed with triumph. "Irene was sneaky. She used a long trail of intermediaries. But she wasn't smart enough for Kane's team. They dug through every financial hold on your accounts. They tracked every canceled interview. They unraveled the whole thing."

"Every closed door," I murmured.

"Exactly. And every single string traced back to the same source. Someone wielding the Nichols name." Rosie laughed softly. "There is only one person beside Kane who has that authority right now."

Irene.

I looked out the window. The city lights blurred in the cold rain. Kane was a meticulous man. He hated being played. He hated betrayal more than anything. For five years, he thought Irene was an angel. He built a mental shrine to a girl who gave him a Band-Aid.

Now, he was staring at a monster. He was looking right at the ugly truth.

"What is he doing now?" I asked quietly.

"He hasn't said a word to her yet," Rosie replied. "He's just gathering the proof. But he froze her out. Literally. He moved into his Tribeca apartment. He won't take her calls."

I smiled. It was a small, cold smile. The untouchable billionaire was finally waking up. The illusion was shattered. And the real nightmare was just beginning for him.