My Husband used me for Money, so I returned the Favor

"What?" Aiden laughed, a sharp, incredulous sound that bounced off the sterile walls. "You are asking me for a divorce? Are you insane?"

He stepped away from the door and walked back to the bedside, looming over me.

"Ysabel, look at you," he said, gesturing to my bandaged hands, to the IV drip, to the broken woman in the bed. "You’re in shock. You’re traumatized. You’re not thinking clearly. What are you going to do after? Hmm? You lost your hands. You lost your career. Without me, without the Smith and Miller name... you’re going to be nothing."

The words were meant to crush me. They were meant to remind me of my place—the orphan girl who got lucky, the prodigy who flew too high and crashed. But instead of breaking me, they calcified the resolve hardening in my chest.

"I’d rather be nothing than be married to a coward," I said quietly.

Aiden’s jaw tightened. "I am not a coward. I am being realistic. You can’t survive on your own right now. You need care. You need money for rehabilitation. Do you really think you can navigate a divorce while learning how to hold a spoon again?"

He leaned down, his face inches from mine. "Process it, Ysabel. Really think about it. Or divorce me. Go ahead. See how far you get without my support."

He didn't mean money. He meant power.

I stared at him, silence stretching between us like a loaded weapon. He expected me to fold. He expected the tears, the begging, the submission.

When I didn't speak, he sighed, straightening up and adjusting his cufflinks.

"Let’s not talk about this anymore," he said dismissively. "You’re emotional. It’s the medication. How about you rest and think about this after some time? Please? For me?"

Before I could answer, the door pushed open.

Amber walked in. She was wearing a pastel cardigan and holding a bouquet of lilies—my least favorite flower.

"Ysabel," she breathed. She looked at my hands and let out a choked sob. "Oh my god. I am so, so sorry."

I turned my head away, staring at the wall.

"I know you hate me right now," Amber continued, her voice trembling. "I know you hate Antonio. And you have every right to. He... he’s sick, Ysabel. He didn’t mean to ruin your life. I’ll pay for everything. The surgeries, the therapy. I’ll sell my car. I’ll do whatever it takes. Just... please don’t destroy him."

"Get out," I whispered.

"Ysabel!" Aiden barked, his voice sharp. "She is trying to apologize. Show some grace."

"Grace?" I looked back at them, my eyes burning. "Her brother stabbed me, Aiden. And you want me to show grace?"

"She is my best friend," Aiden said, his voice dropping to a dangerous low. "And she is here, humbling herself. You will listen to her."

He moved to stand behind Amber, placing a protective hand on her shoulder. The image was striking—the two of them, united against the invalid wife.

"Fine," I said, the word tasting like bile. "I’m listening."

"I just want you to know," Amber sniffled, wiping a tear. "That we can fix this. We can move past this. If you just... if you just agree not to press charges, we can handle Antonio privately. We can get him into a facility. He doesn't belong in prison, Ysabel. He’s family."

Aiden looked at me, his eyes pleading, silently reminding me of the threat he had just made. You’re going to be nothing.

I needed time. I needed to get out of this hospital. I needed to be smart.

"Okay," I lied. "I won't file the case."

The relief in the room was palpable. Aiden’s shoulders sagged. Amber let out a breathy laugh, reaching out to squeeze my forearm.

"Thank you," she gushed. "Oh, thank you, Ysabel. You’re a saint. Truly."

"We should go," Aiden said, checking his watch. "She needs to rest. We’ll come back tomorrow to check on your discharge papers."

"Rest well, Ysabel," Amber said.

They walked out together. I watched them through the crack in the door. As they walked down the hallway, I saw Aiden’s hand slide down to the small of her back. I saw her lean into him.

I waited until their footsteps faded.

Then, I struggled to sit up. I used my elbows to maneuver the phone on the bedside table. It was clumsy. It was humiliating. But I managed to hit the voice dial.

"Call Nathan Blackwood," I commanded.

The phone rang. Once. Twice.

Nathan Blackwood. The only lawyer in the city who had ever beaten Aiden in court. They hated each other with a professional rivalry that bordered on blood sport.

"This is Blackwood," a deep, gravelly voice answered.

"Mr. Blackwood," I said, my voice steady despite the pain. "This is Dr. Ysabel Smith."

There was a pause. "Dr. Smith? Aiden’s wife? To what do I owe the pleasure? Is your husband looking to settle the grand merger?"

"No," I said. "I want to hire you. Attempted murder. Assault with a deadly weapon. Grievous bodily harm. Antonio Miller," I said.

"Why me?" Nathan asked finally. "Your husband is the best litigator in the state. Why are you calling his rival?"

"Because he won't take the case," I said, staring at my bandaged hands. "He’s protecting them. So I need someone who won't."

"I see," Nathan said. His tone had changed. It was sharp, predatory. "Well, Dr. Smith. I have to say... I’ve been waiting for a chance to wipe that smug look off Aiden’s face for a decade. I’ll be at the hospital in the morning."

Two days later, I was discharged.

The nurse wheeled me out to the curb where the town car was waiting. Aiden wasn't there. He had texted, saying he was "tied up in a meeting"—probably comforting Amber again.

I didn't care. I had the papers Nathan had drafted hidden in my bag.

As the driver opened the door, my phone buzzed. I fumbled to answer it with my bandaged fingers.

"Ysabel!"

It was Ben, Lucas’s manager. He was screaming.

"It’s over. Lucas is over."

"What?" I froze. "Ben, slow down."

"A video leaked," he choked out, the panic vibrating through the speaker. "Him hitting a woman. Shooting heroin. It’s a deepfake, Ysabel, but no one cares! The studio dropped him. Dior dropped him. The internet is calling him a monster."

My blood ran cold. My brother was the Golden Boy of Hollywood. He wouldn't hurt a fly. "That’s impossible."

"He couldn't take it," Ben sobbed. "I found him in the dressing room. An empty bottle of sleeping pills."

The world stopped.

"He tried to kill himself, Ysabel. He’s in the ICU."