My Husband's Blindness, My Sweet Revenge

Alexander stormed back into the master bedroom. The rage was a physical thing now, a tight knot in his chest that made it hard to breathe. He snatched the divorce papers from the bed where he had discarded them.

He needed to read them. He needed to find the loophole, the mistake, the thing he could use to crush this rebellion. She couldn't just check out of their marriage like it was a hotel.

He scanned the document again, his eyes burning. He skipped the financial waivers. He looked for the cause.

Grounds for Divorce.

His eyes stopped. He blinked, thinking he had misread the elegant, looping handwriting.

Irreconcilable differences and Spousal Functional Dysfunction.

Alexander froze. The paper crinkled in his tightening grip.

Dysfunction? he whispered the word. It tasted like ash.

She was mocking him. She was implying... that?

He remembered the nights he had spent in this bed, turning his back to her. Not because he couldn't perform, but because he wouldn't. He had withheld himself as a form of loyalty to Scarlett, a twisted sort of chastity. And Evelyn-quiet, mousey Evelyn-was calling it dysfunction?

With a roar of frustration, Alexander grabbed a crystal vase from the nightstand and hurled it against the opposite wall. It shattered into a thousand glittering shards, raining down on the plush carpet.

Five miles away, on Fifth Avenue, the sun was breaking through the clouds.

Evelyn stood outside the flagship Chanel store. She wasn't wearing the trench coat anymore. It was draped over her arm. She was wearing a simple white t-shirt and jeans she had changed into in a Starbucks bathroom.

A woman with bright red hair and a smile that could stop traffic came running down the sidewalk. Sophie.

Evie! Sophie shrieked, ignoring the dignified stares of the Upper East Side shoppers. She threw her arms around Evelyn, squeezing tight. You actually did it? You gave him the papers?

Evelyn hugged her back, smelling Sophie's expensive perfume and the comforting scent of loyalty. She pulled away and smiled. She reached up and took off her glasses. She folded them and slipped them into her purse.

I did, Evelyn said. The world looked sharper, brighter. She didn't need the glasses; they were non-prescription, a prop she had adopted to look more like the studious, boring girl her stepmother wanted her to be.

Sophie gasped, staring at Evelyn's face. God, I forgot. I forgot how gorgeous you are without those things hiding your eyes. Those lashes are illegal, Evie.

Evelyn laughed. It felt rusty, but good.

So, what's the plan? Sophie asked, eyeing the Chanel display. Are we burning through his credit limit? Please tell me we are.

Evelyn shook her head, a small, secretive smile playing on her lips. No. I left his cards on the counter.

Sophie's jaw dropped. You what? Evie, you need resources! You can't start a war with empty pockets.

Evelyn reached into her bag and pulled out a sleek, matte black card. It wasn't an Amex. It was issued by a private Swiss bank, displaying no name, just a chip and a serial number.

I have resources, Evelyn said quietly. The Oracle's accounts have been dormant for three years. It's time to wake them up.

Sophie's eyes widened, then narrowed into a wicked grin. Oh. Oh, right. I always forget you're secretly richer than God. This is going to be fun.

Let's hurt him where it counts, Sophie said, linking her arm through Evelyn's. His ego.

They pushed through the glass doors of Chanel. The air conditioning was cool and smelled of leather and money.

Evelyn didn't look at the price tags. For three years, she had worn what she was told to wear. Beige. Grey. Modest.

She walked to a rack and pulled out a dress. It was emerald green, silk, with a back that plunged dangerously low.

The sales assistant hurried over, looking skeptical of Evelyn's jeans. Can I help you, Miss?

I'm trying this on, Evelyn said. And bring me the matching heels. Size seven.

Ten minutes later, Evelyn stepped out of the dressing room. The silk clung to her curves like a second skin. The green made her hazel eyes pop, turning them into pools of gold and forest.

The sales assistant's jaw dropped slightly. It... it was made for you, Miss.

I'll take it, Evelyn said. She handed over the matte black card.

The assistant hesitated, looking at the nameless card. I'm not sure if our system accepts...

Try it, Evelyn said confidently.

Beep. Approved.

They moved like a whirlwind. Jimmy Choo. Prada. Yves Saint Laurent.

At a high-end salon, Evelyn sat in the chair. Cut it, she told the stylist.

All of it? the stylist asked, holding her long, heavy hair.

All of it.

The scissors flashed. Locks of brown hair fell to the floor. When the chair spun around, Evelyn looked at herself. Her hair was now a sleek, sharp bob that framed her jawline. It made her neck look long and elegant.

The makeup artist applied a coat of bold, blood-red lipstick.

Evelyn stared at the mirror. The mouse was gone. The woman staring back looked dangerous.

In the boardroom of Vance Global, the atmosphere was suffocating.

Alexander sat at the head of the long mahogany table. Twelve board members were discussing the quarterly projections. Alexander was staring at a graph, but he wasn't seeing it. He was seeing the empty spot on his nightstand.

His phone, placed face up on the table, remained stubbornly silent.

He checked it. No notifications.

He frowned. Usually, Evelyn's supplementary card triggered alerts on his phone for every grocery run, every dry cleaning bill.

She had been gone for hours. Surely she needed to eat? To take a cab? To book a hotel?

He opened his banking app.

Supplementary Card Ending in 4098: Status - Inactive.

Last transaction: 3 days ago. Whole Foods. $45.00.

She wasn't spending his money.

A strange uneasiness crept up his spine. If she wasn't using his money, how was she surviving? Did she have a stash of cash? Was she begging friends?

Or... did she not need him at all?

The thought was intrusive and unwelcome.

Mr. Vance? The CFO cleared his throat. Regarding the acquisition...

Alexander snapped his head up. Proceed.

He shoved the phone into his pocket. He told himself he didn't care. If she wanted to starve on the streets of Manhattan to prove a point, let her. She would come crawling back when reality hit.

But as the meeting droned on, he couldn't shake the image of her cold, indifferent eyes in the kitchen.