The Abandoned Wife's Cold Revenge

Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Caldwell Group headquarters.

Clayton sat behind his massive, black walnut desk on the top floor. The office was dark, lit only by the gray, stormy light filtering through the glass. His eyes were locked onto the iPad resting on his desk.

He was watching the replay of Daxton's Instagram Live.

Emaline's pale, defiant face filled the screen. Her voice, demanding ten percent of his company, echoed in the silent office.

Leo stood rigidly near the door, holding a tablet. "Sir, the PR department is trying to scrub the video, but Daxton Phillips's network is pushing it everywhere. It's currently the number one trending topic on Twitter."

Clayton let out a low, dark scoff. He picked up the iPad and tossed it carelessly onto the desk. The metal casing clattered against his glass water cup.

"It's a cheap PR stunt," Clayton said, his voice dripping with contempt. "She's desperate for money, so she's whoring herself out to a low-level actor for public sympathy."

He stood up, buttoning the center button of his suit jacket. He walked to the window, staring down at the microscopic cars navigating the flooded streets of Manhattan.

"Freeze the rest of her trust fund accounts," Clayton ordered without turning around. "Every single dime. Cut off her phone plan. Cancel her health insurance. Let's see how loud she barks when she's starving in the street."

"Yes, Mr. Caldwell." Leo nodded and quickly exited the room.

Clayton grabbed his black trench coat from the back of his chair. He was going to the hospital. He was going to look Emaline in the eyes and crush this pathetic rebellion himself.

Meanwhile, at Mount Sinai Hospital, three days later, against the furious objections of her doctors, Emaline was signing her own discharge papers.

She had spent seventy-two agonizing hours locked in that VIP room, forcing her shattered body to heal just enough to stand. She refused to spend another second in a hospital controlled by her brother. She pulled on a thin, beige trench coat over her clothes. Her left leg throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, the prosthetic socket rubbing uncomfortably against her skin.

She limped out of the hospital lobby and into the freezing downpour.

The wind howled, whipping the rain sideways. Within seconds, Emaline's hair was plastered to her skull, and her coat was soaked through. She stood under the narrow awning of the hospital entrance, her fingers trembling violently as she opened the Uber app on her phone.

She requested a ride. A red error message popped up.

Payment Declined.

She switched to her secondary credit card.

Payment Declined.

Emaline stared at the screen, the freezing rain dripping from her eyelashes. Clayton had done it. He had executed a total financial blackout. She didn't even have twenty dollars to get across town.

A sleek, black Maybach cut through the heavy rain, its tires hissing against the wet asphalt. It slowed down as it approached the hospital entrance.

Clayton sat in the backseat. Through the heavily tinted, bulletproof glass, he saw her.

Emaline was standing on the curb, shivering violently. Her thin coat clung to her fragile frame. She looked incredibly small, broken, and utterly alone in the storm. Yet, her spine was ramrod straight.

Clayton's chest tightened. A sudden, sharp pain seized his heart-a visceral, instinctual reaction that he couldn't control. It was the ghost of Chace's love, buried deep inside his borrowed identity, screaming at him to protect her.

Without thinking, Clayton reached for the chrome door handle. He was going to pull her out of the rain. He was going to drag her into the warmth of the car.

His fingers brushed the cold metal of the handle.

Just then, the screen of Emaline's phone lit up brightly in the gloom. Because the car was idling so close to the curb, Clayton's sharp eyes caught the large text notification on her lock screen.

Daxton: I'm coming to get you, beautiful.

The sharp pain in Clayton's chest instantly vanished, replaced by a roaring, blinding inferno of jealousy and rage.

His hand dropped from the door handle. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground together. She wasn't waiting in the rain because she was helpless. She was waiting for her lover.

"Don't stop," Clayton ordered the driver, his voice as cold as liquid nitrogen. "Drive straight through."

The driver stepped on the gas. The heavy Maybach surged forward.

The massive tires hit a deep puddle of muddy water right next to the curb. A massive wave of freezing, dirty water splashed up, hitting Emaline directly in the chest and legs.

Emaline gasped in shock, stumbling backward to avoid the deluge.

Her left foot-the prosthetic-hit a slick patch of wet pavement. The carbon-fiber foot had no traction. It slipped completely out from under her.

Emaline fell hard. Her hip slammed into the concrete, and she landed squarely in a puddle of freezing mud.

She gasped in pain, pushing her wet hair out of her eyes. She looked up just in time to see the license plate of the Maybach.

CALDWELL 1.

It was his car. He was inside. He had seen her, splashed her, and driven away.

Clayton looked through the rearview mirror. He watched Emaline sitting in the mud, completely drenched and abandoned. He forced himself to look away, staring blankly at the leather seat in front of him.

He pulled out his phone and dialed Crista's number.

"Crista," Clayton said, forcing his voice to sound gentle. "I'm on my way to the penthouse. I'll be there all night."

Back on the street, Emaline sat in the freezing water. She didn't cry. The rain washed the mud from her face, but it couldn't wash away the absolute, chilling clarity in her mind.

She placed her hands flat on the rough concrete. She ignored the screaming pain in her left leg and pushed herself up.

There was no more love. There was no more hesitation. There was only war.