The Billionaire's Discarded Wife Strikes Back

I propped myself up and sat on the edge of the bed, watching his expression. I couldn't help the faint smile that tugged at my lips.

"What else would it be? Your love?"

Mick's face went dark. His chest heaved, but my words had left him with nothing to say.

Hester had been waiting in the living room. When neither of us emerged, she raised her voice toward the bedroom.

"Mick, weren't you going to take me shopping?"

She paused, then added, "Bring Ebony along. Throw her a bone and maybe she'll sign the papers without a fuss."

I wanted to snap back, but then it hit me: my sister's surgery was still short the final payment, and today was the deadline.

So I kept my mouth shut.

Before we left, I placed the signed divorce agreement on the most visible spot in Mick's study.

One signature. That was all it took to erase this marriage for good.

In the car, Mick and Hester sat together in the back seat, pressed close, whispering and laughing.

I sat in the passenger seat. The scenery blurred past the window, but my mind drifted somewhere far away.

The truth was, I had loved Mick once.

Back then, I'd been a different person. Hot-tempered. The kind of woman who wouldn't tolerate a single grain of sand in her eye.

The first time Mick told me there was someone else, I lost it.

I smashed everything in the living room I could get my hands on. Porcelain shattered against the walls. My screams rattled the windows. The whole apartment trembled with the force of it.

He just stood there, watching me with that detached calm, his voice cold enough to freeze the air between us.

"Ebony, know your place."

"Either we divorce right now and you walk out with nothing, or you accept things the way they are and pretend this never happened."

I cursed him out and slammed the door behind me.

I thought he'd panic. Come looking for me. Bend.

A full week passed. Not a single call. Not one text.

He went on with his life. Eating, drinking, doing whatever he pleased, as if I had never existed at all.

When I had nowhere left to turn, I called a friend from the program.

She listened, then let out a quiet sigh.

"Ebony, you're still young. Having a backbone is a good thing, but you can't go head-to-head with him like this."

"Men are all the same. They'll let the other woman throw tantrums and act cute, but the second their wife shows any temper, all they feel is annoyed. They'll call you difficult."

"Remember what we learned. Play the role. Be gentle. Be understanding. Be agreeable. And never, ever let pride get in the way of the money."

I locked myself in a hotel room for three days. Didn't eat. Didn't drink. Cried until I passed out.

On the third day, something inside me broke clean through.

I went back. I lowered my head. I apologized to Mick for everything.

Only then did he relent, granting me what passed for forgiveness, his voice flat and dismissive.

"Good girl. Don't make a scene again."

From that day on, the old Ebony died. The fierce, sharp-tongued woman who refused to swallow a single insult was gone.

The one who survived was someone else entirely. Someone who only cared about money, never lost her temper, and always knew her place.

At the department store, Hester picked out a pair of the latest red-soled stilettos, dropped them on the floor, and tilted her chin up at me.

"Ebony. Come put these on for me."

Mick frowned slightly and murmured, "There's a sales associate who can help you with that."

Hester immediately looped her arm through his and shook her head with a pout.

"No. I want Ebony to do it. Look at those soft, pretty hands of hers, so well-maintained. I want her."

I stood where I was and didn't move.

Hester's expression hardened. She reached into her bag, pulled out a thick stack of cash, and hurled it straight at my face in front of everyone.