The Billionaire's Wife Escapes To Antarctica

The dull crack of glass hitting bone echoed in the bedroom. Brigham's body went completely rigid for a second. Then, all the fight left his muscles. He collapsed onto the mattress, rolling off Amy.

Blood immediately began to pool at his hairline, sliding down his temple. He was completely unconscious.

Amy pushed herself backward until her back hit the headboard. She slid down and sat on the floor. Her hands were shaking violently. She stared at the smear of red blood on her fingertips. Her chest heaved as she dragged air into her burning lungs.

She did not reach for her phone to call an ambulance. She stared at him for five minutes. Then, she stood up. Her legs felt like lead. She walked to the bathroom, grabbed the first aid kit, and walked back.

She wiped the blood away with a wet towel. She peeled the backing off a large gauze pad and slapped it roughly over the cut on his forehead. She didn't bother with tape. She just left him there.

The next morning, the apartment was silent. Amy did not wait for Brigham to wake up. She changed into her clothes, grabbed her bag, and took the elevator down. She went straight to the university lab.

At noon, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out. It was a text from an unknown number. It contained an address for a Michelin-starred restaurant in Midtown, the kind of place that required reservations months in advance.

The second text came immediately after. "I am Giselle. I think we need to talk. About Brigham." She stared at the screen, her grip tightening on the phone. She must have gotten the number from someone in the Myers household. The thought made her skin crawl, a stark reminder of how easily her private boundaries could be breached.

Amy bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. She stripped off her white lab coat. She changed into a sharp, tailored black suit she kept in her locker. She walked out of the building.

When she arrived at the restaurant, the hostess took one look at her name and immediately led her to the most private VIP room in the back.

Giselle was sitting at the table. She was sipping coffee from a delicate porcelain cup. When Amy walked in, Giselle did not stand up. She slowly lowered her cup and let her eyes drag up and down Amy's body, assessing her like a cheap piece of furniture.

Giselle smiled. It was a thin, cruel smile. "Let's not waste time. We both know you are just a placeholder. A cheap copy he used while I was gone."

Giselle reached into her Birkin bag. She pulled out a thick manila envelope and slid it across the polished wood table. It stopped right in front of Amy.

"It is a draft of a divorce agreement." Giselle leaned back in her chair. "If you sign it quietly and step aside, I will make sure you get a very generous compensation package. Enough to keep you comfortable."

Amy looked down at the envelope. She did not touch it. She reached out and wrapped her fingers around the tall glass of ice water sitting in front of her.

She picked up the glass and threw the freezing water directly into Giselle's face.

Giselle shrieked. The sound was high and piercing. She jumped up, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. Water dripped from her eyelashes and soaked the front of her silk blouse. The waiters outside the door immediately looked through the glass panels, their eyes wide.

Amy stood up. She looked down at Giselle, her face completely blank. "Keep your garbage to yourself."

She turned on her heel and walked out of the room. Her steps were steady until she pushed through the front doors of the restaurant.

The cold wind hit her face. Her shoulders dropped. The tough facade crumbled. Her eyes burned, and the edges of her vision blurred with tears. She took a deep breath, forcing the tears back down.

She walked three blocks to a high-end men's boutique. She spent an hour picking out a silk tie for her adoptive father, Howard. Tonight was his seventieth birthday banquet. Brigham had promised her a month ago that he would attend.

By evening, Amy was standing in the grand banquet hall. She wore a modest but elegant evening gown. Her makeup hid the dark circles under her eyes.

Guests were arriving. Howard stood near the entrance, leaning on his cane. He kept looking toward the door. "Where is Brigham?" he asked, his voice full of expectation.

Amy forced a bright smile onto her face. "He is on a very important cross-border conference call. He will be here soon."

Ten minutes before the dinner officially started, Amy locked herself in a bathroom stall. She dialed Brigham's number over and over. It rang out every time. Her fingers flew across the screen, typing a text. "Please. Just show up for ten minutes. It's his 70th."

Her phone buzzed. A reply from Brigham.

"Emergency situation came up. Cannot leave. Give your father my regards. I sent a gift."

Amy stared at the gray text bubble. Her fingernails dug so hard into her palms that the skin nearly broke. She held her breath until her lungs ached.

She put the phone away. She pulled out her lipstick, reapplied it perfectly, and pushed the stall door open. She walked back into the loud, bright banquet hall.

Throughout the night, relatives kept coming up to her. "Where is your husband? Is everything okay?"

"He is on a call with Europe." Amy repeated the lie until her throat felt raw.

Howard watched her from across the room. He saw the tight grip she had on her champagne glass. He saw the fake smile. His eyes filled with pity.

When it was time to cut the cake, the doors opened. A delivery team walked in carrying a massive, incredibly expensive antique vase. The card read: "From Brigham Myers."

The crowd oozed with admiration. But to Amy, the vase sitting there in the middle of the room felt like a physical slap across the face.