The Jilted Wife Is A Secret Heiress

The morning sun reflected off the white marble steps of the New York City Clerk's Office.

A black SUV pulled up to the curb.

Luke stepped out first. He was no longer in tactical gear. He wore a tight black t-shirt that strained against his biceps and dark sunglasses. He looked like a weapon.

He opened the rear door.

Isabella stepped out.

She was wearing a white power suit. The tailoring was impeccable, sharp enough to cut glass. She wore oversized sunglasses and four-inch stilettos that clicked rhythmically on the pavement.

Hamilton was already there, standing near the entrance with Preston. He looked exhausted. Dark circles rimmed his eyes.

He looked up as the car door closed. He saw the stilettos first, then the white power suit. His breath caught in his throat. He recognized her instantly, but it was like seeing a ghost wearing a stranger's skin.

She took off her sunglasses, and his last shred of doubt vanished.

"Isabella?" he asked, his voice cracking with disbelief.

He looked at the suit. He looked at Luke standing protectively beside her.

His face darkened. "So this is it? This is why you wanted the divorce so fast? You found a sugar daddy?"

He gestured at Luke.

Isabella didn't even look at Luke. She looked straight at Hamilton.

"This is strictly business, Mr. Mckee. We have an appointment."

Luke stepped between them, his hand held up in a stopping motion. "Back up, sir."

Hamilton bristled. "Excuse me? I'm her husband."

"Not for long," Luke said. His voice was a low rumble.

Hamilton felt a surge of anger he couldn't explain. It wasn't just annoyance. It was possession. She was his mouse. His charity case.

They walked inside. The fluorescent lights of the clerk's office buzzed overhead.

The clerk, a bored woman with reading glasses, looked at the papers.

"Sign here. And here."

The sound of the stamp hitting the paper echoed like a gavel. Thud. Thud.

"Divorce granted," the clerk droned.

Isabella picked up her copy. She folded it neatly and slid it into an orange Hermès Birkin bag that Luke was holding for her.

Hamilton's eyes widened. He recognized the bag. It cost more than a car.

"Where did you get that?" he demanded. "Did you max out my supplementary card before I cut it off?"

Isabella stopped. She turned to him, a small, pitying smile playing on her lips.

"Check your statements, Hamilton. I haven't spent a dime of your money in three years. Not for clothes. Not for food. Not for anything."

Hamilton froze. He tried to remember the last time he saw a bill from her. He couldn't.

"Then who..." He looked at Luke again. "Him?"

Isabella laughed. It was a light, airy sound that didn't reach her eyes.

"Goodbye, Hamilton."

She turned to leave.

Hamilton reached out. He grabbed her wrist. "Wait. We need to talk about-"

Luke moved faster than Hamilton could process. In a blur of motion, he had seized Hamilton's wrist and twisted it, forcing him to let go.

"Do not touch her," Luke snarled.

Hamilton stumbled back, rubbing his wrist. He stared at the bodyguard, shocked by the speed and the strength.

His phone rang. Cuba.

Isabella didn't look back. She walked out the door, her heels clicking a victory march.

Hamilton stared after her. The phone kept ringing.

"What?" he snapped into the receiver, his eyes still fixed on the closing door.

"Hamilton?" Cuba's voice was whiny. "My leg hurts. The doctor says I might have nerve damage from the... the stress."

Hamilton watched Isabella get into the SUV. The door closed.

"I'm coming," he said, but his voice was hollow.

"Sir," Preston whispered, looking at his tablet. "The market just opened. The Journal just published a story about OmniCorp's stolen IP. Mckee Capital stock is down 8%. Someone is shorting us heavily."

Hamilton tore his eyes away from the street. "What? Who?"

"We don't know," Preston said. "It's a shell company. Aegis Ventures."

Hamilton felt a cold shiver run down his spine.

Isabella sat in the back of the SUV. She watched the City Clerk's office disappear in the rearview mirror.

"Luke," she said. "Give me the copy of the marriage certificate."

Luke handed her the paper.

She held it up. With calm, deliberate movements, she tore it in half. Then in quarters. Then into confetti.

She dropped the pieces into the small trash bin in the door panel.

"Goodbye, Isabella Mckee," she whispered.