The Presumed Dead Ex-Wife's Spectacular Comeback

Julian dragged Annabelle all the way to the penthouse. He shoved her through the master bedroom doors with brutal force.

Annabelle stumbled. Her high heels caught on the edge of the rug. She fell backward, her spine crashing hard against the solid wood of the custom closet doors.

Pain shot up her back, but she didn't make a sound.

Julian ripped his tie off and threw it on the floor. He paced the room like a caged, furious animal.

"You will call that precinct right now," Julian pointed a shaking finger at her. "You will tell them you lied about the grocery store. You will fix this."

Annabelle rubbed her throbbing wrist. The skin was already turning a bruised purple. She looked at him. Really looked at him. He looked like a stranger.

She didn't say a word. She turned around, opened the closet doors, and pulled out a battered black suitcase.

Julian stopped pacing. The muscle beneath his eye twitched. "What the hell are you doing?"

Annabelle unzipped the suitcase and started pulling her old, faded sweaters off the hangers.

Julian closed the distance in three long strides. He kicked the half-open suitcase.

It flipped over. Her cheap clothes spilled across the imported wool rug.

"Is this your new tactic?" Julian laughed. It was a harsh, ugly sound. "Playing the victim? Trying to squeeze more alimony out of me before you sign the plea deal?"

Annabelle crouched down. Her hands were perfectly steady. She picked up a gray sweater, folded it neatly, and placed it back in the upright suitcase.

She stood up and met his furious gaze. "I don't want a single cent from you."

Julian stared at her for a second. Then he threw his head back and laughed. The sound echoed off the high ceilings.

He walked over to her vanity table. He picked up a heavy diamond necklace. It caught the light, sparkling violently.

He tossed it onto her folded clothes in the suitcase. "You wouldn't last a day. Without the Ware trust fund, you can't even afford breakfast in Manhattan. You are nothing without this family."

Annabelle picked up the diamond necklace. The metal felt cold and heavy in her palm.

She walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. She unlatched the glass door and pushed it open. The cold night wind whipped her hair across her face.

She held her hand out over the balcony edge. And she let go.

The millions of dollars of diamonds vanished into the dark abyss of Central Park.

Julian's mocking smile froze. His face twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated rage.

He grabbed her jaw. His fingers dug into her cheeks, forcing her to look at him.

"You are a manipulative, greedy bitch," Julian spat. "You drugged me seven years ago to climb into my bed. You stole Jocelyne's life. You owe us."

The words hit the deepest, rawest wound in Annabelle's soul.

She didn't fight his grip. She just stared at him. Her eyes were completely dead.

"Waking up in that hotel room seven years ago," Annabelle said, her voice a slow, deliberate whisper, "was the most disgusting nightmare of my entire life."

Julian flinched. The absolute revulsion in her eyes burned him. His fingers loosened just a fraction.

Annabelle shoved his chest hard. She broke free.

She walked over to her suitcase, zipped it up, and pulled up the handle.

She walked to the bedroom door. She stopped, her hand on the brass knob. She didn't look back.

"The official divorce papers will be sent to the group headquarters tomorrow," she said to the door.

She walked out and slammed the door behind her. The heavy thud shook the walls.

Julian stood alone in the massive bedroom. His chest heaved. He stared at the empty doorway.

He scoffed, adjusting his cuffs with trembling fingers. "She won't last three days. She'll come crawling back."