The Scar He Gave, The Queen I Became

Cadence stepped into the massive walk-in closet.

She ignored the endless rows of pastel Chanel suits and modest dresses Franklin had purchased to mold her into the perfect, boring Mueller wife.

She knelt and pulled open the false bottom of the lowest drawer.

Her fingers traced the biometric lock on a sleek, black carbon-fiber briefcase.

It clicked open.

Inside lay four passports from different nations, a suppressed tactical handgun, and a black-and-gold USB drive engraved with a butterfly totem.

She tossed a few of her oldest, pre-marriage clothes into a duffel bag along with the case.

She felt absolutely nothing for the suffocating luxury of this room.

Walking back through the center of the living room, her boots stopped in front of a massive crystal sculpture.

It was a multi-million-dollar piece they had won at an auction on their first anniversary.

She stared at the flawless glass, remembering how Franklin had told the press it symbolized their pure, unbreakable bond.

A wave of intense nausea hit the back of her throat.

Cadence raised her hand and shoved the heavy crystal off the pedestal.

The deafening crash echoed through the penthouse.

Millions of dollars shattered into razor-sharp fragments, tearing into the priceless Persian rug.

The night butler rushed out of the hallway, his face draining of color at the sight of the destruction.

The butler opened his mouth to speak, but Cadence slowly turned her head.

Her eyes were so chillingly empty, stripped of every ounce of the gentle warmth he had known for three years, that the older man swallowed his words.

It was like staring into the face of a complete stranger, and the sheer, unnatural unfamiliarity of her gaze left him frozen in stunned disbelief.

Cadence stepped over the glittering ruins.

She pulled out her phone and dialed the private number of Elena Rostova, the most ruthless divorce attorney in Manhattan.

"Have the formal divorce agreement on Franklin Mueller's desk by eight a.m.," Cadence ordered, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. "No mediation."

She hung up and walked to the private elevator.

Her thumb pressed against the scanner. The steel doors slid open.

She stepped inside, watching the floor numbers drop rapidly.

With every descending floor, the invisible chains around her neck snapped one by one.

The elevator chimed at the underground VIP garage.

A pitch-black, armored Range Rover sat idling in her private spot, the engine purring like a caged beast.

The driver's door opened.

A tall man in a black tactical trench coat stepped out.

Ronan Daly, her most trusted operative in the underground network, took the duffel bag from her hand with a sharp nod.

"Boss," Ronan said, his voice low. "The Chase manor has been swept. No one will track your movements."

Cadence gave a curt nod and slid into the back seat.

The tinted windows rolled up, sealing her away from the damp, cold air of the garage.

The Rover merged into the neon-lit arteries of Manhattan at 2:00 AM.

Cadence leaned her head against the leather headrest and closed her eyes.

Ronan glanced at her pale face through the rearview mirror.

"Do you need the medical team on standby for the water exposure?" he asked quietly.

Cadence's eyes snapped open, a flash of ruthless energy burning in her irises.

"No," she commanded. "Drive straight to the Greenwich Village studio."

She needed to see someone.

Someone who could permanently erase the humiliating scar burning on her back.

Back in the penthouse, the loud crash had finally dragged Franklin out of the guest suite.

He stood at the top of the stairs, his silk robe tied loosely, his face a mask of dark thunder.

He stared down at the shattered crystal and the trembling butler.

"What happened?" Franklin demanded, his voice echoing dangerously.

The butler pointed a shaking finger at the private elevator. "Madam has... left, sir."

Franklin took the stairs two at a time, his leather slippers crunching over the broken glass.

His eyes scanned the room.

The crumpled divorce intent papers were gone.

In their place, sitting dead center on the cracked glass coffee table, was the massive sapphire engagement ring.

The symbol of the Mueller matriarch, discarded like trash.

Franklin snatched the ring off the table.

His fist clenched so hard around the metal band that the prongs dug deep into his palm, drawing blood.

A violent, unexplainable surge of panic and rage slammed into his chest.

He grabbed his phone and dialed her number.

A cold, automated female voice answered: "The number you have dialed is no longer in service."

Franklin's arm pulled back, and he hurled the phone violently against the wall, shattering it into pieces.