The Unwanted Wife's Secret Billionaire Identity

Bradley shoved his thumb against the biometric lock. The heavy door of the Manhattan penthouse clicked open. He stormed into the dark apartment.

He didn't bother with the lights. The neon glow from the city outside lit up dust particles floating in the stagnant air. The faint, comforting smell of citrus—Herminia's scent—was completely gone. The place smelled like a tomb.

He took long, aggressive strides across the living room and threw open the master bedroom door. He walked straight into the walk-in closet. The corner that used to hold her plain clothes was stripped bare. Not a single hanger remained.

Bradley's breathing grew heavy and ragged. He turned and marched back into the living room. His eyes locked onto the glass coffee table.

Sitting perfectly in the center was the document. Resting heavily on top of it—the brilliant diamond wedding ring.

He walked over and stared at the ring. He remembered telling his assistant three years ago to just buy whatever was expensive.

He snatched the document and flipped to the last page. There, in sharp, elegant strokes, was Herminia's signature.

The sight of that ink burned his eyes. She really hadn't taken a single penny.

A violent, uncontrollable rage consumed him. He grabbed the thick stack of papers and ripped them in half. It wasn't enough. He tore them again and again until they were nothing but confetti, hurling the shreds onto the carpet.

He pulled out his phone and called Connor. His voice was ice. "Use every contact we have. I want Herminia's exact location in ten minutes."

He hung up and paced the living room like a caged animal. He kicked a tall floor lamp, sending it crashing into the wall.

Nine minutes later, his phone rang. Connor's voice was hesitant, trembling.

"Speak!" Bradley roared.

"Sir... she's at a private villa in Beverly Hills," Connor stammered. "It belongs to Ignacio Combs. The Hollywood actor."

The name made something snap inside Bradley. He knew Ignacio. That hypocrite was always smiling at Herminia at charity galas.

Jealousy clawed at his chest, hot and toxic. He thought she'd be starving on the streets, but she'd run straight into another man's arms. He kicked the glass coffee table. A loud crack echoed as the surface fractured.

He spun around and marched out the door, dialing his driver. "Get the jet ready. Now. I want to be in Los Angeles in five hours."

Hours later, after a tense, sleepless flight across the country, Bradley threw himself into the back seat of a waiting black Maybach at LAX. "Beverly Hills. Drive as fast as you can."

The Maybach tore through the night streets. Bradley gripped the edge of the leather seat, knuckles white. Images of Herminia smiling at that actor flashed in his mind. The jealousy made him want to tear the world apart.

He was going to drag her back. He'd break her legs and lock her up if he had to.

The Maybach let out a screeching wail as the brakes slammed hard, stopping aggressively in front of the brightly lit iron gates of the hillside villa.