The Ex-Wife's Unforgiving Revenge

My fiancé, Grayson Malone, had me locked in a mental institution while I was pregnant. He stole our son, Adam, and let his mistress raise him as her own.

For six years, I survived in poverty, secretly raising our daughter, Ida-the one he never knew existed.

Our worlds finally collided at a school event. His mistress, Kiera, shoved Ida, whose head cracked against a metal chair. Her heart stopped.

In the ensuing panic, Grayson found a journal I "accidentally" dropped. It was his dead sister's diary, holding the truth that proved Kiera's lies had destroyed my entire family.

Now, consumed by guilt, he's begging for a second chance. He thinks he can buy my forgiveness. He has no idea I'm about to take everything from him, just like he did to me.

Chapter 1

Jillian Chapman POV:

My ex-husband, Grayson Malone, the man who had me locked away and stole my son, stood across the school gymnasium. He recognized my face but not the child clutching my hand. Our daughter. The one he never knew existed.

A shrill cry ripped through the noisy assembly. It was Adam, our son, his face contorted in a furious scowl. He was six, just like Ida. He shoved her. Hard.

Ida stumbled, her small body hitting the polished wooden floor with a thud. The thin dress she wore, patched from too many washes, offered no padding. A wave of gasps rippled through the parents gathered for the elementary school' s art fair.

"You're a cheat!" Adam yelled, pointing a finger at Ida. His voice was high-pitched, echoing his father' s booming authority, even at this age. "You copied my drawing!"

Ida, tears welling in her large, dark eyes-Grayson' s eyes-clutched a crayon drawing of a bluebird. It was identical to the one Adam held, only hers seemed to possess a deeper, richer hue.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a familiar rhythm of fear and fury. I rushed forward, my worn sneakers squeaking on the floor. I knelt beside Ida, pulling her close, checking for scrapes. Her breathing was shallow, a faint wheeze escaping her lips. The heart condition. Always the heart condition.

"Adam," a woman' s voice, sharp and saccharine, cut through the air. Kiera. Of course. She was always there, hovering like a shadow, reinforcing the lie. She smoothed Adam' s perfectly pressed uniform, sending a disdainful glance my way. "A Malone never stoops to such common antics."

Grayson, towering over everyone, finally moved. His eyes, the same piercing blue as Adam' s, locked onto mine. He looked older, sharper, more formidable. Six years. Six years since he' d ripped my world apart. He' d sculpted himself into the ruthless Wall Street magnate I always knew he could be, but the man standing before me was a stranger. A monstrous stranger.

I felt nothing but a cold, calculating emptiness. The pain was a dull ache now, buried deep beneath layers of survival. He was just another obstacle.

"Jillian," his voice was a low rumble, laced with a surprise he couldn' t quite hide. It was a practiced calm, the kind he used to pacify investors.

I didn' t answer. I simply helped Ida to her feet, wiping the dust from her dress. She leaned into me, her small hand gripping mine tightly.

"Adam, apologize," Grayson commanded, his gaze flicking between my daughter and me. There was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes as they lingered on Ida' s face. A ghost of familiarity, perhaps.

Adam merely stuck out his tongue at Ida, then hid behind Kiera' s silk-clad leg. Kiera offered me a tight, pitying smile. "Some children are just... naturally inclined to trouble, aren' t they, Jillian?"

I stood up, my gaze unwavering. "Ida is not trouble, Kiera. Adam merely lacks discipline." My voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "And a sense of originality, apparently."

Grayson stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. "What is it you want, Jillian?" he asked, cutting straight to the chase, just as he always did in business.

"What I want," I began, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands, "is for my daughter to have the same opportunities as your son. A proper education. A stable life." My eyes met his. "And for that, I need resources."

He raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk playing on his lips. "Are you implying I owe you something?"

"I' m stating a fact," I corrected, my tone unwavering. "You created this situation. You took everything from me. Now, you will provide."

He paused, studying Ida. His gaze drifted to her hair, the same deep auburn as mine, then to the curve of her cheek, before snapping back to me. His eyes narrowed. A faint frown creased his brow.

"She... she looks familiar," he murmured, almost to himself. He took an involuntary step towards Ida, his hand partly extended.

My body tensed, an instinctual shield. I pulled Ida subtly behind my leg, creating a barrier. "Don' t touch her," I warned, my voice a low, fierce whisper.

"Why?" he pressed, his gaze piercing. "Is she... mine?"

The question hung in the air, a loaded accusation, a dangerous truth. I laughed, a harsh, brittle sound that drew stares from nearby parents. "Yours? After what you did to me? After you made sure I was locked away, pregnant and alone?" My voice rose, each word a venomous dart. "You think I' d willingly give birth to another one of your children?"

He flinched, the accusation hitting its mark. "You hated me," he stated, a strange mix of recognition and pain in his eyes. "You hated me enough to claw your way out of that... institution."

"Hate is too exhausting, Grayson," I lied, my voice dropping to a weary sigh. "I' m just tired. And I want what' s best for my daughter." I reached into my worn canvas bag, intending to pull out a tissue for Ida. My fingers brushed against a small, leather-bound journal. The journal. His sister' s journal.

I "accidentally" fumbled it. It slipped from my grasp, landing open on the floor between his polished leather shoes. The pages fluttered, revealing the elegant script within.

Grayson' s eyes, drawn by the movement, immediately fixed on the journal. Recognition, then a flash of intense emotion-grief, perhaps, or shock-crossed his face. It was an old, faded leather, inscribed with elegant calligraphy: For my dearest little brother, Grayson.

He bent down, his fingers hovering over the delicate pages. This was it. The first hook.

I seized the moment. "Come on, Ida. Let' s go." I scooped her up, ignoring Grayson entirely. We moved quickly through the growing crowd, heading for the exit.

"Jillian!" His voice cut through the clamor, sharp and insistent. It wasn' t a question; it was a command. He was following.

I didn' t look back. I could hear his rapid footsteps behind us, but I knew he wouldn' t catch me. Not yet. I knew Grayson. He was a shark. He' d sniff out the bait, but he' d take his time circling before he bit.

We were out the door, into the crisp autumn air. I risked a glance over my shoulder. He was standing on the steps, the journal clutched in his hand, his eyes scanning the distance where I' d disappeared. He looked lost, a powerful man momentarily undone by a scrap of the past. A triumphant smirk, fleeting and dark, touched my lips.

Ida stirred in my arms. "Mommy, why are you smiling?" she asked, her voice small and innocent. "And why are you so... shiny?"

I looked down at her, then caught my reflection in a storefront window. My eyes were burning, my cheeks flushed, my body electric with adrenaline. I looked almost healthy, almost vibrant. It was a stark contrast to the hollow-eyed woman I usually saw. The woman who survived on stale bread and stolen moments of rest.

"It' s nothing, sweetie," I murmured, pulling her closer. My smile faded, replaced by the familiar mask of weariness. "Just... a trick of the light."

"Who was that man, Mommy?" Ida asked, her tiny hand tracing the outline of my jaw. "The one who looked like Adam?"

My breath hitched. She was five years old, but sharp as a tack. She always had been. "He was... a man from a very long time ago," I said, choosing my words carefully. "He made a lot of bad choices."

"But he looked like Adam. And he looked like me too, a little," she insisted, her gaze thoughtful. Ida inherited Grayson' s striking features, softened by my own. It was a cruel twist of fate, a constant reminder of the past.

"He' s nothing to us, Ida," I stated firmly, though the words tasted like ash. "He' s just... a bridge we need to cross to get to where we need to be."

We walked for what felt like miles, the weight of Ida in my arms growing heavier with each step. My old injuries, the ones I' d sustained during my escape, throbbed in my hip and shoulder. The scars beneath my clothes felt like burning brands. The thin soles of my shoes offered no comfort against the hard pavement. My meager savings were dwindling, and a new doctor' s visit for Ida' s heart was looming.

Just as I was about to turn the corner onto our familiar, rundown street, a sleek black car, far too expensive for this neighborhood, glided to a halt beside me. My heart leaped into my throat.

The tinted window rolled down, revealing Grayson Malone. His expression was a mixture of concern and something else entirely-a raw, frantic desperation I hadn' t seen since... since before it all started. His eyes, in that moment, held a flicker of the man I once loved.

"Jillian," he said, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "Let me help you. This isn' t... this isn' t how you should be living."

I instinctively tightened my grip on Ida. My body recoiled, a primal instinct to protect my child from the source of all my pain. "I don' t need your help," I spat, starting to walk faster.

He was out of the car in an instant, blocking my path. "Jillian, please." He reached out, his hand hovering near Ida' s head.

Ida, startled by the sudden stop and the unfamiliar man, whimpered, burying her face deeper into my shoulder.

"Don' t make a scene," I warned, my voice low and dangerous. I tried to push past him, but he was surprisingly agile, stepping in front of me again.

"I only want to talk," he insisted. "And... I want to see her." His eyes were fixed on Ida, a strange intensity in their depths.

Just then, Ida, sensing his gaze, lifted her head. Her large, curious eyes met his. A moment of silence stretched between them, a silent recognition passing through their shared features. Then, her small voice, clear as a bell, cut through the tension.

"Daddy?"

Grayson froze. His face went ashen, his jaw slacked. His breath hitched, a visible tremor running through his powerful frame. He looked like he' d been struck by lightning.

My carefully built facade threatened to crack. I didn' t wait. I shoved past him, adrenaline surging through my veins, and almost ran the rest of the way home.

He followed, of course. "Jillian, wait! What did she just say?" His voice was hoarse with shock.

My small, dilapidated apartment building, with its peeling paint and broken mailbox, seemed to mock his presence. He stood on the cracked pavement, his expensive suit looking utterly out of place. His eyes scanned the grime-covered windows, the overflowing dumpster. Disgust, then disbelief, clouded his features.

"You live here?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper, as if the words themselves were tainted. "Jillian, what happened to you?"

What happened to me? I almost laughed. You happened, Grayson. You, and Kiera, and your twisted sense of justice. I remembered the lavish brownstone I once called home, the Columbia University apartment overflowing with books and light, the comfortable life my parents had built for us. My father, Dr. Hartley Miles, a respected history professor, a man of integrity. My mother, elegant and kind. All gone. Destroyed by his ambition, by his lies, by his thirst for revenge.

I remembered the day I' d chosen him, a brilliant but rough-around-the-edges student, over the comfortable, academic life I was born into. I remembered his hungry eyes, his fierce intelligence, his promises of a future together. God, I was such a fool.

My thoughts were abruptly shattered by the insistent ring of Grayson' s phone. He fumbled for it, his eyes still wide with shock as he looked at my building.

"Grayson Malone," he answered, his voice regaining a semblance of control, though it was still strained. "Yes, Kiera. What is it?"

Kiera. The name was a fresh scar, throbbing with renewed pain. Kiera Lara. The viper. The architect of so much of my suffering. She was always the puppeteer, pulling Grayson' s strings, twisting his insecurities into weapons. A venomous spider, forever weaving webs of deceit.

This was my chance. I slipped through the unlocked door of the building, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I heard Grayson' s voice, muffled now, as he argued with Kiera. I didn' t wait to hear more. I flew up the creaking stairs, my old injuries screaming in protest, but I ignored them. I reached my apartment, fumbled with the key, and slammed the door shut, leaning against it, gasping for breath.

I listened. Footsteps on the stairs, hesitant, then retreating. He was gone. He' d gone back to Kiera. To his other life.

I allowed myself a moment of perverse satisfaction. He was rattled. He was confused. He had the journal. And Kiera, his loyal accomplice, was already on the defensive. My plan, six years in the making, was finally in motion.

He would be consumed by doubt, by his own manufactured paranoia. That was his weakness. His inability to truly trust, his need to control. He would pick apart every word in that journal, every memory. And in doing so, he would unravel himself.

This was just the beginning. The first domino.