The Prenup: My Billion Dollar Weapon

My husband, the man I saved from a suicide attempt and built an empire for, was forcing me to kneel on frozen peas. My crime? A splash of cream in my coffee.

This was all for his new "soulmate," a vegan influencer named Kassie, who had moved into our home and declared war on all animal products.

The cruelty escalated. He kidnapped my ailing father, torturing him over his hobby of building birdhouses, then used my father' s life to blackmail me into silence.

Then, at a gala, he left me for dead in the path of a raging bear to save Kassie.

As he turned his back, leaving me to be mauled, I realized the man I loved was gone, replaced by a monster.

But I survived, saved by a mysterious stranger. And as I healed, I remembered the one weapon he'd forgotten: the ironclad prenup that gave me a controlling interest in his billion-dollar company. He thought he had broken me, but he had just given me the means to burn his empire to the ground.

Chapter 1

Adella Palmer POV:

My husband, the man I saved from a suicide attempt and built an empire for, was forcing me to kneel on a bag of frozen peas because I put a splash of cream in my coffee.

"It' s dairy, Adella," Fitzgerald said, his voice a low, disappointed hum. He stood over me, his six-foot-four frame casting a long shadow in the pristine, white-on-white kitchen of our Silicon Valley mansion. He looked like a god sculpted from marble and money, but his eyes held the cold emptiness of a vacant tomb.

This wasn' t him. Not the real him.

The real Fitzgerald Jones was the boy I' d found ten years ago, bleeding and broken in the mangled wreck of his car on a winding Appalachian mountain road. He' d had nothing but a half-baked tech idea and a death wish. My father, Alph, and I had pulled him from the wreckage. We' d nursed him back to health in our tiny, cluttered house that always smelled of sawdust and my mother' s long-gone rose perfume.

This new Fitzgerald, this cold stranger, was a creation. His creator was a woman named Kassie Robertson.

Kassie was an LA-based social media influencer, a self-proclaimed "vegan goddess" and animal rights warrior with millions of followers who hung on her every sanctimonious word. Fitzgerald had met her at a tech conference three months ago and had become utterly infatuated. He called her his "soulmate," his "ethical awakening."

I called her the parasite that was devouring my husband' s soul.

Kassie had moved into our guest wing two months ago, and with her came a new set of rules. No leather. No wool. And absolutely, positively, no animal products in the house. Our home, once filled with the smells of roasts and my father' s favorite buttery biscuits, now smelled permanently of kale and self-righteousness.

My stomach, already ravaged by years of stress and the countless boozy business dinners I' d endured to help build his company, Nexus Corp, couldn' t handle the abrupt, radical shift. But my discomfort was an inconvenience to Fitzgerald' s spiritual journey.

Today was our tenth wedding anniversary. The anniversary of the day he' d slid a simple silver band on my finger and sworn he would spend his life repaying me for saving his. This morning, a wave of defiant nostalgia had washed over me. I' d just wanted a taste of our old life, a single drop of cream in my coffee.

A housekeeper had seen me. And she had told Kassie.

Now, the icy cold of the frozen peas was seeping through my thin pajama pants, a biting, painful ache that spread from my knees up my thighs. I gritted my teeth, focusing on a grout line on the Italian marble floor.

"I don' t understand why this is so hard for you, Adella," Kassie' s voice, sweet as poison, drifted from the breakfast nook. She was perched on a stool, filming the whole thing on her phone, a small, cruel smile playing on her perfectly plumped lips. "It' s a simple act of compassion. Do you have any idea how much suffering is in that single drop of milk?"

I didn' t look at her. I looked at Fitzgerald. My eyes were a silent plea. Fitz. Please. Stop this. This isn' t us.

He knelt, his face level with mine. His eyes, the same blue eyes that had once looked at me with such raw gratitude, were now filled with a chilling disappointment.

"Kassie is right," he whispered, his voice laced with a warning. "She is trying to teach you. To elevate you. You need to learn, Adella. This is for your own good."

My own good. My knees were starting to go numb, the pain turning into a dull, thrumming fire.

"Get it through your head," he continued, his voice hardening. "Kassie is the future. Her values are my values. If you want to remain in this house, in my life, you will adapt. Do you understand?"

I couldn't speak. A sob was trapped in my throat, a thick, suffocating knot.

He took my silence as defiance. His jaw tightened. He stood up and looked at the housekeeper, a woman whose children' s tuition was paid for by the company I helped build.

"Set a timer for one hour," he commanded. "If she moves before it goes off, add another thirty minutes."

He turned and walked over to Kassie, draping an arm around her shoulders. He kissed her temple, a gesture of affection so public, so blatant, it felt like he was branding me with his betrayal.

The housekeeper, her face a mask of practiced neutrality, set the small digital timer on the counter. The first second ticked by with an audible click, echoing the sound of my heart shattering into a million irreparable pieces.

I stayed on my knees, the cold burning its way into my bones. I stayed not out of obedience, but out of a desperate, foolish hope. The truth was, my father, Alph, had been missing for two days.

He lived in a small cottage I' d bought for him a few towns over, a place where he could indulge in his retirement hobby: building intricate, beautiful birdhouses. He had a chronic heart condition, and the quiet life suited him. He was my rock, the only pure and good thing left in my world.

Two days ago, he' d vanished. His car was gone. His phone went straight to voicemail. I had been frantic, calling the police, calling his friends, my panic a frantic, buzzing thing under my skin.

When I' d tearfully told Fitzgerald, he had simply held up a hand. "I' ll handle it, Adella. I have resources. Let my people look for him. Don' t make a scene."

So I knelt. I endured the pain, the humiliation, the cold seeping into my very marrow. I did it because Fitzgerald Jones, the tech billionaire who controlled everything, was my only hope of finding my father. I had to believe he would find him. I had to believe there was still a sliver of the man I loved buried beneath this cruel, unrecognizable monster.

After what felt like an eternity, the timer finally beeped. My legs were numb, dead weights I could barely feel. The housekeeper, avoiding my eyes, helped me to my feet. I stumbled, my legs refusing to hold me, and collapsed onto a kitchen chair.

Just then, my phone rang. It was Fitzgerald. I snatched it up, my heart pounding. "Did you find him?"

"Get dressed," he said, his voice clipped and devoid of emotion. "I' m sending a car. I know where your father is."

Relief washed over me so intensely it made me dizzy. "Oh, thank God, Fitz. Is he okay? Where is he?"

"Just get in the car, Adella." The line went dead.

An hour later, the car pulled up not to a hospital or a police station, but to a stark, windowless warehouse on the industrial outskirts of the city. The kind of place Nexus Corp leased for data storage. A cold dread began to curdle in my stomach.

Fitzgerald was waiting for me at the entrance, his arms crossed over his chest. Kassie stood beside him, a smug, satisfied look on her face.

"What is this, Fitz? Where is my father?"

He didn' t answer. He simply led me through a heavy metal door and down a long, sterile corridor. The air was frigid, humming with the sound of servers. He stopped in front of a small, glass-walled room.

And then I saw him.

My father, Alph Palmer, was inside. He was strapped to a metal chair, his face pale and slick with sweat. His hands, the same hands that had taught me to ride a bike and had built hundreds of delicate birdhouses, were bound behind his back. Wires were attached to his chest, leading to a monitor that beeped with his dangerously erratic heartbeat.

On a table in front of him lay one of his beautiful birdhouses, smashed to pieces.

"Dad?" The word was a strangled whisper.

He looked up, his eyes wide with fear and confusion. "Adella? Honey, I don' t know what' s happening. They just... they took me."

I whirled on Fitzgerald, a feral rage I didn' t know I possessed surging through me. "What have you done? What the hell is this?"

Fitzgerald didn' t even flinch. He just sipped from a bottle of artesian water, his gaze cool.

Kassie, however, stepped forward, her voice dripping with condescending pity. "Your father is a murderer, Adella. A killer of innocent lives."

I stared at her, uncomprehending. "What are you talking about?"

"Birdhouses," she said, gesturing to the splintered wood on the table. "They encourage birds to become dependent on artificial structures. It disrupts their natural migratory patterns. It' s a form of species-level cruelty. He' s been contributing to the suffering of countless creatures."

The absurdity of her statement was so profound it stole my breath. "He builds birdhouses! He loves birds!"

"That' s what they all say," Kassie sighed, shaking her head as if dealing with a difficult child. "Fitzgerald is just teaching him a lesson. A simple lesson in empathy."

I looked from her insane, smiling face to Fitzgerald. My husband. The man whose life my father had helped save. "Fitz," I begged, my voice cracking. "His heart. He has a condition. You can' t do this. You' ll kill him."

Fitzgerald finally looked at me. There was no recognition in his eyes. It was like looking at a stranger. "He needed to understand the consequences of his actions, Adella. Just like you did this morning. It' s about accountability."

"Accountability?" I shrieked, the sound tearing from my throat. "You' re torturing my father over a fucking birdhouse?"

I remembered us in that tiny Appalachian house. Fitz, pale and weak in my mother' s old bed, my father spoon-feeding him broth. I remembered the late nights in our first tiny apartment, me rubbing his back as he coded, my stomach in knots from stress and cheap wine I drank at networking events to charm investors. I remembered him crying on our wedding day, whispering, "I owe you and your father my life, Adella. I will never, ever forget that."

He had forgotten.

"How could you?" The question was a raw, open wound. "How could you become this?"

He looked away, a flicker of something-shame? annoyance?-crossing his face. "Kassie has shown me a higher path. A purer way of living. I' m shedding the parts of my old life that were holding me back."

He was talking about me. About my father. We were the parts to be shed.

He told me he still loved me. He said it was a different kind of love now. A familial love, he' d called it. He said Kassie was his soulmate, his twin flame, but that I would always be his family. I was the foundation he' d built his life on. He couldn' t just discard me.

But he could demote me.

Kassie had moved in a week after that conversation. The house became her territory. The staff answered to her. My menus were replaced with her plant-based edicts. My belongings were slowly moved to a smaller wing of the house to make room for her yoga studio and meditation chamber. I was becoming a ghost in my own home.

And still, I had hoped. I had believed that if I could just get my father away from them, if I could just appeal to that shred of humanity left in Fitzgerald, he would help. He was a billionaire. He could fix anything.

I was so naive.

I lunged for the door to the glass room, but Fitzgerald grabbed my arm, his grip like iron. "Don' t be stupid, Adella."

I tried to call 911, my fingers fumbling for my phone. He snatched it from my hand and threw it against the far wall, where it shattered.

In the struggle, my elbow flew back and accidentally hit Kassie in the face. She let out a theatrical shriek, clutching her nose as a tiny trickle of blood appeared.

"My nose! You broke my nose!" she wailed.

Fitzgerald' s face turned to thunder. He shoved me away, his entire focus shifting to Kassie. He cradled her face in his hands, his voice thick with panic. "Baby, are you okay? Let me see. Oh, God." He glared at me over her shoulder, his eyes burning with pure hatred. "Look what you did, you clumsy bitch!"

He scooped Kassie into his arms as if she were a fragile doll and started carrying her down the hall.

"Fitzgerald, wait!" I screamed, scrambling after them. "My father! You can' t just leave him here!"

Using Kassie's minor injury as leverage was a desperate, ugly thought, but it was all I had left. "Fitz, if her nose is broken, she needs a real doctor, not just your private medic. If we take her to the hospital, people will ask questions. They'll ask how it happened. They'll ask why we were here. They'll find my father."

He froze. He knew I was right. A public incident was the one thing he couldn't control.

He turned slowly, his face a mask of fury. "Fine," he spat. "You want to see your father? Fine."

He barked an order into his watch, and two of his security guards appeared. They unlocked the glass room and went inside.

I rushed to the door, my heart in my throat. "Dad!"

But when they brought him out, he was unconscious. His face was a ghastly shade of gray. The heart monitor he' d been attached to was flatlining.

"Call an ambulance!" I screamed, dropping to my knees beside him, my hands hovering over his still chest, terrified to touch him.

"My private medical team is on its way," Fitzgerald said coldly. "They' ll take care of him. And Kassie." He made it clear who his priority was.

The medics arrived in minutes, a swarm of efficient, impersonal professionals. But as they loaded my father onto a gurney, the lead medic turned to Fitzgerald.

"Sir, Ms. Robertson' s injury is minor, a slight fracture at worst. This man is in cardiac arrest. We need to get him to the nearest trauma center immediately."

"No," Fitzgerald said, his voice absolute. "You will take them both to my private clinic. Ms. Robertson will be seen first."

"But sir, he could die!" the medic protested.

"Then he dies," Fitzgerald said without a flicker of emotion. He looked at me, my world collapsing around me, and his eyes were completely empty. "Adella," he said, his voice chillingly calm. "I' m willing to save your father. But there are conditions."

I looked up at him, my vision blurred with tears.

"You will sign a non-disclosure agreement regarding everything that happened here today. And you will go to the police and confess. You will tell them your father got confused, wandered off, and you overreacted. You will apologize for wasting their time."

He was offering me my father' s life in exchange for my silence and my humiliation.

In that moment, staring into the face of the monster I had helped create, something inside me finally, irrevocably, snapped. All the love, the hope, the years of sacrifice-it all curdled into a cold, hard knot of hate.

I had given this man everything. My youth, my health, my family' s kindness, my unwavering loyalty. I had built him an empire, and he had used its power to torture my father and break me.

"Yes," I whispered, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. "Okay. I' ll do it."

I would sign anything. I would say anything. I would burn the world to the ground to save my father. But as I watched them load him into the back of the private ambulance, a new vow took root in the ruins of my heart.

He would pay. I didn't know how, but I would see Fitzgerald Jones's empire turn to dust in his hands, and I would be the one to light the match.