The Unwanted Wife's Fiery Rebirth

My husband of five years, a ruthless New York mogul, paraded his affairs while refusing to touch me. My existence was a public humiliation, a constant, quiet ache in a gilded cage.

To finally get a reaction, I staged a fake affair of my own. His response wasn't jealousy. It was violence. He stabbed me with a letter opener and threatened to destroy the one thing I had left: my late mother's memorial garden.

At his mistress's birthday party-held on the anniversary of my mother's death-he forced me to my knees. I had to publicly apologize to the woman he was cheating on me with, my own half-sister, Aubrey.

But the ultimate betrayal came when I discovered a secret video from a decade ago. It proved Aubrey hadn't just been there when my mother fell from a balcony. She had pushed her.

And my husband-the man who swore he'd find her killer-had helped cover it all up.

As I knelt on that cold floor, broken and defeated, he made his final choice. He pressed a button on a remote, and my mother's garden exploded into dust and ash. In that moment, the woman he thought he knew died, and someone new was born from the wreckage.

Chapter 1

Elena Salinas POV:

The world knew my marriage was a joke. Julian Blanchard, the ruthless New York real estate mogul, made sure of it. He refused to touch me, but he touched every model and actress in the city. Everyone whispered about it at every gala, every charity event, every exclusive club. My existence was a public humiliation, a quiet, constant ache.

Julian' s affairs were splashed across every tabloid. His latest conquest, a fresh-faced ingenue, was draped across him on a yacht in St. Barts. The photo was everywhere. My phone buzzed with notifications, each one a fresh stab.

"Poor Elena," the headlines screamed. "Still standing by her man?"

I wasn't. Not anymore. I was empty, hollowed out by five years of this charade. But even a shadow can cast a long enough one.

Julian had taunted me just days before he left for St. Barts. We were in our sprawling penthouse, the city lights a distant blur. He stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a glass of amber liquid in his hand.

"You look bored, Elena," he said, not even looking at me. His voice was smooth, laced with a familiar cruelty. "Why don't you have your own fun?"

My heart clenched, a cold, hard knot. He said it with such casual disdain, as if my feelings meant nothing. And to him, they didn't. I was just another asset, a pretty accessory to keep up appearances.

I stared at his reflection in the glass, a man who had once promised me the world. Now, he was a stranger, a tormentor.

"Perhaps I will," I replied, my voice surprisingly steady. It was a whisper, but it hung in the air between us, a silent challenge.

He finally turned, a smirk playing on his lips. His eyes, usually cold, held a flicker of something unreadable. "Good girl. Don't disappoint me."

He walked away, leaving me alone in the vast, silent room. The sound of his footsteps faded, replaced by the thrum of the city below. He was gone, off to another rendezvous, another public display of his indifference.

The next morning, his face was plastered across every screen, his arm around a woman half my age. The whispers turned to roars. The world waited for my reaction. Would I cry? Would I lash out? Would I play the heartbroken wife, dignified in my suffering?

They expected me to break. But I wasn't that Elena anymore. That Elena had died a long time ago.

I picked up my phone, my fingers trembling slightly. This was it. The point of no return.

My first call was to a contact at a minor gossip blog. They were hungry for a scoop, anything to get noticed. I gave them a taste, just enough to pique their interest.

"I have something that will blow Julian Blanchard's perfect image out of the water," I said, my voice low and confident. "Are you interested?"

The breathless silence on the other end was all the answer I needed.

My next move was meticulously planned. I went to a high-end lingerie store, the kind Julian would never imagine me stepping into. I bought a set of silk and lace, something provocative, not for him, but for me. For this.

Returning to the penthouse, I walked through the opulent rooms, each one a gilded cage. I needed to set the scene. I went to Julian's study, a room he rarely let me enter. His desk was littered with papers, a half-empty glass of whisky, and a heavy, ornate letter opener. It was made of silver, with a sharp, pointed blade.

I picked it up, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat in my veins. My gaze fell upon a framed photo of Julian and me from our wedding day. We looked so young, so hopeful. I gripped the letter opener, its tip glinting under the soft light.

With a sudden, violent thrust, I plunged the opener into the center of the framed photo, tearing through Julian's smiling face, then mine. The glass cracked, a spiderweb of destruction spreading across our painted smiles. Shards scattered on the polished mahogany. The sound echoed in the silent room. It was done.

I didn't stop there. I went into our bedroom, the one he hadn't shared with me in years. I rummaged through my closet, pulling out a silk robe, expensive but simple. I tore it slightly at the shoulder, a subtle rip, as if it had been pulled off in a hurry.

I messed up the pristine bedsheets, pulling them half off the bed, twisting them into a tangled mess. I scattered a few of Julian's shirts on the floor, some mine too, as if thrown off in a passionate rush. A half-eaten bar of gourmet chocolate, a lipstick-stained wine glass on the nightstand. Every detail, carefully placed.

I set up my phone on a tripod across the room, angling it just right. I wanted the perfect shot, intimate but ambiguous. I posed on the bed, the ripped silk robe barely covering me, my hair artfully disheveled. My eyes, usually downcast, held a defiant glint. I made sure my wedding ring was visible, sparkling on my finger, a reminder of the mockery of my marriage.

I snapped a few photos. The digital click was like a shot in the dark. I reviewed them, meticulously, until I found the one. It was perfect. It looked like a stolen moment, a secret tryst, passionate and raw.

I sent it to the gossip blog, along with an anonymous tip. "Elena Salinas," the message read, "Julian's wife, finally having her own fun. With a new man, it seems."

The message was brief, brutal, and utterly devastating. I knew it would send Julian into a rage. And that was exactly what I wanted.

I watched as the photo exploded online. It spread like wildfire, eclipsing Julian's St. Barts vacation in minutes. The comments poured in, a torrent of shock and speculation.

"Elena Salinas! Who knew she had it in her?"

"Julian Blanchard finally getting a taste of his own medicine!"

"Who's the mystery man?"

My phone, once a source of dread, now hummed with a strange satisfaction. I had set the trap, and Julian, my controlling, narcissistic husband, was walking right into it.

I walked to the window, looking out at the glittering skyline. The city, once a symbol of my gilded cage, now felt like a stage. And tonight, I had taken center stage.

A cold sense of triumph washed over me. Julian had told me to have my fun. Now, he would see exactly what that meant. My heart, long numb, finally felt a flicker of something. It wasn't joy, not yet. But it was definitely not despair.

The game had just begun.