Chapter 1

I was the perfect wife to my producer husband, Braden, enduring his coldness and affairs for one reason: his promise to release my late father's priceless songbook.

Then, at a crowded industry party, I watched him kiss his starlet mistress, Destany, for all to see. The humiliation made me collapse, and I woke up in a hospital bed to a shocking truth: I was pregnant.

Braden used our unborn child as a leash, playing the role of a devoted husband while secretly continuing his affair.

His mistress grew bolder, breaking into our home after taunting me with photos of her and Braden in Tokyo.

"That baby is just another obstacle," she whispered, her eyes filled with hate as she lunged at me.

In the struggle, she shoved me down our grand staircase. The fall was a blur of sickening thuds and a sharp, searing pain. I lost my child.

The one thing that had tied me to him was gone, stolen by his cruelty and her jealousy. The years of his lies and my silent suffering crystallized into a single, cold purpose.

When Braden knelt by my hospital bed, sobbing and begging for forgiveness, I felt nothing. I simply picked up the phone and called my lawyer.

"I want a divorce," I said, my voice like ice. "And I'm taking back everything."

Chapter 1

Elinor Frost POV:

The heavy bass of the music vibrated through the floorboards, a relentless thrum against my chest that mimicked the frantic beat of my own heart. I saw them across the crowded room, bathed in the lurid glow of the stage lights, before they even saw me. Braden, my husband, was tangled with Destany Aguilar, his arm a possessive band around her waist, their faces inches apart. Her hand, adorned with a diamond-studded microphone charm, rested on his cheek. It wasn't a kiss yet, but the air around them crackled with an undeniable intimacy, a silent promise being exchanged in front of hundreds of watchful eyes. My breath hitched. The air felt thin.

A cheer erupted from the surrounding crowd. They were industry veterans, sycophants, and aspiring artists, all eager to witness the spectacle of their producer, Braden Harmon, and his rising starlet, Destany. They clapped, they whistled, their faces alight with a perverse excitement. My stomach churned, a cold, hard knot forming deep within me. It felt like the entire room was in on a secret, and I was the punchline.

I froze in the doorway, my hand still on the cool brass handle. Every muscle in my body screamed at me to turn and run, to pretend I hadn't seen anything. But a morbid curiosity, or perhaps a desperate need for the final, definitive blow, held me rooted to the spot. My vision tunneled, the vibrant party lights blurring into a kaleidoscope of pain.

Then, it happened. Destany leaned in, her lips finding Braden's with a practiced ease that made my blood run cold. It was a lingering, unapologetic kiss, designed for an audience. As their lips finally parted, Braden' s eyes scanned the room, a triumphant smirk playing on his lips. He looked like a king surveying his kingdom, utterly pleased with his conquest. The sight of his satisfied expression, even before he saw me, was a fresh wound.

Destany, catching the cue, quickly pulled back, her eyes wide with feigned surprise. "Braden, darling, what are you doing? People are watching!" Her voice, though hushed, carried over the pulsing music, laced with a saccharine sweetness that made my teeth ache. It was a well-rehearsed act, a public relations stunt disguised as a passionate moment.

Braden chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that used to send shivers down my spine in a good way. Now, it only tightened the knot of dread in my stomach. "Let them watch, Destany," he murmured, his gaze still sweeping the room, "This is the music industry. Scandal sells." He said it with such casual indifference, as if my feelings, my very existence, were utterly irrelevant to his grand theatrical performance.

Then his eyes landed on me.

Destany, following his gaze, stiffened. Her carefully constructed facade crumbled, replaced by an authentic flicker of panic. Her hand, which had been resting casually on Braden's arm, squeezed tighter, a silent warning. I saw it through the shimmering glass wall of the VIP section, a desperate, almost imperceptible gesture. She wanted him to play along, to deny everything.

Braden's triumphant smirk vanished, replaced by a scowl. His eyes narrowed, a cold fire glinting in their depths. "Elinor," he snapped, his voice sharp and laced with irritation, as if my presence were an inconvenient interruption, "What are you doing here?"

A few of his friends, who had been laughing along with Destany's performance, shifted uncomfortably. Their smiles faltered, their eyes darting between us. Their awkwardness was a small comfort, a fleeting acknowledgment that this was wrong, even by their jaded standards. But none of them stepped forward, none of them offered a word of comfort. I was alone.

Braden' s eyebrows, usually so expressive, were now a harsh, condemning line. He looked at me as if I were a ghost, a specter haunting his perfect evening. "Did you follow me?" he demanded, his voice a low growl only I was meant to hear.

Destany, recovering quickly, shot me a look that was both triumphant and utterly contemptuous. He' s mine, it screamed. And you are nothing.

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. How many times had this played out? How many times had I stood by, a silent witness to his blatant disrespect? I had loved him with a fierce, unwavering devotion, pouring every fiber of my being into our marriage, into supporting his dreams. I had believed his promises, his whispered assurances that he would help me release my father's invaluable songbook, that this was all for our future. That belief had been a chain, binding me to this toxic cycle, slowly suffocating the very essence of who I was.

The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow: this wasn't an oversight, a mistake, or even a fleeting moment of weakness. This was Braden's carefully orchestrated torment. He enjoyed my pain. He thrived on it. I had been walking on eggshells for so long, meticulously avoiding anything that might displease him, always hoping to earn back a sliver of the affection he once showed. But there was nothing left to earn. There was only a profound, bone-deep exhaustion. It was a weariness that seeped into my bones, heavy and suffocating.

"Grandfather Harmon wanted me to remind you about the meeting tomorrow morning," I managed to say, my voice raspy, a stark contrast to the buzzing energy of the party. It was a pathetic excuse, a flimsy shield against the onslaught of his contempt. But it was the truth. It was why I was here, dutifully playing the part of the good wife, even as my world crashed around me.

He had always done this. There had been so many other women, so many other parties. I remembered the one two years ago, at this very venue, when he had flirted openly with a backup singer, brushing her hair from her face, his gaze lingering. His friends had laughed, nudged him, egging him on. And he had just let them, his eyes occasionally flicking to me, a cruel amusement dancing in them. He wanted me to suffer. He wanted me to know how little I mattered.

I had tried to leave before. After the second time I caught him with another woman, I packed a bag. But he had found me, blocking the door, his eyes dark with a cold fury I hadn't known he possessed. "If you leave, Elinor," he had snarled, his voice dangerously low, "you can say goodbye to your father's legacy. Forever. And don't forget your fragile health, darling. Stress isn't good for you." He knew my medical history, the delicate balance of my well-being, and he wielded it like a weapon. He knew I blamed myself for my father's death, for not being strong enough, and he exploited that guilt mercilessly.

The memory of that night, of the crushing fear that paralyzed me, made my stomach clench. He had forced me to participate in some bizarre, humiliating drinking game with his friends, knowing my low tolerance. I remembered the burning in my throat, the blurring vision, the agonizing crawl of nausea. Eventually, I had collapsed, losing consciousness amidst their drunken laughter. His friends had hurried forward, their faces etched with genuine concern, but Braden had merely watched, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "She's always so dramatic," he'd said, dismissively, to a worried voice in the crowd. "Someone get her a glass of water, or better yet, a quiet corner to sleep it off." He had watched me fall, watched me suffer, and had felt nothing but contempt.

The exhaustion was a tangible weight now, pressing down on me. I couldn't do this anymore.

"The meeting," I repeated, my voice barely a whisper, hoping the mundane words would somehow ground me. "Grandfather said it's important. Tomorrow morning."

Braden stared at me, his eyes devoid of warmth, then looked back at Destany. He didn't say another word to me, simply turned his back, dismissing me as easily as he would a fly.

The noise of the party suddenly amplified, the music a deafening roar. My head spun. I felt a strange lightness, as if my feet weren't quite touching the ground. A cold dread seeped into my veins, a premonition of something irrevocably broken. I knew, with a chilling certainty, that this was the end of something. But the question was, the end of what?

"Elinor?" a voice called out from the crowd, cutting through the noise. It was his assistant, looking worried. "Are you alright?"

I swayed slightly, feeling a familiar wave of dizziness wash over me. It felt like the room was tilting, threatening to swallow me whole. The bass throbbed, louder now, a funeral drum for my dying hope. My vision blurred again, the faces of Braden and Destany, locked in their triumphant tableau, becoming indistinct. My knees buckled.

This can't be happening again, a voice screamed in my head.

My hand flew to my stomach, a desperate, instinctive gesture. A sharp, searing pain tore through me, and then, darkness.

The last thing I heard before the blackness consumed me was Braden's annoyed sigh, followed by the distant sound of a glass shattering.