Chapter 3

Grace POV:

Two days later, still weak but fueled by a cold, unwavering resolve, I discharged myself against the doctor's recommendations. My first stop wasn't home. It was the government records office, a nondescript building downtown.

I needed out. Officially.

"I'd like to file for divorce," I told the clerk, my voice steady, though my hands trembled slightly clutching the paperwork.

She typed my name into her system, her brow furrowing. She clicked a few more keys, then looked up at me, a puzzled expression on her face. "I'm sorry, ma'am. There's no record of your marriage to Mr. Cole Nixon."

My blood ran cold. "What are you talking about?"

Cole. He had handled all the paperwork for our reconciliation, for our renewed marriage certificate. He'd even shown me the official-looking documents, signed and sealed. He' d made a big deal about making things "right" again, legally binding our second chance.

"Your marriage certificate," she said, holding up a copy I'd provided, "it's a forgery. A very good one, but a forgery nonetheless. This marriage was never legally registered."

My world tilted. The floor beneath me felt like it was dissolving. The bitter taste from the croissant returned, but this time, it was purely metaphorical. He hadn't just poisoned my body; he'd poisoned my entire reality. I was never legally his wife.

The devastating blow was quickly followed by a strange, almost liberating sense of relief. I didn't need a divorce. There was nothing to divorce. He had played me, yes, but in his cruelty, he had inadvertently given me a clean slate. No legal ties, no messy proceedings. Nothing.

I left the office, the worthless, fake marriage certificate clutched in my hand, a flimsy testament to his monumental deception. It was a souvenir of my past naivety.

When I got back to the penthouse, Cole was waiting, a picture of concern. "Grace! You shouldn't have left the hospital so soon. You're still recovering." He moved to embrace me, but I sidestepped him, a practiced dance of evasion.

"I'm fine," I said, my voice flat. "Just tired."

"Well, you'll feel better tonight," he said, his smile back in place. "My father is hosting a charity auction. All the prominent families will be there. It's important we show a united front, given everything."

He wanted me on display. Part of the act. I almost said no, but then I remembered my own plan. This was an opportunity. This was my stage.

"Of course, darling," I replied, my voice sweet as poison. "I wouldn't miss it."

Later that evening, at the sprawling Nixon estate, the air crackled with a false bonhomie. Cole's stepmother, a viper in designer clothes, greeted me with a thin-lipped smile. And there she was, Kiara Gonzales, draped in emeralds, her arm linked with Arlan Nixon, Cole's father. She was wearing the Miller family pendant. My grandmother's pendant.

Cole saw my gaze linger on it. He squeezed my arm. "She admires your taste, Grace. I told her the story of your grandmother. She insisted on wearing it tonight, as a tribute to your family's legacy. A beautiful gesture, don't you think?"

A tribute. To my family's legacy. My legacy. Given to his mistress. I felt a familiar ache of exhaustion.

The auction began. Cole, playing the doting husband, raised his paddle for a ridiculously expensive antique vase. "For my beautiful wife," he announced, loud enough for the entire room to hear. A collective gasp, then murmurs of admiration. He was cementing his image, rehabilitating his political brand.

A cold shiver ran down my spine. This felt wrong. Too public. Too perfect. A trap.

Then, Kiara raised her paddle for the same item. A theatrical battle of bids ensued, Cole and Kiara driving the price higher and higher. The crowd was enthralled. My anxiety spiked. This wasn't for me. It was for them, for the show.

Finally, Cole, with a triumphantly smug grin, outbid Kiara, securing the vase for a staggering sum. "A small token for the woman who means everything to me," he declared, kissing my hand for the cameras.

He pressed the paddle into my hand. "It's yours, my love." Then, with a charming smile, he whispered, "I'll be right back. Just need to finalize a few details." He winked, then disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone at the table.

Minutes later, the auction manager approached, a grim expression on her face. "Madam, we need to settle the payment for your acquisition."

"My husband will take care of it," I said, trying to project an air of calm confidence.

"Mr. Nixon has already left the premises, ma'am," she stated, her voice tight. "And he explicitly instructed us to bill the winning bid to your personal account."

My blood ran cold. I fumbled for my phone. Cole's number went straight to voicemail. Again and again. My personal accounts. I checked my banking app. Empty. He had siphoned everything. Every last cent.

"I'm afraid your accounts are severely overdrawn, madam," the manager continued, her voice hardening. "You owe us over two million dollars. Either you pay now, or we'll be forced to... involve the authorities."

My vision blurred. A snicker from a nearby table. Whispers. I was a spectacle. The public wife, humiliated, stripped bare. I tried to offer my grandmother's pendant as collateral, but Kiara, ever so sweetly, interjected, "Oh, that's already mine, darling. Cole gifted it to me last night. You wouldn't want to steal from me, would you?"

The laughter grew louder. Flashbulbs popped. The headlines would be brutal. Grace Miller, the disgraced journalist, now the financially ruined, publicly shamed wife.

Walking out of that auction house, through a gauntlet of sneering faces and flashing cameras, felt like walking through fire. My skin crawled with shame. The game wasn't just escalating, it was becoming lethal.