Chapter 1

It was supposed to be my vow renewal, a key PR event for my husband Angel's mayoral campaign.

But when I woke up from a drug-induced haze, I found him at the altar with his mistress.

She was wearing my wedding dress.

I watched from a hidden balcony as he slid the ring he'd given me onto her finger in front of the entire city's elite.

When I confronted him, he told me his mistress was pregnant and that he'd drugged me because she was "unwell" and needed the ceremony. He called me a useless housewife, then laughed and suggested we could raise his and Faith's baby together.

Seven years of my life, my strategies, and my sacrifices had built his empire, and he tried to erase me with a single glass of champagne.

But when I met him at the courthouse to finalize our divorce, he showed up feigning amnesia from a car accident, crying and begging me not to leave him on our "wedding day."

He wanted to play games. I decided to write the rules.

Chapter 1

The champagne flute felt cold in my hand, a stark contrast to the cloying sweetness of the perfume in the bridal suite. It was supposed to be my vow renewal, the grand spectacle my husband, Angel Flores, had promised for years. A key PR event for his mayoral campaign.

But something was wrong. My head was thick and heavy, the edges of my vision blurring. I' d had one glass of champagne, the one Angel handed me himself an hour ago.

"Just to calm your nerves, my love," he had said, his smile as bright and polished as his political ambitions.

I pushed myself off the velvet couch, my legs unsteady. The handcrafted lace of my wedding dress, the one I' d spent months designing, felt alien on my skin. I stumbled towards the full-length mirror and my blood ran cold.

It wasn' t my reflection staring back at me. It was Faith Dudley, her face a mask of triumphant glee, wearing my dress. My husband' s mistress.

My breath caught in my throat. I heard the swell of music from the grand hall below, the officiant' s voice beginning the ceremony. A wave of nausea washed over me as the horrible truth crashed down. He had drugged me. He was replacing me at the altar.

I scrambled out of the suite, my movements clumsy and desperate. Down the corridor, through a small service door, I found a balcony that overlooked the main hall. Below, under a canopy of white roses I had chosen, Angel stood beaming at Faith. He slid a ring onto her finger, the same one he had presented to me in this very room just before I started feeling dizzy. The crowd, a who' s who of the city' s political elite, applauded wildly.

This was a public spectacle, and I was the punchline.

Anger, sharp and hot, burned through the fog in my mind. I waited. I waited until the ceremony was over, until the press had their photos, until the guests were sipping cocktails. I found him in the library, a quiet corner of the lavish venue. Faith was with him, her arms wrapped around his neck, their lips still locked in a celebratory kiss.

They broke apart when I entered, their faces showing no surprise, no guilt. Only a smug satisfaction.

"What the hell is this, Angel?" My voice was a raw whisper.

He just scoffed, a dismissive, ugly sound. He adjusted his cufflinks, his eyes cold and devoid of any emotion I recognized.

"Alicia, don't make a scene. It's unbecoming."

"A scene?" I laughed, a broken, hysterical sound. "You drugged me and married your mistress in my place in front of the entire city, and you' re worried about me making a scene?"

"It was necessary," he said, his tone flat. "Faith was... unwell. She needed this."

He looked at me then, a look of pure contempt. "What were you going to do? You' re a housewife, Alicia. You haven' t worked in years. Everything you have, you have because of me."

He gestured around the opulent room. "This life. Your clothes. Your car. It' s all mine."

"I want a divorce," I said, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.

He threw his head back and laughed. A genuine, hearty laugh that made my stomach turn.

"Go ahead. Threaten me. You have nothing. You are nothing without me."

My hands were shaking, but my mind was suddenly, terrifyingly clear. The grief was hardening into something else. Something cold and sharp.

I didn' t say another word. I turned and walked out, leaving him laughing in my wake. That night, I packed a single bag, took the emergency cash I had hidden away, and left the mansion we called a home. I found a small, cheap apartment on the other side of town.

I printed out a divorce agreement, the standard, no-fault kind. I signed it and left it on the tiny kitchen counter, waiting.

He let a week pass. He probably thought I was posturing, throwing a tantrum. He expected me to run out of money, to crawl back, begging for forgiveness.

When I didn' t, he lost his patience.

He showed up at my door one evening, his tailored suit looking ridiculous in the rundown hallway of my building. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of disinfectant.

"This is where you' re living? Pathetic," he sneered, pushing past me into the small room.

He looked around, his eyes filled with disdain. "Alright, you' ve had your little fit. It' s time to come home."

He moved towards me, his hands reaching for my waist. "I' ll even forgive you for this little drama. We can work this out. Tonight."

His meaning was clear, and it made my skin crawl.

I sidestepped his advance and picked up the papers from the counter. I held them out to him.

"Sign it, Angel."

My voice was calm, a dead, flat thing.

He snatched the papers from my hand, his eyes scanning them with theatrical boredom.

"Still playing this game? It' s getting old, Alicia."

He smirked. "You' re being childish."