Erased By His Lies And Love

For ten years, I gave my husband, Desmond, everything. I worked three jobs so he could get his MBA and sold my grandmother' s locket to fund his startup. Now, on the verge of his company's IPO, he was forcing me to sign divorce papers for the seventeenth time, calling it a "temporary business move."

Then I saw him on TV, his arm wrapped around another woman-his lead investor, Aurora Quinn. He called her the love of his life, thanking her for "believing in him when no one else did," erasing my entire existence with a single sentence.

His cruelty didn't stop there. He denied knowing me after his bodyguards beat me unconscious at a mall. He locked me in a dark basement, fully aware of my crippling claustrophobia, leaving me to have a panic attack alone.

But the final blow came during a kidnapping. When the attacker told him he could only save one of us-me or Aurora-Desmond didn't hesitate.

He chose her. He left me tied to a chair to be tortured while he saved his precious deal. Lying in a hospital bed for the second time, broken and abandoned, I finally made a call I hadn't made in five years.

"Aunt Evelena," I choked out, "can I come stay with you?"

The reply from the most feared lawyer in New York was instant. "Of course, darling. My private jet is on standby. And Ariel? Whatever it is, we'll handle it."

Chapter 1

Ariel Payne POV:

For the seventeenth time, Desmond' s lawyer slid the divorce papers across our kitchen table. The polished oak felt cold under my forearms, a stark contrast to the simmering heat of my humiliation.

Seventeen times.

That' s how many times in the last six months I' d been asked to legally erase myself from Desmond Day' s life.

The first time, I had screamed until my throat was raw. The fifth time, I had methodically torn each page into confetti-sized pieces, my hands shaking with a rage that felt foreign and terrifying. The tenth time, I had held a shard of a broken plate to my own wrist, my voice a dead calm whisper as I told his lawyer that if he wanted my signature, he' d have to pry the pen from my cold, dead fingers.

His lawyer, a man named Mr. Harrison with eyes as gray and lifeless as a winter sky, had actually paled and backed out of the house that day.

He' d called Desmond, of course. Desmond had rushed home, his face a mask of concern, and held me for hours, whispering promises into my hair. Promises that this was all temporary, just a formality for the investors, that I would always be his wife, the only one.

I had believed him. I always believed him.

But now, staring at the seventeenth iteration of the same document, a profound and hollow exhaustion settled deep in my bones. I was tired. So tired of fighting, of screaming, of believing.

"Ariel," Mr. Harrison said, his voice a low, practiced murmur meant to soothe. "We' ve been over this. It' s a strategic move. A temporary dissolution to appease the board before the IPO. Nothing will actually change between you and Desmond."

I didn' t look at him. My gaze was fixed on the television mounted on the living room wall, visible just over his shoulder. The sound was on mute, but the images were crystal clear. Desmond, my Desmond, was on the screen, his smile as bright and blinding as the camera flashes erupting around him. He stood on a stage, his arm wrapped possessively around the waist of another woman.

Aurora Quinn.

The brilliant, pragmatic venture capitalist from the firm leading his company' s investment round. The woman the media had dubbed the other half of Silicon Valley' s new power couple. Her smile was poised, her posture perfect. She belonged there, under the glittering lights, beside the man the world was celebrating as a self-made genius.

"He' ll remarry you the second the company is stable," Mr. Harrison continued, his voice an annoying buzz in my ear. "This is just... business. Aurora' s family has immense influence. Their public association is a guarantee for the IPO' s success."

A guarantee. I was the risk. The secret wife from his impoverished past, a relic of a life he was desperate to forget.

I' d heard these lines so many times they' d lost all meaning. They were just sounds, empty air shaped into words that were supposed to manage me, to keep me quiet and compliant in the shadows of the life I had helped build.

I looked down at the papers. My name, Ariel Payne, was printed next to a blank line. His name, Desmond Day, was already signed, his familiar, ambitious scrawl a testament to his efficiency.

"Fine," I heard myself say. The word was so quiet, so devoid of emotion, that for a moment I wasn' t sure I' d spoken it aloud.

Mr. Harrison blinked, his professional mask faltering. "I' m sorry?"

I picked up the pen he' d so thoughtfully provided. It felt heavy, like it was carved from stone. "I said, fine. I' ll sign it."

A flicker of shock, quickly replaced by undisguised relief, crossed his face. He had expected another fight, another scene, another desperate, pathetic display from the inconvenient wife. He probably had Desmond on speed dial, ready to report the latest meltdown.

But there was nothing left in me to melt. I was just a hollowed-out shell.

My hand didn' t even shake as I signed my name. The ink flowed smoothly, a black river severing a ten-year bond. Each letter was a small death. A-r-i-e-l. P-a-y-n-e. It looked like a stranger' s name.

The moment the pen lifted from the paper, Mr. Harrison snatched the document as if he feared I might change my mind. He tucked it safely into his leather briefcase, the clicks of the latches echoing like gunshots in the silent house.

"You' ve made the right decision, Ariel. The wise decision," he said, already backing toward the door, his job finally, blessedly, done. "Desmond will be very pleased."

He closed the door behind him, leaving me alone in the cavernous house that had never truly felt like a home.

For a long moment, I didn' t move. Then, my bones seemed to dissolve. My body slumped forward, my forehead resting on the cold, unforgiving surface of the table. I was an anchor that had finally been cut loose, sinking into a bottomless ocean of quiet despair.

On the television, the silent spectacle continued. A reporter was now interviewing Desmond. He was radiant, magnetic, the man I had fallen in love with. He leaned into the microphone, his eyes finding Aurora' s in the crowd.

The captions appeared at the bottom of the screen.

"I owe everything to one person," Desmond' s smiling face said to the world. "Aurora Quinn. She' s not just my lead investor; she' s my inspiration, my partner, and the love of my life. I want to thank her for believing in me when no one else did."

The words hung there, a digital epitaph for my entire existence.

Believing in him when no one else did.

A bitter, soundless laugh escaped my lips. I remembered a cramped, one-bedroom apartment that always smelled of stale coffee and instant ramen. I remembered working three jobs-waitressing, cleaning offices, bartending-my hands raw and my body aching, just so he could afford the tuition for his MBA. I remembered selling my grandmother' s locket, the only thing I had left of her, to pay for the server costs when his tech startup was on the brink of collapse.

I remembered the day we went to the courthouse, just the two of us. He couldn' t afford a real ring, so he' d given me a simple silver band he' d bought from a street vendor.

"One day, Ariel," he had whispered, his eyes shining with unshed tears as he slipped it on my finger, "I' ll buy you an island. I' ll give you the whole world. This is just the beginning. For us."

Now, his promise of a whole world was being offered to another woman, on live television, for everyone to see.

My world had just ended.

My fingers, numb and clumsy, fumbled for my phone. I scrolled through contacts I hadn' t looked at in years, past names that felt like ghosts. I found the one I was looking for. Evelena Lindsey. My estranged aunt. A feared and respected senior partner at a top New York law firm.

My thumb hovered over the call button. We hadn' t spoken in five years, not since a bitter fight over Desmond, a man she' d called a charming sociopath from the moment she met him.

I pressed the button.

She answered on the second ring, her voice as sharp and precise as I remembered. "Ariel?"

A sob, the first real sound I' d made all day, broke from my chest. "Aunt Evelena," I choked out. "Can I... can I come stay with you?"

There was no hesitation, no 'I told you so.' Just a sudden warmth that cut through the icy fog in my veins. "Of course, darling. I' m in a meeting right now, but it' s almost over. My private jet is on standby. I' ll have it pick you up in three hours. Just pack a bag. Pack everything you want to keep."

Her voice was calm, commanding, a lifeline in the wreckage. "And Ariel? Whatever it is, we' ll handle it. I' m on my way."

---

Ariel Payne POV:

Desmond called an hour later, his voice light and buoyant, laced with the satisfaction of a man who had just conquered the world.

"Hey, babe. Harrison told me you signed. Knew you' d come through for me. For us."

For us. The words were a bitter pill on my tongue. He made it sound like I' d just agreed to switch cable providers, not dissolve our marriage.

"To celebrate, I' ve booked a table at Le Ciel," he said, his voice brimming with excitement. "Our spot. Wear that red dress I love. I' ll see you at eight."

He didn' t wait for a reply. He never did.

I went. I put on the red dress. I sat across from him in the rooftop restaurant, the city lights twinkling below like a carpet of fallen stars. This was where he had first told me his company secured its seed funding, his hands trembling with exhilaration as he held mine across this very table.

Now, those same hands rested casually on the white tablecloth, a world away from me. He talked animatedly about the IPO, about market caps and stock options, about the cover of Forbes magazine he was scheduled to shoot next week. He was a supernova, burning so brightly he couldn't see the person being consumed by his flames.

I lifted my wine glass. "To you, Desmond," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "You got everything you ever wanted."

He beamed, clinking his glass against mine. "To us, Ariel. We got everything we wanted."

He didn' t notice the finality in my toast. He didn' t see the goodbye in my eyes.

I drank the wine in one long swallow, the expensive vintage tasting like ash in my mouth. For me, Ariel Payne. This drink is for you. For your freedom.

After the waiter cleared our plates, Desmond slid a thin portfolio across the table. "This is for you," he said, his tone magnanimous. "A little thank you. Ten percent of my personal shares. Once we go public, you' ll be set for life. You' ll never have to worry about money again."

My sacrifice, my youth, my entire future, distilled down to a stock portfolio. A severance package.

A bitter laugh threatened to bubble up, but I swallowed it down. I just nodded, my eyes tracing the skyline.

His phone buzzed. A text from his secretary. He glanced at it, a slight frown creasing his brow.

"Damn. It' s Aurora. She' s at the hotel bar downstairs, needs to discuss something urgent about the SEC filings." He stood up, already shrugging into his jacket. "Sorry, babe. Duty calls. You finish up here. The car' s waiting for you downstairs."

He leaned down to kiss my cheek, a perfunctory, absentminded gesture. Then he was gone, leaving me alone with the twinkling lights and a portfolio full of blood money.

I didn' t stay. I couldn' t. I left the portfolio on the table and walked towards the elevators. As the doors opened, I heard their voices from a secluded alcove near the bar.

"Honestly, Des, was it really necessary to have dinner with her tonight of all nights?" Aurora' s voice was laced with an impatient, proprietary tone.

"It was the last time, I promise," Desmond' s voice was a low, placating murmur. "She signed the papers. I had to give her the stock transfer and say a final goodbye. It' s done now. Completely."

"Good. I can' t wait until we can stop sneaking around. It' s been three years, Des. I' m tired of being your dirty little secret."

Three years.

The number hit me like a physical blow. Three years of his lies, his reassurances, his promises that this was all temporary.

A waiter carrying a tray of food emerged from the kitchen, heading towards their table. On the tray was a plate of seared scallops with saffron risotto-the exact same dish I had just eaten. Desmond had ordered it for me, claiming it was the chef' s specialty.

He had ordered us both the same meal. I wasn' t even worth the effort of a different choice. I was a carbon copy of a goodbye.

A wave of nausea and dizziness washed over me. I stumbled back, my hand reaching for the wall to steady myself. My fingers brushed against a decorative glass sculpture on a pedestal.

The world tilted.

I heard the sickening crash before I felt the pain. The sculpture shattered on the marble floor. A shard of glass, sharp as a razor, sliced through the palm of my hand. Blood, dark and shockingly red, welled up instantly, dripping onto the pristine white floor.

"What was that?" I heard Aurora ask.

Footsteps. They appeared at the end of the hallway, their faces illuminated by the soft lighting. Desmond' s eyes widened when he saw me, clutching my bleeding hand.

For a split second, a flicker of the old Desmond surfaced. Panic. Concern. He took a step towards me. "Ariel? What happened?"

But then he caught Aurora' s sharp, questioning gaze. He froze.

"Desmond, who is this?" Aurora asked, her voice dripping with ice. Her eyes scanned my simple red dress, my shocked face, and the blood pooling at my feet with undisguised contempt.

Desmond' s face went blank. The brief flicker of concern vanished, replaced by a cold, terrifying mask of indifference. He looked from Aurora' s demanding face to my bleeding one. And he made his choice.

He turned back to Aurora, shaking his head slightly. "I don' t know her," he said, his voice flat and dismissive. "Just some clumsy guest, I suppose. Let' s go. The hotel will handle it."

I don' t know her.

The words echoed in the sudden, ringing silence of my mind. Ten years of my life, ten years of love and sacrifice, erased in a single, brutal sentence. He looked at me, his wife, the woman who had given him everything, and declared me a stranger.

Just a stranger.

He didn't even give me a second glance as he guided Aurora away, his arm securely around her waist, shielding her from the unpleasantness of my existence.

My legs gave out, and I sank to the floor, the pain in my hand a dull, distant throb compared to the gaping wound he had just torn open in my chest.

---

Ariel Payne POV:

"This is going to need stitches," the doctor at the urgent care clinic said, his voice gentle. "It' s a deep cut. It will almost certainly leave a scar."

A scar. Another one to add to the collection Desmond had left on me, though the others weren't visible on my skin.

I remembered a time, years ago, when I' d gotten a paper cut while helping him organize his research notes. It was a tiny thing, barely a scratch, but he had acted like I' d been mortally wounded. He' d cleaned it with an antiseptic wipe, carefully applied a bandage, and kissed my finger, his eyes full of a tenderness that had made my heart ache with love.

That man was gone. Or maybe he had never existed at all. It was over. That much was finally, irrevocably clear.

My phone buzzed with a text from him.

Desmond: Heard you had an accident. Is your hand okay? I' ve asked my secretary to handle the medical bills. Let her know if you need anything.

He was outsourcing his concern. He couldn' t even be bothered to feign it himself anymore.

Me: I' m fine. I don' t need your help.

I paid the bill myself with the last of my savings and took a cab back to the house. The silence inside was a physical presence, pressing in on me from all sides. I swallowed two painkillers and fell into a fitful, dreamless sleep on the couch.

I was startled awake hours later. The front door was opening. Desmond was home. It was nearly 3 a.m. He moved through the darkened living room, his silhouette backlit by the moonlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He smelled faintly of expensive perfume-Aurora' s perfume-and whiskey.

He saw me on the couch and his movements stilled. He came over and knelt beside me, his hand reaching out to stroke my hair. "Ariel," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and alcohol. He leaned in, his lips finding mine.

I flinched away, a sharp, stabbing pain shooting up my arm from my stitched hand. "Don' t," I whispered, the word barely audible.

He pulled back, his brow furrowed in confusion. In the dim light, I could see a flicker of surprise in his eyes, as if he couldn' t comprehend my rejection. I had never rejected him before.

"Sorry," he said, his voice clearing slightly. He sighed, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. "It' s been a hell of a night. I' m sorry about what happened at the hotel. It was... complicated."

He looked at me then, his gaze softening into the practiced sincerity I knew so well. "You know you' re the only one for me, right? You' ll always be Mrs. Day. My only wife."

My only wife. The title felt like a joke. A cruel, pathetic joke. I was the wife he kept hidden in the attic, the one he was paying to disappear.

He seemed to take my silence as acquiescence. He stood up, stretching. "I'll sleep in the study tonight. Don't want to wake you."

He disappeared down the hall, leaving me alone with the throbbing in my hand and the hollowness in my chest.

Later, the pain in my palm woke me again. I tiptoed to the kitchen for more painkillers. As I passed the study, I heard the low murmur of his voice. He was on the phone. I pressed my ear to the door, my heart a cold, heavy stone in my chest.

"Yes, the papers are signed," he was saying, his voice crisp and professional now, all traces of sleep and alcohol gone. "Harrison has the original. We can officially announce my marital status as 'divorced' to the board tomorrow morning."

There was a pause. I could imagine the person on the other end, probably Aurora, asking a question.

"I know, I was surprised she agreed so easily too," Desmond continued, a note of smug satisfaction in his tone. "She' s always been... emotional. But I think she finally understood that this was for the best. She' s more considerate than I gave her credit for."

Considerate. He thought I was being considerate. He had no idea that I had simply given up.

"Don' t worry, darling," he said, his voice dropping to that intimate, caressing tone he used to use only with me. "Everything is on track. The IPO is in a month. On that day, in front of the whole world, I will get down on one knee and ask you to be my wife."

He was giving her my proposal. The one he' d promised me.

"I know, I know. I love you too." Another pause. His next words were colder, sharper, laced with a venom that made my blood run cold.

"Her? No, we won' t have any more problems. Honestly, Aurora, you have to understand... the years I spent with her, clawing my way out of poverty... that wasn' t a life. It was a nightmare. A shameful chapter I can' t wait to close for good."

My body started to tremble uncontrollably. A low, guttural sound escaped my throat, something between a sob and a scream. I clamped my good hand over my mouth, biting down on my knuckles to stifle the noise.

A nightmare.

My sacrifice, my love, my entire youth... it was all just a shameful nightmare he couldn' t wait to wake up from.

Tears streamed down my face, hot and silent. The pain in my hand was nothing. A dull, distant ache. The real wound was in my soul, a vast, black hole where my heart used to be.

I stumbled back from the door, my vision blurring. A laugh, high and hysterical, clawed its way up my throat.

He was right. It was a nightmare. And I had finally, finally woken up.

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