From Ruined Wife To Tycoon's Obsession

Everly Weber stood before the floor-to-ceiling mirror at the edge of the Waldorf Astoria ballroom, her fingers smoothing the heavy silk of her conservative champagne gown.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. Her hands were shaking. She forced her fingers to interlock, pressing her knuckles together until the joints turned white, desperately trying to mask the exhaustion of spending the last three sleepless nights coordinating the banquet's endless details while constantly agonizing over the phone about her sick daughter, Aria.

Everly turned away from the glass. She forced her spine straight and walked down the thick, carpeted corridor toward the brilliant lights of the main hall.

The string quartet was playing a soft classical piece. Her eyes scanned the sea of New York's elite, instantly locking onto the man sitting in a wheelchair at the center of the room. Her grandfather, Arthur Weber.

The tight knot in her chest loosened slightly. She walked quickly to his side, bending down to tuck the edges of the cashmere blanket firmly around his frail knees.

Arthur patted the back of her hand. His skin felt like dry parchment. He looked around the crowded room, his voice weak.

"Where is Carson?" he asked.

Everly's stomach dropped. A cold sweat pricked the back of her neck, but she immediately pulled a flawless, practiced smile onto her face.

"He's stuck in a cross-border video conference with Silicon Valley," she lied, her voice steady. "It's an emergency for the IPO. He'll be here soon."

Arthur sighed, his chest rising with effort. He opened his mouth to speak, but a heavy thud echoed through the room.

The massive mahogany double doors of the ballroom had been shoved open.

The string quartet stopped abruptly. The screech of a cello bow scraping across strings filled the silence. The low hum of conversation from the socialites and tycoons died instantly. Everyone turned toward the entrance.

Everly followed their gaze. Her pupils dilated. The air trapped itself in her throat, refusing to move.

Giana Rowland stood in the doorway. She was wearing a skin-tight, deep crimson maternity gown that left nothing to the imagination. She balanced on stiletto heels, her chin tilted up in pure arrogance.

Giana deliberately placed her right hand over her visibly swollen belly. Her eyes cut through the crowd, landing directly on Everly.

A collective, muffled gasp rippled through the room. The wealthy women in the crowd immediately leaned into each other, whispering and pointing manicured fingers at Everly.

Everly's fingernails dug so hard into her palms that the skin broke. She instinctively took a step forward, using her own body as a physical shield to block her grandfather's view.

Giana ignored the hotel security guards rushing toward her. She swayed her hips, walking directly toward the main table as if she owned the entire building.

Arthur shifted in his wheelchair. He tried to lean around Everly to see what the commotion was about.

Everly slammed her hands down on his shoulders, her voice trembling violently.

"Don't look, Grandpa," she pleaded. "It's just someone who walked into the wrong room."

Giana stopped less than three feet away. She looked Everly up and down, her eyes lingering on the modest champagne gown. She let out a sharp, mocking laugh.

She reached into her designer handbag and pulled out a beautifully wrapped gift box. She tossed it onto the table. It landed directly on Arthur's empty porcelain dinner plate with a loud clatter.

The lid popped off. A pair of tiny, expensive baby shoes tumbled out.

A heavy cardstock note fell beside them. The bold, black ink faced the crowd: Congratulations to the eldest grandson of the Moss family.

The whispers in the room erupted into loud, vicious murmurs. The gazes of the guests turned into physical blades, slicing into Everly's pride.

Everly's eyes burned red. She snatched the box off the table, stepping into Giana's personal space.

"Get out," Everly hissed, her voice a low, dangerous vibration. "Get out right now."

Giana didn't move. Instead, she raised her voice, making sure the entire room could hear her sweet, high-pitched tone.

"Carson specifically asked me to bring this over," Giana said. "He wanted to make sure his family saw his true heart."

At the sound of Carson's name, Arthur's face drained of all color. He grabbed his chest, his fingers twisting into the fabric of his suit. His breathing turned into wet, rapid gasps.

Everly heard the terrible sound. She whipped her head around and saw Arthur's face contorting in pure agony. Total panic crashed over her.

She dropped the box. She fell to her knees beside the wheelchair, ripping open her clutch purse, her hands shaking so badly she spilled her lipstick and keys onto the floor as she searched for his emergency pills.

Giana took a step closer. She looked down at Everly, her lips forming silent words.

You are going to be thrown out like trash.

Everly shoved the pill into Arthur's mouth. She grabbed a water glass from the table and pressed it to his lips, but her hands were trembling so violently that the water splashed down his chin and soaked into the carpet.

The hotel manager finally pushed through the crowd, flanked by three massive security guards. They stood there, hesitating, unsure of how to handle the billionaire's mistress.

Everly forced herself to stand. Her eyes were bloodshot. She used every ounce of strength in her body to maintain her dignity.

"Throw this mentally unstable woman out," Everly ordered the guards, her voice cracking.

But before the guards could move, the side door of the ballroom swung open. Carson Moss walked in, his face dark as a thundercloud, his jaw set in a hard line.

Carson Moss wore a sharply tailored Tom Ford suit. He didn't look at the crowd. He walked straight through the whispering guests, heading directly for the center of the conflict.

Everly watched her husband approach. A desperate flicker of hope ignited in her chest. She instinctively reached her hand out toward him, needing him to shield her, needing him to fix this.

Carson didn't even look at her. He walked right past her outstretched arm, grabbed Giana's wrist, and pulled her toward him.

Everly's hand hung frozen in the empty air. The sound of the socialites laughing behind their hands pierced her eardrums like physical needles.

"You shouldn't be here," Carson muttered to Giana.

His tone was low, but there was no anger in it. Only mild scolding.

Giana immediately leaned her weight against Carson's chest. She pouted, her voice dripping with fake innocence.

"The baby was kicking," she whined. "He wanted to hear the music."

Carson frowned. He turned his head and gave a sharp hand signal to the hotel manager.

"Clear the room," Carson ordered. "No photos. Confiscate any phones that are out."

A wave of dizziness hit Everly. The room spun. She lunged forward and grabbed the sleeve of Carson's suit jacket, her fingers digging into the expensive wool.

"Carson, please," she begged, her voice breaking. "Look at my grandfather. He can't breathe."

Carson looked down at her hand on his arm. He ripped his sleeve away from her grip with brutal force.

"Stop acting like a hysterical shrew," he hissed, his voice low enough that only the three of them could hear. "You're embarrassing me."

Behind them, Arthur gasped for air. He gripped the armrests of his wheelchair, his entire body shaking.

"Who..." Arthur wheezed, his vocal cords straining. "Who is that woman?"

Carson's face stiffened. He opened his mouth, ready to deliver a smooth, practiced PR lie.

But Giana moved faster. She ripped her wrist out of Carson's grip, stepped around the table in her high heels, and marched right up to Arthur's wheelchair.

Everly screamed and lunged to grab Giana's dress, but Carson's personal bodyguard stepped in, slamming his solid chest into Everly and blocking her path.

Giana leaned down. She shoved her face, painted with bright red lipstick, inches from Arthur's pale skin. She deliberately brushed her hair aside, exposing a dark purple hickey on her neck.

"Carson never loved Everly," Giana said, pronouncing every syllable with venomous clarity. "He thinks she's pathetic."

She reached into her bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was an ultrasound printout from New York-Presbyterian Hospital. She shoved it violently into Arthur's trembling hands.

"I'm carrying the real Moss heir," Giana laughed, a sharp, grating sound. "It's a boy."

Arthur looked down. His eyes locked onto the name printed at the top of the medical scan. His eyes widened until the whites showed. A horrifying, wet gurgling sound erupted from his throat.

His face turned a deep, unnatural shade of purple. His hands clawed at the front of his shirt, tearing off a button. His body went rigid, and then he slid sideways, collapsing out of the wheelchair and hitting the floor with a heavy thud.

"Grandpa!" Everly let out a blood-curdling scream.

She shoved the bodyguard with all her might, throwing herself onto the floor beside Arthur.

Her hands shook uncontrollably as she ripped his bowtie off and tore his collar open.

"Call 911!" she screamed at the crowd. "Somebody call an ambulance!"

The ballroom descended into total chaos. Guests shoved each other to get back. Several people pulled out their phones, the camera flashes reflecting off the crystal chandeliers.

Carson saw the cameras. His eyes widened in panic. He didn't look at the dying old man on the floor.

"Get their phones!" Carson roared at his security team. "Confiscate everything! We IPO next week!"

Everly locked her hands together and pressed them hard against Arthur's chest. She pumped down, her tears falling in thick drops, splashing onto Arthur's graying face.

She turned her head, looking up at Carson with wild, desperate eyes.

"Use the helicopter!" she begged, her voice tearing her throat. "Your private chopper is on the roof! Fly him to the hospital now!"

Carson stared down at her. His eyes were completely dead.

"No," Carson said coldly. "The helicopter will draw too much press. We wait for the ambulance."

Giana hid behind Carson's broad back. She placed a hand over her stomach, pretending to look scared, but Everly saw the corners of her red lips pull up into a satisfied smirk.

The wail of sirens finally cut through the Manhattan night, growing louder until they echoed inside the ballroom.

Paramedics rushed through the doors, pushing a stretcher. They grabbed Everly by the shoulders and physically dragged her away from Arthur's body.

Everly fought them, crying and reaching out. She watched helplessly as they strapped her grandfather to the board.

She turned her head one last time. Carson was wrapping his suit jacket around Giana's shoulders, carefully guiding the uninjured woman toward the private VIP elevator, leaving Everly entirely alone.

Everly sat on the hard plastic bench outside the emergency room at New York-Presbyterian Hospital. Her hands were covered in dried, sticky blood.

The fluorescent lights in the hallway buzzed with a harsh, blinding white glare. She stared straight ahead, her eyes locked onto the red "SURGERY IN PROGRESS" sign above the heavy double doors.

Every second felt like a physical weight pressing down on her chest. She pulled her phone from her pocket. Her fingers were stiff and cold. She dialed Carson's number.

The call went straight to a cold, automated voicemail.

Everly slammed the phone down onto the plastic bench. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes and let out a low, suffocating sob that burned her throat.

Suddenly, the red light above the doors clicked off. The heavy airtight doors slid open with a mechanical hiss.

Dr. Elias Thornton walked out. He pulled down his surgical mask, revealing a face lined with exhaustion. There were fresh blood splatters on his blue scrubs. He walked slowly toward Everly.

Everly shot up from the bench. The sudden movement drained the blood from her head. Her vision went black at the edges, and she stumbled forward.

Dr. Thornton caught her by the arm, steadying her.

"Mrs. Moss," he said, his voice heavy with finality. "I am so sorry. The delay in getting him here caused massive myocardial infarction. His heart suffered too much damage. Arthur Weber is gone."

The words hit the back of Everly's skull like a sledgehammer. A high-pitched ringing instantly deafened her.

She opened her mouth to speak, but her throat felt like it was filled with wet cement. No sound came out.

She shoved Dr. Thornton aside and stumbled blindly into the emergency room.

In the center of the room, a body lay on a metal table, covered by a thin white sheet.

Everly walked toward it, her legs feeling like lead. She reached out with a trembling hand and pulled the sheet back.

Arthur's face was sunken, his skin a terrifying, ashen gray.

The dam inside Everly's chest shattered.

She collapsed against the edge of the metal bed, letting out a raw, animalistic scream of pure agony. The sound tore from her lungs, echoing off the sterile tile walls. The edges of her vision darkened, the room spun violently, and she hit the floor, slipping into total darkness.

When Everly opened her eyes again, she was staring at a plain white ceiling. She was lying in a private hospital room. A sharp pinch in the back of her hand told her an IV drip was taped to her skin.

Before she could process the pain in her head, the cell phone on the bedside table began to ring. It was a sharp, grating sound.

Everly turned her head slowly. She reached out and answered the call.

"Everly," Marion Moss's voice came through the speaker. Her mother-in-law sounded haughty, cold, and entirely unbothered.

Marion didn't offer a single word of condolence.

"Listen to me carefully," Marion ordered. "You will post a statement on your social media accounts immediately. You will say the incident at the banquet was a misunderstanding. You will state that Arthur died of natural causes due to old age."

Everly's lungs stopped working. The sheer audacity of the demand sent a shock of ice-cold rage straight into her veins.

"I will not cover up a murder," Everly said, her voice a harsh whisper.

Marion let out a dry, cruel laugh.

"You will do exactly as I say," Marion threatened. "Or I will freeze every single cent of the medical trust fund paying for your crippled daughter's treatments."

At the sound of Aria's name being used as a bargaining chip, something inside Everly snapped. The soft, accommodating woman she had been for four years died in that hospital bed. Her eyes hardened, turning cold and vicious.

Everly didn't say another word. She pulled the phone away from her ear and hit end.

She reached over with her right hand, grabbed the plastic IV tube taped to her left hand, and ripped it out of her vein in one violent motion.

A stream of hot blood immediately ran down her knuckles, dripping onto the white bedsheets.

She grabbed a rough paper towel, pressed it hard against the bleeding hole in her hand, and threw the blanket off. She shoved her bare feet into her ruined heels.

A nurse walked into the room, her eyes widening at the blood. "Ma'am, you can't-"

Everly shoved the nurse out of the way. Her eyes were so dead, so filled with raw intent, that the nurse stumbled back and didn't dare follow.

Everly walked into the hospital elevator. She stared at her reflection in the metal doors. Her hair was a tangled mess. She clenched her fists.

She walked out the front doors of the hospital. The freezing, early morning wind of New York hit her face, but it did nothing to cool the boiling rage in her chest.

She flagged down a yellow taxi. She ripped the back door open and slid onto the cracked leather seat.

The driver looked at her in the rearview mirror, his eyes wide with shock at her bloody, disheveled state. "Where to, lady?"

Everly stared out the window at the dark city streets.

"Tribeca," Everly said, her voice like crushed glass. She gave him the exact address of the penthouse Carson had bought for his mistress.