His Discarded Wife Is The Rival's Queen

Isabella Schmitt POV:

"Warning: You are currently designated as essential personnel on active intellectual property filings. Resigning will forfeit all unvested equity and annual performance bonuses. Do you wish to proceed?"

As I was filling out the resignation form, a red warning box suddenly appeared on the screen.

I stared at the seven words in the "Reason for Leaving" field.

Severe career limitations. Resignation effective immediately.

For three years, I had built seven foundational anti-fatigue algorithms from scratch in this windowless laboratory. Every single line of code, every patent, every conference credit had been handed to My husband Fitzgerald David and his mistress Kristi Wheeler's signature, while I was kept on an entry-level researcher's weekly stipend.

An hour gone, and I still haven't clicked "Confirm." I can't do it. My adoptive mother is gravely ill and needs money. If I quit out of selfishness, I'll lose more than just a job.

Just at that moment, my phone vibrated against the cold steel of the lab bench, the screen lit up with an incoming call from Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston.

I could only fumble across the glass screen with a shaking hand, my heart in my throat.

"Isabella?" The voice on the other end was clipped and breathless. "It's Dr. Albright. Your mother's leukemia took a severe downturn twenty minutes ago. Her blast counts are surging. We need to perform the bone marrow transplant immediately."

A cold weight dropped into the pit of my heart."How much do we need for the surgical deposit?"

"Five hundred thousand dollars," Dr. Albright said, his voice flat with clinical urgency. "And we need it cleared within seventy-two hours, or we lose the donor match."

Five hundred thousand.

The number hit my chest like a lead weight, knocking the air clean out of my lungs.

"I will get it to you," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Please, keep her stable."

I hung up, not even bothering to unbutton my white lab coat, and marched straight toward the regional human resources suite at the end of the hall.

The frosted glass door flew open under my hand, sending a draft through the room.

Ken, the regional HR manager, jolted in his ergonomic chair, spilling hot dark roast down the front of his silk tie.

"Jesus Christ, Isabella!" Ken barked, scowling as he grabbed a handful of paper towels. "Don't they teach you how to knock in that basement lab?"

"Ken, I need an immediate hardship leave approved," I said, planting both hands flat on his desk and leaning in. "My mother is in the ICU in Boston. I have over four weeks of accumulated paid time off."

Ken dabbed at his stained tie, his sneer deepening as he leaned back.

"Hardship leave? Today?" He let out a dry, nasal chuckle. "You know the David Sports Group is presenting your joint fatigue and kinematic tracking algorithm at the NHL analytics symposium next week. Mr. David personally issued a direct freeze on your profile. No leave. No exceptions."

The mention of Fitzgerald's name made my chest tighten, a familiar ache flaring behind my ribs.

I forced my spine rigid.

"I am the lead researcher on that dynamic load algorithm," I said, keeping my tone dead and steady. "Under federal labor standards and my direct employment rider, personal medical emergencies override internal presentation prep."

"Don't give me that lead researcher garbage," Ken scoffed, tossing the wet paper towels into the bin. "You're only in this facility because Mr. David was generous enough to give his little charity-case wife a quiet corner to play with data. You think you're indispensable?"

My pulse hammered in my throat, but I didn't blink.

"If you refuse to process my statutory leave, I will take formal escalation measures."

"Be my guest," Ken said, spreading his arms wide with an arrogant grin. "Go ahead and quit. Walk out that door. Without the David Sports Group's hockey franchises, funding, and legal team backing your credentials, you wouldn't last forty-eight hours in North American sports science. Who else is going to hire a woman whose license was practically bought by her husband's family?"

So it turns out that, in their eyes, the years I slaved away for the company amount to nothing; the work I poured my heart and soul into-only to have it stolen by my husband and his mistress-counts for nothing; and whether my adoptive mother lives or dies matters even less. That being the case, why should I stay here and work myself to death for them?

I didn't waste another breath on him.

I spun on my heel, my heels clicking sharply against the linoleum as I strode out of his office.

Back at my workstation, the bright red warning window still remained on the screen.

This time,I didn't hesitate for a fraction of a second.

I slammed my thumb down on the enter key.

A green confirmation message replaced the warning: "Submission successful. Routing to Executive Suite for final administrative approval."

I reached behind my neck, unclipped the plastic lanyard holding my David Sports Group security badge, and dropped it into the metal trash can beneath my desk.

It hit the bottom with a hollow clang.

Several junior analysts at the neighboring benches stared at me, their whispers buzzing in the background.

I grabbed my wool trench coat, scooped my car keys off the desk, and walked out without looking back at the lab where I had spent the last three years of my life.

By the time the regional jet touched down at Logan International Airport, it was past three in the morning.

The Boston air was vicious, biting right through my thin woolen coat the second I stepped out of the terminal.

I flagged down a yellow cab idling at the curb and gave the driver the destination: "Massachusetts General Hospital. Emergency entrance."

The taxi sped through the empty, snow-dusted streets of downtown Boston.

I bolted through the hospital's sliding glass doors, my wet shoes leaving messy tracks across the white linoleum floor.

On the third floor of the intensive care wing, I stopped in front of the observation glass.

My adoptive mother, Brenda, lay beneath a thin thermal blanket, surrounded by the rhythmic, mechanical hiss of ventilators and cardiac monitors. Her face was gray, her cheeks sunken.

Dr. Albright emerged from the nurses' station, holding a beige paper folder.

"Isabella," he said gently, handing me the formal deposit notice. "The hospital's charitable emergency reserve for her case has completely run out. If that five hundred thousand isn't in escrow within forty-eight hours, the transplant coordinator will have to release the matched stem cells to the next patient on the registry."

I took the slip of paper.

The sharp edge caught the side of my thumb, drawing a small, bright bead of crimson.

I squeezed my hand into a fist, pressing the cut against my palm, and looked through the glass at Brenda's frail chest rising and falling.

"I will have the funds, Doctor," I said quietly. "Keep the prep meds running."

I pulled out my phone and scrolled to the contact labeled "Fitzgerald."

My thumb hovered over the call button for three full seconds before I locked the screen.

Begging him over the phone would yield nothing.

I turned toward the elevators, ready to head straight to Beacon Hill.

This time, I'm done being the figurehead wife everyone at the company sees me as. I'm coming to him as an employee, demanding what I'm owed.

Isabella Schmitt POV:

"Where to, lady?" the cab driver asked as I pulled the door shut against the howling Boston wind outside Mass General.

"Beacon Hill," I said, my voice hoarse. "The David Estate on Chestnut Street."

The driver glanced back at me through the rearview mirror, his eyebrows lifting slightly at the mention of the city's most exclusive old-money enclave, before shifting the car into gear.

When the cab pulled up to the towering black wrought-iron gates of the estate, I paid the fare with the last twenty-dollar bill in my wallet and stepped out into the freezing slush.

My checking account was nearly empty, and my personal credit card-the only card David Sports Group had not frozen-had less than five thousand dollars of available credit left.

It was emergency money, not transplant money. It would never be enough for my mother.

I walked up to the brass intercom panel and punched in the seven-digit security code I had known by heart for three years.

With a heavy, mechanical groan, the iron gates swung inward.

I walked up the sweeping driveway, the manicured evergreens on either side draped in glowing holiday lights for the upcoming New Year.

The festive cheer felt like a slap in the face.

I pushed open the heavy oak double doors of the main house, and a blast of central heating washed over me, thick with the scent of expensive cedar and spiced cologne.

Before I could shake the snow from my coat, a high-pitched screech of laughter echoed from the grand living room, followed by the violent crash of porcelain shattering against hardwood.

I stepped around the marble foyer and stopped.

Seven-year-old Coy David stood in the center of an antique Persian rug, gripping the cut-down shaft of a titanium golf club.

At his feet lay the pulverized remains of a blue-and-white Qing dynasty vase.

On the velvet sectional nearby, Kristi Wheeler leaned back in a cream-colored cashmere lounge set, swirling a glass of vintage Pinot Noir without a care in the world.

When Coy spotted me, his face twisted into a bratty sneer, and he raised the metal club, pointing the jagged grip straight at my chest.

"What is the poor woman doing back here?" he yelled, stomping his foot. "Daddy said you belong in the freezing basement! Get out of my house!"

I didn't look at the child. My gaze locked directly onto Kristi.

"Control your son, Kristi."

Coy lunged forward like a rabid terrier, swinging his heavy winter boot and kicking me hard in the right shin.

The impact sent a sharp jolt of pain up my leg, leaving a muddy smear across my dark trousers.

"Don't touch her, Coy," Kristi said lazily, taking a slow sip of her wine. "You might catch whatever cheap germs she brought back from the coach class cabin."

Footsteps sounded on the curved mahogany staircase.

Fitzgerald descended the stairs, clad in a tailored charcoal three-piece suit, his gold cufflinks catching the chandelier light.

Kristi immediately set her glass down, her sharp expression melting into a picture of fragile distress as she glided over to wrap her arm around Fitzgerald's.

"Fitz," Kristi whimpered, resting her cheek against his lapel. "Isabella just barged in and started screaming at Coy. She terrified the poor boy."

Fitzgerald's pale brown eyes swept over me, lingering for a fraction of a second on my snow-damp coat and muddy pant leg.

His brow furrowed with irritation.

"Why aren't you in Montreal finishing the telemetry algorithms for the summit?" His voice was cold, stripped of any warmth. "What are you doing causing a scene in my living room at four in the morning?"

"My mother is in septic shock at Mass General," I said, ignoring the dull throb in my shin as I looked him dead in the eye. "She needs an emergency bone marrow transplant. I need a five-hundred-thousand-dollar advance against my dynamic tracking patent royalties."

Fitzgerald let out a dry, condescending laugh.

He walked over to the wet bar, poured two fingers of Macallan into a crystal tumbler, and turned back to face me.

"So, you've flown five hundred miles through a blizzard just to beg for scraps?"

Beside the couch, Coy let out a gleeful, mocking giggle.

"We are legally married, Fitzgerald," I said, my nails biting into my palms inside my coat pockets. "My algorithms generated over twenty million dollars in licensing revenue for your sports performance division this fiscal year alone. I am asking for what is already mine."

Fitzgerald took a slow sip of his whiskey and stepped toward me, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the marble floor.

"Your little lines of code wouldn't be worth fifty cents without the David Sports Group brand slapped on the cover," he said, his voice dropping into a cruel murmur. "You want half a million dollars? Fine. Get down on your knees, beg Kristi for forgiveness for speaking to her like that, and maybe I'll let her write you a check out of her weekly allowance."

The air in the room seemed to freeze.

I stared at him, a wave of profound nausea washing over me.

"You want me to kneel to the woman who stole my preliminary research drafts and presented them as her own?"

Kristi instantly pressed a manicured hand to her chest, her eyes welling with well-rehearsed tears as she buried her face deeper into Fitzgerald's chest.

"Fitz, please... she's attacking my credibility again... I worked so hard on that presentation..."

"Enough!" Fitzgerald snapped, slamming his heavy crystal glass down onto the marble side table with a sharp crack. "I am sick of your pathetic, insecure jealousy, Isabella. You aren't getting a single dime from this family today. Not one cent."

I looked at his rigid, self-important face.

The last lingering shred of whatever youthful illusion I had once harbored for this man withered and died on the spot.

I didn't scream. I didn't cry.

A cold, razor-sharp calm settled over my nerves.

"I didn' t come here to plead with you. I came to give you notice. Since you choose to ignore my warning, and don' t blame me for what comes next,prepare to pay the price, Fitzgerald."

I turned on my heel and walked toward the heavy front doors.

"Hold on."

Fitzgerald's voice cut through the cavernous foyer just as my fingers touched the cold brass handle of the front door.

His leather soles clicked against the herringbone parquet as he closed the distance behind me.

Isabella Schmitt POV:

"What pathetic little game are you playing now? Walking out like a martyr? Do you honestly think this little silent treatment routine works on me?" Fitzgerald sneered.

I turned my head slightly, catching his silhouette in the reflection of the glass panel.

"I don't have time for your games. If you refuse to release my earned compensation, we will let the probate and labor courts settle it."

Fitzgerald let out a sharp, mocking bark of laughter.

He reached into the inner breast pocket of his tailored jacket, pulled out an eleven-inch iPad Pro, and tapped the screen.

"Labor courts? You think you have leverage?" He held the glowing screen out toward me, his smirk full of venom. "You pulled this exact stunt three months ago. Filing a dramatic resignation ticket in the enterprise portal just to see if I'd fly to Montreal and beg you to stay."

I turned around fully, my eyes settling on the screen.

At the very top of his pending administrative executive queue sat the ticket I had submitted a few hours ago: 'Isabella Schmitt – Lead Sports Science Specialist – Voluntary Termination of Employment.'

"That isn't a stunt," I said, my voice completely devoid of inflection. "That is a legal notice."

"A legal notice?" Fitzgerald chuckled, hovering his index finger mockingly over the red "Reject" button on the interface. "Your mother is dying in an ICU bed without half a million dollars of my money, and you expect me to believe you're walking away from your salary?"

He shook his head, his eyes hardening with pure malice.

"You want to play chicken with me, Isabella? You want to threaten me with your departure? Fine. Let's see how fast you choke on your own pride."

Instead of hitting "Reject," his thumb swiped across the screen and deliberately tapped the green icon at the bottom: "Batch Approve All Pending Transitions."

A crisp digital chime sounded from the device.

A bright system banner flashed across the display: "Action confirmed. Employee ID 8841 status updated to: Separated. Standard non-compete covenants waived per Executive Override. Severance settlement queued."

Fitzgerald tossed the iPad onto the console table by the door with a dismissive flick of his wrist.

He crossed his arms, looking down his nose at me.

"There. You're officially unemployed. Let's see how long it takes before you're kneeling on the frozen pavement outside my office, begging for your badge back."

I looked down at the tablet screen where the green confirmation box was still glowing.

"Non-compete covenants waived."

He had been so eager to punish me, so drunk on his own petty authority, that he hadn't even realized he had just used his master executive override to dissolve the three-year non-compete clause that had legally bound my research to the David Sports Group.

A strange, electric sensation bloomed in my chest.

The suffocating tightness that had gripped my lungs for three long years vanished, replaced by an intoxicating clarity.

I looked up at him, the faintest ghost of a smile touching my lips.

"Thank you, Mr. David," I said, my voice smooth and level. "That is undeniably the best executive decision you have ever made."

Fitzgerald's left eyelid twitched.

Something in my expression-the complete, terrifying absence of despair-seemed to rattle him. He took half a step forward, his mouth opening as if to speak.

I didn't give him the chance.

I pulled the heavy oak door open and stepped out into the swirling wind.

The freezing gale blasted across the threshold, whipping my dark hair across my face and instantly blowing away the cloying stench of cedar cologne and expensive wine.

I walked down the stone steps into the storm, letting the heavy door slam shut behind me.

Trudging through the fresh powder on the driveway, the sub-zero air burned my throat, but for the first time in years, I could actually breathe.

I pulled out my phone, opened the David Group internal messaging application, and tapped "Leave All Corporate Channels."

One by one, the red notification badges vanished from my screen.

The five-hundred-thousand-dollar shortfall was still an open wound, but I would burn every bridge in this city before I ever crawled back to that house.

I reached the wrought-iron side gate, intending to cut through the service alley toward the Charles/MGH subway station.

Just as my hand touched the rusted latch, a high-pitched, agonizing yelp cut through the roar of the wind.

My entire body locked up.

It was Pucks.

The four-month-old Alaskan Malamute puppy I had rescued from an animal shelter near the Montreal facility and temporarily housed in the heated kennel behind the carriage house while I was on rotation.

Another shriek tore through the blizzard, followed by the muffled thud of metal striking soft flesh and the vicious, excited laughter of a young boy.

I spun around, dropping my purse onto the snow, and sprinted blindly toward the dark thicket behind the carriage house.