His Unwanted Wife Is A Genius Designer

Arianna sat at the corner table of Le Bernardin, her posture perfectly straight.

Her eyes traced the empty chair across from her.

Today was their sixth wedding anniversary. She had reminded Francis of this dinner three times this week. He had promised her, in that distracted way he always did, that he would absolutely be here. She had chosen her gown specifically for tonight, an emerald silk that he had once told her he liked. That had been years ago. She wondered if he even remembered saying it.

She picked up her crystal glass of lemon water. The cold liquid slid down her dry throat, doing nothing to ease the tightness in her chest.

A waiter in a crisp white uniform approached her table for the third time.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Castro. Would you care to order an appetizer while you wait?"

Arianna forced the corners of her mouth up, maintaining the flawless, practiced smile of a high-society wife.

"Just ten more minutes, please. Thank you."

The waiter offered a polite nod and turned away.

The moment his back was to her, her facade cracked. Beneath the heavy white tablecloth, her fingers curled into a tight fist around her phone. Her knuckles turned a stark, bloodless white.

The screen of her phone suddenly lit up against her palm.

She dropped her gaze instantly. A brief, desperate spark of hope flared in her chest.

It was not a text from Francis.

It was a push notification from the private Upper East Side socialite group chat.

The headline glared at her in bold letters: BREAKING: Wall Street Titan Engaged in Heated Bidding War at Sotheby's Finale. The Prize? A Legendary Aquamarine Diamond.

Arianna's lungs seized. The air trapped in her throat.

Her hand shook so violently she could barely unlock the screen. She tapped the notification.

A grainy, secretly taken photo filled her screen. Francis sat in the front row of the auction hall, his posture relaxed and confident. Chanelle was pressed against his side, her manicured fingers resting intimately on his forearm. She was leaning in close, whispering something into his ear, her red lips curved into a private, triumphant smile. His head was tilted toward her, his expression unguarded in a way Arianna had not seen directed at herself in years. The aquamarine diamond resting in the auction display case behind them caught the chandelier light, a blinding splash of blue.

So the bidding was still ongoing. He was still inside Sotheby's, sitting beside another woman on their wedding anniversary, preparing to drop a fortune to make that woman smile.

A high-pitched ringing pierced Arianna's ears.

The soft, ambient jazz of the three-star Michelin restaurant vanished entirely from her senses. The clinking of silver forks, the low murmur of wealthy patrons-it all faded into a deafening static.

She squeezed her eyes shut. She forced air through her nose, trying to push down the heavy, suffocating weight crushing her ribcage. It felt like her sternum was cracking down the middle.

When she opened her eyes again, the desperate, lingering warmth that had kept her anchored to this marriage for six years was gone.

Only cold, gray ash remained.

She raised her hand, catching the waiter's attention.

She pulled a crisp hundred-dollar bill from her clutch, placed it on the table to cover the lemon water, and stood up.

Arianna pushed her weight against the heavy glass doors of the restaurant.

The freezing, early autumn rain of Manhattan hit her face like tiny needles.

The doorman rushed forward, popping open a large black umbrella.

"Mrs. Castro, should I call your driver?"

She shook her head.

She stepped out from under the awning, walking directly into the downpour. The icy water instantly soaked through the thin fabric of her custom haute couture gown, pasting it to her shivering skin.

She reached the corner of Fifth Avenue. A black Maybach with deeply tinted windows sped past her, its tires slicing through a deep puddle. The traffic light ahead turned red. The car slowed to a halt just a few feet away.

A spray of dirty, oily street water splashed across Arianna's ankles, ruining her limited-edition heels.

Arianna did not look up at the car. She did not need to. She knew, with the cold certainty that came from six years of invisible suffering, exactly who was inside that vehicle. She knew who was sitting in the backseat, who had been beside him at the auction, who would be wearing the aquamarine diamond by the end of the night.

The light turned green. The Maybach accelerated.

She stood completely still in the rain, her eyes locked on the glowing red taillights until they disappeared into the dark city traffic.

She looked down at her left hand.

Rainwater dripped over the simple platinum diamond band on her ring finger. It was the physical proof of her six-year sentence.

Without a single second of hesitation, she grabbed the ring and yanked it off her finger.

She tossed it toward the heavy iron grate of the storm drain on the curb.

The platinum hit the metal grate with a sharp, hollow clink.

Then, it slipped through the gaps, falling into the dark, foul-smelling sewer below.

She opened her soaked clutch and pulled out her phone. She wiped the wet screen against her ruined dress and scrolled through her contacts.

She found the number saved as Elias Adler.

She pressed the call button.

The line rang exactly three times before a calm, professional voice answered.

"Adler."

Arianna stood in the freezing wind. Her voice was flat, devoid of any tremor or warmth.

"Draft the divorce papers, Elias. I am leaving him tonight."

Arianna pushed through the revolving doors of the luxury Upper East Side apartment building.

Ice-cold rainwater dripped from her hair, pooling on the pristine marble floor of the lobby.

The night-shift security guard stood up behind the desk. His eyes widened at the sight of the usually immaculate CEO's wife looking so drenched and disheveled. He opened his mouth, closed it, and quickly pressed the button for the private penthouse elevator.

The elevator doors slid open on the top floor.

Instead of the warm, ambient lighting she expected, she was met with pitch-black silence.

She frowned. She hit the switch on the entryway wall.

"Aoife?" she called out for the live-in nanny.

Her wet heels clicked loudly against the hardwood floor of the massive duplex living room. The sound echoed. No one answered.

A sudden, sharp spike of adrenaline hit her bloodstream. It was the primal, terrifying instinct of a mother.

She kicked off her ruined heels and ran barefoot down the hallway toward the nursery.

The door was slightly ajar.

Through the dim light spilling from the hallway, she saw something small and round lying on the thick shag carpet.

It was a half-eaten macaron.

Her chest tightened. She slapped her hand against the wall, finding the switch. The bright overhead lights flickered on.

She gasped, the sound tearing out of her throat.

Her five-year-old son, Benjaman, was lying on the floor. His small body was curled into a tight, agonizing ball.

Her heart skipped a violent beat. She dropped to her knees and pulled him into her arms.

His face was a terrifying shade of blue. His chest heaved, producing a horrific, high-pitched wheezing sound as he fought for air.

The heavy, sweet scent of peanut butter wafted from the crushed macaron on the rug.

It was a severe anaphylactic shock.

Arianna's eyes darted wildly around the room. She gently laid him down and sprinted toward the corner cabinet where they kept the emergency medical kit.

She grabbed the handle of the locked box. She punched in the four-digit code.

A red light flashed. The nanny had changed the code and locked it. Aoife had mentioned something last week about updating the code so Benjaman wouldn't accidentally get into the adult medications, a stupidly careless safety measure she hadn't bothered to share with Arianna yet.

Arianna punched the numbers again. Red light. A third time. Red light. The keypad locked her out.

She spun around, her eyes landing on the heavy, solid brass lamp on the dresser.

She grabbed the lamp by the base, raised it high above her head, and slammed it directly into the glass door of the medical cabinet.

The glass shattered with an explosive crash.

Jagged shards sliced deep into the back of her hand. Warm blood instantly welled up, dripping down her fingers, but she didn't feel the pain.

She shoved her bleeding hand into the broken cabinet and tore through the supplies.

Her fingers closed around the plastic tube of the EpiPen.

She ripped the blue safety cap off. She gripped Benjaman's tiny thigh, aimed the orange tip at his outer muscle, and drove it down hard.

The needle clicked. The medication shot into his system.

Benjaman's violent convulsions slowed slightly, but his eyes remained rolled back. He was still unconscious.

Arianna pulled her phone from her pocket. Her bloody fingers smeared across the screen as she dialed 911.

"My son is in anaphylactic shock. Five years old. EpiPen administered. He is unresponsive," she barked into the phone, rattling off the penthouse address with terrifying precision.

She threw the phone aside and immediately dialed Francis's private number.

The line rang. And rang. And rang.

Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system.

She gritted her teeth, her jaw aching from the pressure, and hit redial.

It rang exactly once before the line went dead.

He had manually rejected her call.

A wave of pure, toxic rage mixed with absolute despair crashed over her. She pulled Benjaman tightly against her chest.

Tears finally broke free, spilling over her eyelashes and dropping onto her son's pale, clammy cheek.

The shrill, piercing wail of an ambulance siren echoed from the streets far below, cutting through the dead silence of the penthouse.

Minutes later, paramedics rushed through the front door, their heavy boots thudding against the floor.

They loaded Benjaman onto a small stretcher.

Arianna grabbed a random coat from the chair, instinctively scooped her phone from the floor, and sprinted after them into the medical elevator.

The back of the ambulance was cramped and smelled heavily of sterile alcohol.

The harsh red and blue strobe lights flashed through the small windows, illuminating the terrifying pallor of Arianna's face.

A paramedic strapped a clear oxygen mask over Benjaman's face and attached the sticky ECG pads to his chest.

The monitor beeped rapidly. The erratic, unstable rhythm made the temperature in the small space feel like it had dropped below freezing.

Arianna gripped her son's icy hand.

She pulled out her phone again and typed a frantic text to Francis's executive assistant, Morgan.

Benjaman is dying. Presbyterian Hospital. Now.

The tiny 'Read' receipt popped up instantly.

She stared at the screen. The ambulance slammed on its brakes, throwing her forward as they arrived at the emergency room doors.

The screen went black. There was no reply.

The automatic doors of the emergency room slid open.

Arianna sprinted into the blindingly bright lobby, her hand still gripping the metal rail of the gurney.

A triage nurse stepped in front of her, holding up a hand at the red line painted on the floor.

"Ma'am, you need to stay back. Please go to the front desk for admissions."

Arianna slammed her hands against the glass window of the trauma room. She watched in horror as a doctor forced a metal laryngoscope down her son's throat to secure his airway.

Her knees buckled. She slid down the glass, her back hitting the cold wall to keep herself upright.

The bright red light above the trauma room door flashed on.

A wave of severe, physiological dizziness hit her. The room spun, her stomach churning violently.

The front desk nurse walked over, holding a clipboard with a critical condition notice.

"I need a direct family member's signature," the nurse said softly.

Arianna stared at the bold black letters on the paper. She reached for the pen, but her hand was shaking so badly she dropped it twice.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. She bit down on her lower lip until the sharp, metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth. The pain forced her brain to focus.

She gripped the pen and signed her name.

She turned away from the desk and walked down the empty, sterile corridor.

Her legs gave out completely. She collapsed onto the cold tile floor.

She stared blankly at her own clothes. Her ruined designer dress was stained with her son's vomit, and the deep cuts on the back of her hand were crusted with dried blood. Her eyes were entirely hollow.

At the far end of the hallway, the VIP elevator let out a soft ding.

The polished metal doors slid open.

Francis stepped out. He was wearing a flawlessly tailored bespoke suit. His brow was furrowed in deep annoyance as his long legs ate up the distance.

Walking closely behind him was Chanelle. She was still wearing her stunning haute couture gown, her makeup absolutely flawless, looking as if she were stepping onto a red carpet rather than into an ER.

Arianna placed her uninjured hand against the wall and slowly pushed herself up to her feet.

Her dead eyes locked onto the two intruders. They looked entirely out of place in this hallway of suffering.

Francis stopped in front of her. His eyes darted to the glowing red light above the trauma room for a fraction of a second, his jaw tightening, before he turned his cold fury on her. He didn't ask about Benjaman.

"Why weren't you watching him?" he demanded, his voice hard and accusing.

There was no comfort in his tone. Only the arrogant, entitled reprimand of a man who believed his wife had failed her only job.

Arianna didn't answer him. Her gaze bypassed his face entirely and landed on Chanelle's neck.

Under the harsh, fluorescent hospital lights, the multi-million-dollar aquamarine diamond necklace sparkled with a sickening, blinding brilliance.

Chanelle noticed where Arianna was looking. She slowly raised her hand, her manicured fingers brushing against the heavy diamond pendant. The corner of her mouth twitched upward into a subtle, mocking smirk.

Chanelle took a step forward, her voice dripping with exaggerated, fake concern.

"Arianna, what on earth happened to poor little Benjaman?"

A violent spasm of nausea ripped through Arianna's stomach.

She raised a trembling, bloodstained finger, pointing straight at the elevator. "Get out."

Francis immediately stepped sideways, using his broad shoulders to shield Chanelle.

"Are you out of your mind?" Francis snapped, his voice echoing in the quiet hall. "Stop acting like a lunatic in a hospital."

Arianna reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. The screen was cracked from when she dropped it in the penthouse.

She pulled up the call log. She shoved the screen inches from Francis's face, showing the red icon of the rejected call.

"While your son was choking to death on his own swollen throat," she said, her voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly whisper, "what exactly were you doing when you hung up on me?"

For a fraction of a second, Francis's eyes darted away.

"The auction was at the final hammer drop," he defended himself, his jaw tight.

"Chanelle's new brand needed that necklace for the PR launch. I couldn't just walk out in the middle of the bidding war."

The sheer absurdity of his excuse hit Arianna like a physical blow.

Six years of silent submission, of swallowing her pride, of shrinking herself to fit into his world-it all ignited into a blinding inferno of rage.

She raised her right hand. The cuts on her knuckles throbbed.

She swung her arm with every ounce of strength she possessed and slapped Francis directly across his handsome face.

The sharp, explosive crack of flesh hitting flesh echoed down the corridor.

Two nurses at the end of the hall froze, dropping a chart in shock.

Francis's head snapped to the side. A bright red handprint instantly bloomed across his cheek. His eyes widened, filling with absolute, stunned fury.

Arianna took a step back. A cold, humorless smile touched her lips.

She looked at him the way one looks at a rotting corpse.