Shattered Vows: Rise Of The Neglected Wife

It was past eleven at night. The biting wind of a New York winter whipped through the streets as Chloe Lancaster walked out of the private hospital's sliding glass doors. Snowflakes, thick and heavy, were just beginning to fall, swirling in the halo of the streetlamps.

She had just undergone a severe gastric resection surgery to repair a perforated ulcer-a physical manifestation of the stress that had been eating her alive for six years. Five hours in the operating room. Five hours of being cut open and stitched back together. And yet, not a single person had come to check on her.

She pulled her white wool coat tighter around her shivering frame, her hand instinctively pressing against her abdomen where the fresh incisions burned with a dull, throbbing ache.

Across the street, in the sprawling pedestrian plaza, a few straggling groups of young women were gathered, pointing excitedly at the massive digital billboard that dominated the side of a skyscraper. Despite the cold, they were cheering.

Chloe's feet stopped moving. She stood on the snow-dusted pavement and looked up.

On the towering screen, a live feed from a lavish gala was playing. There, standing in the center of a glittering ballroom, was the heir to the Briggs empire, her husband, Bryon Briggs. He was looking down with an expression of uncharacteristic warmth, his hand resting over the hand of a beautiful woman as they jointly cut into a towering, six-tier cake.

The woman was Isabella Waller, Chloe's sister, and a celebrated cello soloist.

Beside them, jumping with excitement, was Chloe and Bryon's five-year-old daughter, Daisy. The little girl reached up, handing a brightly colored painting to Isabella. Even without audio, the bold, crayon letters at the top of the canvas were legible: *Sweet Home*.

The camera zoomed in, capturing the audio of the moment. "Congratulations on a perfect concert, Auntie Izzy! We love you!" Daisy's sweet, childish voice echoed through the plaza's speakers.

Isabella smiled, a radiant, flawless curve of her lips. She looked like a princess holding court. And Bryon, a man known in the corporate world for his ruthless aggression and arrogant demeanor, was looking at his "first love" with a depth of affection that practically bled through the pixels of the screen.

"Wow, look at them. They literally look like the perfect family. The genetics there are insane," one of the girls in the plaza squealed, clutching her friend's arm.

"I am so jealous of Isabella," another chimed in. "She's gorgeous, she's a musical genius, and she has this billionaire and his cute kid completely obsessed with her. She really won at life."

Listening to the gushing admiration of the strangers, Chloe felt as if a jagged piece of ice had been driven straight through her chest. The freezing snow was blowing fiercely, but it was nothing compared to the hollow, drafty void opening up inside her.

If they are the perfect family of three, then what the hell am I?

Chloe remembered that painting. Daisy had spent half a month holed up in her playroom, fiercely guarding her work. She had told Chloe it was a "top-secret surprise for someone special." Chloe, in her foolish, desperate naivety, had assumed it was for her upcoming birthday.

But the "someone special" was someone else entirely.

It made sense. No one cared that she had been rushed to the hospital with a perforated stomach. Why would anyone remember her birthday?

Chloe stood frozen in front of the giant screen, watching that laughing, joyous scene loop on the evening news broadcast. She stood there for a long, long time, until her white coat blended seamlessly with the falling snow, before she finally forced her numb legs to move.

It was past midnight when she finally returned to the Briggs mansion.

The sprawling estate was pitch black, silent as a tomb.

She collapsed onto the living room sofa, too exhausted and in too much pain to climb the stairs. She pulled out her phone, her fingers trembling as she opened her messages with Bryon.

"I want a divorce."

She hit send. The message sat there. Delivered. Ignored.

Bryon had always been like this. He treated her existence as a minor inconvenience, something to be looked past.

Suddenly, her phone buzzed with a flurry of notifications. It wasn't Bryon. It was the "Waller Family" group chat.

Bryon had just uploaded a dozen high-resolution photos and videos of Isabella's cello concert and the after-party. The chat immediately exploded with activity.

Mother: "My daughter is an absolute angel! So beautiful!"

Brother Cameron: "Not just beautiful, but her technique on the cello is unmatched. She's too perfect."

Father: "Isabella is the pride of the Waller family. Whoever marries our Izzy is going to be the luckiest man alive."

Then, a voice note from Daisy: "I wish Auntie Izzy could be my mommy!"

Isabella replied with a string of heart emojis: "Thank you to my amazing family. I love you all so much."

Chloe stared at the screen, her vision blurring. Right above this sickening display of mutual adoration was the message she had sent five hours ago.

"My stomach is killing me. I think something ruptured. Can someone please take me to the hospital?"

They had all seen it. They were all active on their phones. They just didn't care.

Even though Isabella had been living abroad for the last six years, returning only recently, she was still the undisputed princess of the family. Chloe, who had stayed behind, who had cooked, cleaned, and cared for every single one of them, was nothing more than an outsider they tolerated.

She didn't know how long she lay curled up on the sofa, the physical pain in her gut warring with the agony in her heart.

Eventually, the sound of the front door unlocking broke the silence.

"Daddy, I want to sleep in Auntie Izzy's bed tonight. Are you going to sleep with us too?" Daisy's voice drifted into the dark foyer.

"Don't be silly, Daisy. Daddy can't sleep in your aunt's bed," Bryon's deep, gravelly voice replied, though it lacked its usual sharp edge.

"But you never sleep with Mommy!" Daisy protested innocently.

"Oh my god, Bryon, are you actually considering it? I'm just kidding!" Isabella's bright, flirtatious laughter rang out, sharp and grating in the quiet house.

Bryon didn't deny it. He didn't correct her.

Chloe's breath hitched. Every inhale felt like swallowing crushed glass.

"Mommy texted that she was having surgery, but I know she's lying," Daisy grumbled, her little footsteps stomping on the hardwood. "She just wants attention so we won't play with Auntie Izzy. Mommy is so mean and jealous."

The lights flicked on, blindingly bright. Daisy stopped dead in her tracks, staring at Chloe, who was lying on the sofa just a few feet away.

"Alright, that's enough, Daisy. Go upstairs with your aunt, take a bath, and get to bed. You have kindergarten tomorrow," Bryon commanded, his tone shifting back to its usual authoritative clip.

"Come on, sweetie. Let's go before we wake your mother up, or she'll yell at me again," Isabella cooed softly, taking Daisy's small hand and leading her toward the grand staircase.

Bryon stood at the foot of the stairs for a moment. He turned his head, his sharp, calculating gaze falling on Chloe's pale form huddled on the sofa. He stared at her in silence for a few seconds, his expression unreadable, before he turned his back to follow the others upstairs.

"Did you see the text I sent you?"

Chloe's voice was hoarse. She gritted her teeth against the searing pain in her abdomen and forced herself to sit up, staring at his broad, tailored back.

"Chloe, your constant lying and jealous tantrums do not make you look cute," Bryon said, pausing on the second step. He turned to look at her over his shoulder, his dark eyes filled with nothing but cold disdain.

He had seen it. He just didn't care.

"You think I'm lying? You think I'm just jealous?" Chloe asked, her voice eerily calm despite the tremor in her hands.

"Aren't you? Isabella is your sister. Why are you so incapable of just being happy for her? Why is there always this pathetic need to compete?" Bryon fired back, his handsome face set in the familiar lines of irritation he always reserved for her.

"How much of her toxic bullshit have you swallowed to be this blind to reality?" Chloe asked, shaking her head slowly.

"Excuse me? What did you just say?" Bryon's voice dropped dangerously low, a warning growl.

"Nothing that matters anymore," Chloe said, reaching into her oversized handbag. She pulled out a crisp, stapled document and a silver pen, holding them out toward him. "I've already signed the divorce agreement. I just need you to sign it."

She lowered her eyes, hiding the sheen of unshed tears, and kept her arm extended.

Bryon's jaw tightened. He marched down the two steps, snatched the document from her hand, and scanned the first page. A harsh, mocking laugh escaped his lips.

"A divorce? You're asking for a divorce?" he sneered. "Chloe, need I remind you of the ironclad prenuptial agreement you signed? If we divorce, you walk away with absolutely nothing. And you will never get custody of Daisy."

"You don't need to worry about that. I don't want the house, the cars, or the investments. And you can keep the daughter who hates me," Chloe said, her voice flat, devoid of the desperation he was used to hearing. "But you will compensate me for the six years I spent as a servant in this house. I'm not greedy. Thirty million dollars is a bargain for my silence."

Bryon's eyes darkened with sudden, explosive fury. He crumpled the thick stack of papers in his fist and threw them violently onto the floor at her feet.

"You have some nerve, Chloe. Have you conveniently forgotten whose fault it is that Isabella was forced to live abroad for six years? Have you forgotten who caused the scandal that ruined her early career?" Bryon snarled, stepping closer, his imposing frame casting a shadow over her.

He was furious. She was the one who had thrown herself at him, who had begged for this marriage. If anyone was going to initiate a divorce, it would be him discarding her, not the other way around.

"So, me stepping aside and letting you three play house is a problem now?" Chloe bent down, ignoring the sharp spike of pain in her gut, and picked up the crumpled papers. She smoothed them out and stubbornly held them out to him again.

Bryon opened his mouth to shout, but a soft, sultry voice drifted down from the second-floor landing.

"Bryon? Could you bring me a towel? I forgot to grab one."

Bryon's anger seemed to evaporate instantly. "Stop this ridiculous performance, Chloe. We are not getting a divorce. Since you're awake, go to the kitchen and make some ginger tea for Isabella. It's cold out."

Without waiting for a response, he turned and bounded up the stairs.

In six years of marriage, he had never once asked her to make tea with such urgency, let alone for someone else. He wanted her to serve his mistress.

Does he really think I'm that pathetic?

Chloe slowly lowered her hand, folding the divorce agreement and sliding it back into her bag.

A few minutes later, Isabella appeared at the top of the stairs and slowly descended. She was wearing Bryon's black silk dress shirt. It was massive on her, the top three buttons undone to reveal a generous amount of cleavage. The hem barely covered her upper thighs, leaving her long, bare legs exposed.

She looked exactly like the lady of the manor, while Chloe looked like a battered vagrant who had wandered in from the cold.

"Sister, I told Daisy I shouldn't stay over, but she just wouldn't let me leave. You're not mad, are you?" Isabella asked, her tone dripping with fake innocence.

"I'm not mad. Go get your rest," Chloe replied, her face a mask of stone.

Isabella smirked, a vicious glint in her eyes. She walked closer, leaning against the banister.

"You know, sis, I heard you and Bryon sleep in separate rooms. That's no way to keep a man," Isabella whispered, her voice turning husky. "You have to be proactive. If you don't know how, I could give you some pointers. Bryon absolutely loves it when I ride him. And he goes crazy when I wear his shirts like this..."

She lifted one leg slightly, striking a provocative pose, her eyes locking onto Chloe's with a triumphant, malicious gleam, trying to twist the knife as deep as it would go.

"Isabella, I got the towel-"

Bryon suddenly pushed open the door from the hallway, stopping dead in his tracks as he took in the scene.

Isabella gasped, feigning shock, and quickly crossed her arms over her chest, acting like a startled doe. "Bryon! You scared me! You didn't knock!"

"I'm sorry. I thought you were alone," Bryon muttered, his gaze lingering heavily on her exposed legs and the deep V of his own shirt against her skin. A dark, unmistakable flush of arousal crept up his neck. He quickly stepped back out, pulling the door shut behind him.

Watching the legendary, ruthless CEO of Briggs Group turn into a flustered schoolboy, Chloe let out a dry, humorless chuckle.

"You two are unbelievable. Honestly, a pair of stray dogs in an alley have more shame than you," Chloe said, a faint, mocking smile playing on her lips. She looked at Isabella with an expression of pure, unadulterated pity.

"Chloe, what the hell are you talking about?" Bryon's voice boomed as he pushed the door open again, his face red with anger, ready to defend his honor.

Slam.

Chloe didn't give him the chance. She walked past Isabella and slammed the living room doors shut right in his face, locking them from the inside.

He could stand out there and fume. She didn't care.

That night, Chloe didn't sleep. She dragged a heavy metal trash can into the center of her sparse bedroom. From the back of her closet, she pulled out a large, heavy wooden box.

Inside were the relics of her wasted youth. Specifically, five hundred and twenty charcoal sketches and candid photographs of Bryon. She had drawn them during the darkest year of his life, when a severe accident had left him temporarily blind. She had been the one to sit by his bed, to feed him, to read to him, to hold his hand when the panic set in. She had documented his recovery, pouring all her love into every stroke of the pencil.

One by one, she tossed them into the metal bin.

She struck a match and dropped it in.

The paper caught instantly. The flames leaped up, illuminating the stark walls of her room, turning twelve years of unrequited devotion into ash. The heat was intense, but it felt cleansing.

Suddenly, the bedroom door burst open. Bryon charged in, coughing as the acrid smell of smoke hit him. He saw the flames and didn't hesitate, grabbing a heavy wool blanket from the bed and smothering the fire in the bin.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?!" he roared, tossing the ruined blanket aside. "Are you trying to burn the house down and kill us all?"

"Don't worry, Bryon. I value my life far too much to end it with you," Chloe said coolly, stirring the remaining ashes with a metal coat hanger.

Bryon stared at her, breathing heavily. He looked down into the bin and saw the half-burned edge of a sketch. It was his own profile, drawn with meticulous care. He frowned, reaching his hand out to salvage it.

"Bryon! My stomach hurts! It hurts so much!" Isabella's dramatic wail echoed from down the hall.

Bryon's hand froze. He retracted it instantly, turning on his heel and sprinting out of the room like a man possessed. A few minutes later, Chloe heard the roar of his sports car tearing out of the driveway, rushing Isabella to the emergency room.

Good riddance, Chloe thought, finally lying down on her bed and closing her eyes.

...

The next morning, Chloe moved with mechanical precision.

She packed a single suitcase. Then, she walked into Bryon's expansive home office. On his mahogany desk sat a stack of subsidiary reports and project proposals that required his signature.

She slipped the printed divorce agreement right into the middle of the stack, aligning the edges perfectly. Since he refused to face it directly, she would use his own arrogance against him. He never read the fine print on routine paperwork.

Before leaving, she walked down the hall to check on Daisy.

The door was ajar. Isabella, miraculously cured of her stomach ailment, was asleep in the massive bed, her arms wrapped protectively around Daisy.

"Auntie Izzy, wake up. I want you to take me to school today," Daisy whined, shaking Isabella's shoulder. "I don't want Mommy to take me. Mommy isn't pretty like you."

"Just five more minutes, sweetie," Isabella mumbled, pulling the child closer.

Chloe stood in the doorway. She remembered when Daisy was three, the little girl had suddenly demanded to sleep in her own room, claiming she wanted to be a "big girl." Now Chloe realized it wasn't independence; it was disgust.

A sharp pain lanced through Chloe's chest, but she swallowed it down. She quietly pulled the door shut and walked away.

She handed Mrs. Gable, the housekeeper, an envelope with a generous cash bonus, asking her to keep an eye on the documents in the study. Then, she walked out the front door.

Her best friend, Zara Shaw, was waiting in the driveway in a vintage convertible.

"I swear, that kid of yours is a little monster," Zara grumbled as Chloe got in. "Are you sure there wasn't a mix-up at the hospital? She acts exactly like Isabella. Maybe you should get a DNA test. You and Isabella were switched at birth, maybe the curse passed down."

"It's unlikely," Chloe said, staring blankly out the window. "The doctor who delivered her was a family friend. There was no mix-up."

"Then it's just Bryon's toxic genes overpowering yours. He's an ungrateful bastard, and so is his daughter. You literally nursed him back from blindness, and now he's treating you like garbage for Isabella? He's psychotic. Let me call my brother, he's a shark of a lawyer. We'll bleed Bryon dry."

"Not yet," Chloe said softly. "I just want it to be over."

As they drove toward the small apartment Chloe had kept from before her marriage, her phone rang. It was Leo Marino, a brilliant young conductor and her former peer at the conservatory.

"Chloe," Leo's voice crackled with excitement. "There's a private auction at Sotheby's this afternoon at three. One of the items is the 'Duport' Stradivarius cello. The one that was stolen from our mentor in Paris twelve years ago. Are you coming?"

Chloe didn't even hesitate. "Yes. I'll be there."