The Billionaire's Wife Escapes To Antarctica

The flame from the silver lighter caught the wick of the final candle. Amy pulled her hand back. The warm light flickered across the dining table, illuminating the three-course French meal that had been sitting there for two hours. The Wagyu beef was completely cold. The fat had congealed into unappetizing white edges against the expensive porcelain plates.

She turned her head and looked at the large clock on the wall. The hands pointed exactly to nine o'clock. Brigham was not here.

Amy picked up her phone from the marble kitchen island. She pressed the speed dial for her husband's private number. The line rang twice before clicking over to the automated voicemail. The robotic voice filled the quiet room, sounding louder than it actually was.

She ended the call. Her bare feet made no sound on the hardwood floor as she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The glittering skyline of Manhattan stretched out below her, millions of lights pulsing in the dark. A cold knot formed in her stomach. The silence of the penthouse was suffocating.

The screen of her phone suddenly lit up in her hand. It was a push notification from a social media app. A special alert she had set up long ago.

Her thumb hovered over the screen. Her fingertips were ice cold. She tapped the notification. A live video posted by Kade Vance filled the screen. The heavy bass of club music blasted from the small speakers, shattering the quiet of her apartment.

The background of the video was the most exclusive private club in New York. Champagne towers stood tall on glass tables. Gold and black balloons floated near the ceiling.

The camera panned across the crowded room and stopped right in the center. Brigham Myers was there. He was looking down, a soft smile playing on his lips. It was a smile Amy had not seen in three years of marriage.

Following Brigham's gaze, the camera shifted. Giselle Leach stood there. She had just returned from Europe.

Giselle was wearing a stunning white haute couture gown. Amy recognized it instantly. It was the exact dress Brigham had won at an auction just last week. He had told Amy he bought it as an investment for the company's archive.

In the video, someone popped a bottle of champagne. The foam sprayed through the air. Brigham reached out and pulled Giselle by the waist, tucking her against his chest to shield her from the spray. His hand rested firmly on her hip.

The caption Kade had typed across the bottom of the video burned into Amy's retinas. "Our queen is finally back. I heard he blew off some serious business to be here tonight."

All the strength left Amy's fingers. The phone slipped from her hand and hit the thick wool rug with a dull thud. The music continued to play from the floor, muffled but still clear.

She turned around slowly. She looked at the dining table, at the cold Wagyu beef, at the three anniversary candles burning down to the wax. The corners of her mouth twitched upward in a pathetic, self-deprecating smile.

She walked back to the table. She picked up her crystal wine glass. She brought it to her lips and swallowed the red wine in one huge gulp. The alcohol burned the back of her throat, forcing down the heavy lump that was trying to choke her.

A knot of ice formed in her stomach, so tight it was hard to breathe. The sudden emotional whiplash left her feeling hollowed out. She dropped the glass onto the table, wrapped her arms around her waist, and sank into the expensive dining chair. She bent forward, struggling to pull air into her lungs.

The doorbell chimed.

Amy's head snapped up. A tiny, stupid spark of hope flared in her chest. She pushed herself up from the chair and walked quickly to the entryway.

She looked at the video intercom screen. It was not Brigham. It was the building's private butler, standing straight in his uniform.

She opened the heavy door. The butler held out a small, elegant velvet box.

"This is from Mr. Myers, ma'am. He sent someone to deliver it." The butler kept his eyes respectfully lowered.

Amy took the box. Her fingers felt stiff, like they belonged to someone else. "Thank you."

She closed the door. She stood in the entryway and opened the lid.

Inside the box lay a diamond necklace. The stones were massive, catching the light from the hallway. Tucked next to the clasp was a small, printed card. It read: "Sorry, an emergency came up at work. Happy Anniversary."

There was no handwritten signature. Just black ink from a printer.

Amy stared at the card. The heat behind her eyes finally spilled over. Hot tears tracked down her cheeks, dropping onto the velvet interior of the box.

She snapped the box shut. She turned and walked to the stainless steel trash can in the kitchen. She stepped on the pedal and dropped the box inside. The heavy velvet and the diamonds hit the bottom with a sharp clatter.

She wiped her face with the back of her hand. She walked over to the liquor cabinet, pulled out a bottle of whiskey, and twisted the cap off. She did not bother with a glass.

Before she could take a drink, her laptop on the island chimed with a new email notification.

She carried the bottle over to the computer and tapped the trackpad. The screen woke up. It was an encrypted email from the National Polar Research Center.

The subject line was bold. "Notice of Acceptance: Three-Year Joint Glacier Ecology Expedition at McMurdo Station, Antarctica."

Amy opened the email. She read the strict terms. The project required her to cut off all outside contact for the entire duration. She would have to leave next month.

The image of Brigham's hand on Giselle's waist flashed in her mind. The sound of Kade's video echoed in her ears. The printed apology card burned in her memory.

Her breathing steadied. The tears stopped. A cold, hard clarity settled over her.

She set the whiskey bottle down. She placed both hands on the keyboard. She typed her reply without a single hesitation.

"I accept the invitation. I am ready to leave at any time."

The harsh ringing of the phone sliced through the dark living room. Amy jerked awake. She was lying on the sofa, still wearing her clothes from the night before. Her neck was stiff.

She reached for her phone on the coffee table. It was 2:00 AM. The caller ID showed Brigham's executive assistant.

Amy swiped to answer. "Hello."

"Mrs. Myers, I am so sorry to wake you." The assistant sounded panicked. "Mr. Myers is at the private club downtown. He is heavily intoxicated. Mr. Myers is asking for you by name. He's refusing to leave with anyone else. We're concerned he might cause a scene. Could you please come get him?"

Amy closed her eyes. "I am not his babysitter. Call his driver."

"I did, ma'am. But he..." The assistant paused. Through the phone, Amy heard a low, pained groan in the background. It was Brigham.

The sound tightened her chest. She hated herself for the immediate physical reaction she had to his pain. "Fine. I am on my way."

She grabbed her trench coat and her keys. She drove through the heavy, freezing rain of late autumn in New York. The streets were slick and empty.

She pulled up to the discreet entrance of the private club. She pushed open the heavy oak doors of the VIP room. The smell hit her instantly. Stale alcohol and thick cigar smoke filled the air. She coughed, bringing a hand to her mouth.

Brigham was slumped on a dark leather sofa in the corner. His tie was gone. The top three buttons of his shirt were undone. His jaw was tight, and his eyebrows were pulled together in deep discomfort.

Amy walked over to him. She grabbed his arm and tried to pull him up. His massive weight shifted, and she stumbled forward, almost falling onto him.

A waiter rushed over. "Let me help you, ma'am."

Together, they hauled Brigham out of the club and into the cold rain. They shoved him into the spacious backseat of the waiting Maybach. Amy climbed in after him and slammed the door, shutting out the storm.

The driver immediately raised the privacy partition. The back of the car became a small, sealed box. The only light came from the dim reading lamps. The only sound was Brigham's heavy, ragged breathing.

The car moved. Brigham's head slid sideways and landed heavily on Amy's shoulder. The heat radiating from his skin soaked right through her trench coat.

She raised her hands to push him away. But he curled inward, his large frame shrinking as a wave of nausea or a headache hit him. Her hands stopped in mid-air.

She let out a slow breath. She reached up and pressed her fingers against his temples. She rubbed the tight muscles there, trying to ease the tension of his hangover.

Brigham's breathing slowed. The deep lines on his forehead began to smooth out. Suddenly, his hand shot up. He grabbed her wrist with a crushing grip.

He pulled her hand down from his temple. He pressed her palm against his mouth. His lips were hot against her skin. He left a long, burning kiss right on her pulse point.

Amy's heart skipped a beat. The blood rushed to her ears. It had been so long since he touched her with anything resembling care. A stupid, desperate greed flared in her chest.

Brigham slowly opened his eyes. In the dim light of the car, his dark eyes looked incredibly deep and full of raw emotion.

He lifted his other hand. His rough thumb brushed against her cheekbone. He traced the line of her jaw. His gaze was entirely focused on her face.

He opened his mouth. His voice was rough and gravelly in the quiet car.

"Giselle. You finally came back to me."

The words hit Amy like a physical blow to the chest. The blood in her veins turned to ice. The air was sucked out of the car.

She yanked her hand back with violent force. Her elbow slammed hard against the reinforced glass of the car window. A loud thud echoed in the space. Pain shot up her arm, but it was nothing compared to the tearing sensation in her chest.

Brigham frowned, annoyed by the sudden loss of contact. He reached out again, his large hands trying to pull her into his chest.

"Don't touch me." Amy shoved both her hands against his shoulders. She pushed him with every ounce of strength she had.

Brigham fell back. His head cracked against the leather headrest with a heavy thud. He let out a low grunt and closed his eyes again.

The car pulled into the underground garage of their apartment building. Amy sat rigid, staring straight ahead. When the doors opened, she told the driver to carry Brigham to the elevator. Her voice was completely dead.

Up in the penthouse, the driver dropped Brigham onto the center of the bed in the master bedroom and left.

Brigham rolled onto his back. He was still restless, his hands tearing at the remaining buttons of his shirt.

Amy walked into the master bathroom. She turned on the cold water. She soaked a hand towel and wrung it out. She walked back to the bed and stood over him. She looked down at the man who had just ripped her heart out and stomped on it.

Suddenly, Brigham sat up. His hand shot out and grabbed her waist. He yanked her forward.

Amy lost her balance and fell onto the mattress. Before she could push up, his heavy body covered hers, pinning her down.

He kept his eyes closed. His mouth found her neck. He pressed wet, sloppy kisses against her skin. His hands gripped her hips tightly.

"Giselle." He mumbled against her collarbone. "Giselle."

Bile rose in Amy's throat. The humiliation was a physical weight crushing her lungs. She thrashed under him, but he was too heavy.

Her hand flailed out, hitting the nightstand. Her fingers brushed against the heavy glass base of an award trophy sitting there.

She grabbed the cold glass. She squeezed her eyes shut. She swung her arm up and brought the heavy base down hard against the side of his forehead.

The dull crack of glass hitting bone echoed in the bedroom. Brigham's body went completely rigid for a second. Then, all the fight left his muscles. He collapsed onto the mattress, rolling off Amy.

Blood immediately began to pool at his hairline, sliding down his temple. He was completely unconscious.

Amy pushed herself backward until her back hit the headboard. She slid down and sat on the floor. Her hands were shaking violently. She stared at the smear of red blood on her fingertips. Her chest heaved as she dragged air into her burning lungs.

She did not reach for her phone to call an ambulance. She stared at him for five minutes. Then, she stood up. Her legs felt like lead. She walked to the bathroom, grabbed the first aid kit, and walked back.

She wiped the blood away with a wet towel. She peeled the backing off a large gauze pad and slapped it roughly over the cut on his forehead. She didn't bother with tape. She just left him there.

The next morning, the apartment was silent. Amy did not wait for Brigham to wake up. She changed into her clothes, grabbed her bag, and took the elevator down. She went straight to the university lab.

At noon, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out. It was a text from an unknown number. It contained an address for a Michelin-starred restaurant in Midtown, the kind of place that required reservations months in advance.

The second text came immediately after. "I am Giselle. I think we need to talk. About Brigham." She stared at the screen, her grip tightening on the phone. She must have gotten the number from someone in the Myers household. The thought made her skin crawl, a stark reminder of how easily her private boundaries could be breached.

Amy bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. She stripped off her white lab coat. She changed into a sharp, tailored black suit she kept in her locker. She walked out of the building.

When she arrived at the restaurant, the hostess took one look at her name and immediately led her to the most private VIP room in the back.

Giselle was sitting at the table. She was sipping coffee from a delicate porcelain cup. When Amy walked in, Giselle did not stand up. She slowly lowered her cup and let her eyes drag up and down Amy's body, assessing her like a cheap piece of furniture.

Giselle smiled. It was a thin, cruel smile. "Let's not waste time. We both know you are just a placeholder. A cheap copy he used while I was gone."

Giselle reached into her Birkin bag. She pulled out a thick manila envelope and slid it across the polished wood table. It stopped right in front of Amy.

"It is a draft of a divorce agreement." Giselle leaned back in her chair. "If you sign it quietly and step aside, I will make sure you get a very generous compensation package. Enough to keep you comfortable."

Amy looked down at the envelope. She did not touch it. She reached out and wrapped her fingers around the tall glass of ice water sitting in front of her.

She picked up the glass and threw the freezing water directly into Giselle's face.

Giselle shrieked. The sound was high and piercing. She jumped up, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. Water dripped from her eyelashes and soaked the front of her silk blouse. The waiters outside the door immediately looked through the glass panels, their eyes wide.

Amy stood up. She looked down at Giselle, her face completely blank. "Keep your garbage to yourself."

She turned on her heel and walked out of the room. Her steps were steady until she pushed through the front doors of the restaurant.

The cold wind hit her face. Her shoulders dropped. The tough facade crumbled. Her eyes burned, and the edges of her vision blurred with tears. She took a deep breath, forcing the tears back down.

She walked three blocks to a high-end men's boutique. She spent an hour picking out a silk tie for her adoptive father, Howard. Tonight was his seventieth birthday banquet. Brigham had promised her a month ago that he would attend.

By evening, Amy was standing in the grand banquet hall. She wore a modest but elegant evening gown. Her makeup hid the dark circles under her eyes.

Guests were arriving. Howard stood near the entrance, leaning on his cane. He kept looking toward the door. "Where is Brigham?" he asked, his voice full of expectation.

Amy forced a bright smile onto her face. "He is on a very important cross-border conference call. He will be here soon."

Ten minutes before the dinner officially started, Amy locked herself in a bathroom stall. She dialed Brigham's number over and over. It rang out every time. Her fingers flew across the screen, typing a text. "Please. Just show up for ten minutes. It's his 70th."

Her phone buzzed. A reply from Brigham.

"Emergency situation came up. Cannot leave. Give your father my regards. I sent a gift."

Amy stared at the gray text bubble. Her fingernails dug so hard into her palms that the skin nearly broke. She held her breath until her lungs ached.

She put the phone away. She pulled out her lipstick, reapplied it perfectly, and pushed the stall door open. She walked back into the loud, bright banquet hall.

Throughout the night, relatives kept coming up to her. "Where is your husband? Is everything okay?"

"He is on a call with Europe." Amy repeated the lie until her throat felt raw.

Howard watched her from across the room. He saw the tight grip she had on her champagne glass. He saw the fake smile. His eyes filled with pity.

When it was time to cut the cake, the doors opened. A delivery team walked in carrying a massive, incredibly expensive antique vase. The card read: "From Brigham Myers."

The crowd oozed with admiration. But to Amy, the vase sitting there in the middle of the room felt like a physical slap across the face.