The Divorced Architect's Spectacular Comeback

The heavy brass doors of the VIP club swung shut behind Crista, instantly muffling the thumping bass that had been vibrating through her chest. She sucked in a breath, the sharp scent of expensive cigars and leather filling her lungs. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with the music.

She walked down the long corridor, her stilettos clicking against the polished marble floor. Her eyes darted to the semi-closed blinds of the private rooms, searching for one specific thing-a set of Maybach keys left carelessly on a table, a familiar silhouette. Anything.

Her gaze locked on the room at the end of the hall. Through the dim sliver of light, she saw that broad back. The tailored suit jacket stretched across his shoulders was unmistakable. It was Conrad.

Crista's heart seized, a physical spasm that stole her breath. Because right there, illuminated by the low spotlight, a hand with bright red nail polish was reaching up, slowly tracing the line of the man's jaw.

She took two stiff steps forward, her blood turning to ice in her veins. The woman leaning into him turned her head slightly, catching the light. It was Else. Her stepsister.

Else's eyes flicked toward the door, catching sight of Crista's shadow. A slow, provocative smirk curled the corners of her painted lips. Instead of pulling away, she deliberately pressed herself deeper into the man's embrace, her body language screaming possession.

Conrad didn't push her away. He simply lowered his head, listening to whatever she was whispering in his ear. That indulgent posture, that casual acceptance of her touch, sliced through Crista like a blade.

Crista shoved the door open. The glass panel slammed against the wall with a heavy, dull thud, shattering the intimate atmosphere inside.

Conrad turned his head. The moment his eyes landed on Crista, his brow furrowed deeply. A flash of pure annoyance crossed his features-the look of a man whose peace had been disturbed by something unpleasant.

Else let out a dramatic gasp, shrinking back like a startled fawn. She scurried behind Conrad, her fingers tightly gripping the edge of his haute couture suit jacket.

Crista walked quickly to the sofa, standing over them. Her voice shook, not from weakness, but from a rage so intense it threatened to choke her. "What the hell is this?"

Else sniffled, her voice dripping with fake tears. "Crista, please don't be mad... I just had something in my eye. Conrad was just helping me get it out." Her tone was so sickeningly sweet it made the air in the room feel foul.

Crista let out a cold laugh. Her gaze swept across the low table, landing on the half-empty glass of whiskey. She didn't hesitate. She reached down, her fingers wrapping around the heavy crystal tumbler.

The amber liquid arced through the air, splashing directly onto Else's carefully styled curls and her designer dress.

Else shrieked, a piercing sound that bounced off the walls. She clutched her face, collapsing dramatically into Conrad's arms, her body shaking with exaggerated sobs.

Conrad shot up from the sofa. His tall frame radiated overwhelming pressure. He reached out, his large hand clamping around Crista's wrist-the same hand that still held the empty glass. His grip was brutal, like a vise.

Crista winced, her face twisting in pain, but she stubbornly lifted her chin, meeting his glare head-on.

"Are you out of your mind?" Conrad's voice was low and dangerous, his eyes like chips of ice. "Apologize to her. Now."

Crista yanked her arm, trying to break free. His grip only tightened, leaving a burning red mark on her skin. She gritted her teeth, spitting out the words, "I will never apologize."

Behind him, Else continued to sob, her voice muffled against his chest. "Conrad, please... don't fight over me. I don't want to ruin your marriage." Her fake magnanimity was like fuel on the fire of Conrad's anger.

Conrad's face hardened. He reached into his jacket pocket with his free hand, pulling out a folded document. He threw it onto the table. It landed with a slap.

It was a divorce agreement.

Crista stared at the bold black letters on the paper. Her stomach cramped violently, a sudden spasm that made her feel nauseous. But she swallowed the bile, forcing the tears back. She would not cry in front of him.

"No," she said, her voice hoarse but firm. "I won't sign it."

She pointed a shaking finger at Else. "She's lying! The Cherry family is using you! Else doesn't care about you, she only cares about your money and status!"

Conrad's eyes flashed with mockery. He looked at her like she was a pathetic, cornered animal. "You think I'd believe the word of a woman who trapped me into marriage just to save her bankrupt family? You're just saying anything to keep the title of Mrs. Anderson."

He wrapped an arm around the trembling Else, his voice dripping with contempt. "Don't test my patience, Crista. You won't like the consequences."

A wave of dizziness washed over Crista. A sharp, pulling pain suddenly bloomed in her lower abdomen. She gasped, her hand flying instinctively to her stomach.

Conrad saw the movement. His eyes narrowed, but there was no concern, only disgust. "Not this again," he sneered. "If you think playing the victim is going to work, you're wrong."

He dropped her wrist, only to grab her arm just above the elbow. His fingers dug into her flesh through the thin fabric of her dress.

"Since you refuse to be civilized," he said, his voice cold enough to freeze hell, "I'll teach you some manners."

Crista struggled, her heels dragging uselessly against the carpet as he hauled her toward the door. The strength disparity was too great. She was dragged out of the room, her protests falling on deaf ears.

In the quiet of the private room, Else slowly straightened up. The tears and the frightened expression vanished instantly. She looked at the empty doorway, a vicious, venomous smile spreading across her face.

The black Maybach screeched to a halt outside the Hamptons beach house. The tires skidded on the gravel, the sound cutting through the silent night like a scream.

Conrad walked around the hood of the car and yanked the passenger door open. The cold wind, carrying the salty sting of the ocean, instantly flooded the warm interior of the car.

Crista shrank back against the seat. The cramping in her lower abdomen had turned into a dull, constant ache, draining the color from her face. Her hands clutched the seatbelt across her chest, refusing to move.

Conrad didn't care. He reached over, unclicked the buckle, and grabbed her arm, dragging her out of the car. He let go, and she fell hard onto the freezing sand.

It was late autumn in the Hamptons. The temperature was near freezing. The thin evening gown she wore offered no protection against the biting wind. She shivered violently, the cold seeping into her bones.

Conrad stood over her, his shadow looming large against the headlights. His eyes were as cold as the Siberian wind. "Go," he commanded, pointing toward the churning black waves. "Cool your head in the water. Maybe then you'll remember how to behave."

Crista stared at the dark, roaring ocean, terror gripping her heart. She shook her head frantically, scrambling backward on the sand, trying to put distance between herself and the shoreline.

Conrad's patience snapped. He strode forward, his hand shooting out to grab the back of her dress. He hauled her up and began dragging her toward the water.

"No! Conrad, please!" The icy water rushed over her ankles. The cold was a physical shock, like a thousand needles piercing her skin. She screamed, a sound of pure despair.

A wave crashed against her knees. Her footing slipped on the slick sand, and she fell hard, her knees slamming into the sharp shells beneath the surface. Pain shot up her legs.

He didn't stop. He kept pulling her deeper, until the freezing water reached her waist.

Crista's teeth chattered so hard she thought they would crack. The cramping in her abdomen intensified, becoming a tearing, agonizing pain. She twisted, crying out, "Conrad, stop! My stomach... it hurts so much!"

Conrad laughed, the sound harsh and mocking over the roar of the surf. "You're really committed to this act, aren't you? Faking an illness to avoid an apology?" He grabbed her chin, forcing her face toward the sea. "Look at it. Let it wash the greed out of you."

Suddenly, a cry rang out from the shore. A red Porsche was parked near the house. Else, wrapped in a trench coat, was running down the beach, shouting Conrad's name.

She stumbled toward the water's edge. Then, as if on cue, her ankle twisted. She let out a terrified shriek, falling into the shallow water-barely half a meter deep-and began thrashing about. "Help! Conrad, help me!"

Conrad heard her cry. The cold annoyance on his face vanished, instantly replaced by sheer panic.

Without a second thought, he let go of Crista.

A retreating wave caught Crista off guard. The powerful undertow swept her feet out from under her, pulling her under the dark, icy water.

She choked, swallowing a mouthful of salty, bitter seawater. She thrashed, fighting her way to the surface, her vision blurred by the water and the pain. She looked toward the shore.

Under the harsh glare of the house's floodlights, she saw Conrad wading swiftly toward Else. He gathered the unharmed girl into his arms, his face filled with heart-wrenching concern.

A grief far colder than the ocean gripped Crista's heart. A despair deeper than the water under her feet swallowed her will to live.

Another massive wave roared in, slamming into her back. The force spun her around, dragging her down into the swirling vortex of the deep.

She tumbled underwater, the oxygen being ripped from her lungs. Then, a tearing agony ripped through her abdomen, far worse than anything before. A warm wetness trickled down her thighs, instantly diluted by the freezing sea.

Her mind went blank.

She reached out with the last ounce of her strength, her fingers grasping nothing but the empty, cold water.

On the shore, Conrad was taking off his jacket to wrap around Else's shoulders. He didn't look back at the roaring sea.

Crista's vision dimmed. The image of Conrad holding Else was the last thing she saw before the darkness took her. A single tear, lost in the ocean, rolled down her cheek.

Her body went limp, sinking like a dead leaf toward the dark, cold bottom.

The sound of the waves covered everything. The world was nothing but endless cold and the silence of death.

The sharp smell of antiseptic hit her nostrils. Crista forced her eyes open, squinting against the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights above.

Beep. Beep. Beep. The rhythmic sound of the heart monitor filled the room. She tried to move her fingers and felt the tug of an IV line taped to the back of her hand.

The door to the room opened. Dr. Thorne walked in, a medical chart in his hand. He paused, a look of surprise crossing his face when he saw her open eyes.

He walked quickly to the bedside, pulling out a small penlight. He shone it into her eyes, checking her pupils. "Crista? Can you hear me? Does anything hurt?"

Her lips were dry and cracked. She parted them, her voice a rough whisper. "Where... where am I? What happened?"

The doctor sighed, his expression turning serious. "You're at Mount Sinai Hospital. You've been in a coma for a full week. The Coast Guard pulled you out of the water."

A sharp pain lanced through her brain. The suffocating feeling of the water, Conrad's resolute back as he walked away-the memories crashed over her. She squeezed her eyes shut, a groan escaping her lips.

"Crista," Dr. Thorne said, his tone heavy. He flipped open the chart. "There's something I need to tell you. You were pregnant. Eight weeks along."

Her eyes flew open. Her hand flew to her flat stomach, disbelief washing over her face, followed instantly by a rush of tears.

"I'm so sorry," the doctor continued, his voice cutting through her momentary joy like a knife. "The severe hypothermia and trauma caused an inevitable miscarriage. We did everything we could, but the fetus was already gone when the Coast Guard found you."

"No..." She reached out, grabbing the front of the doctor's white coat, her knuckles white. "Please. Tell me you're wrong. Tell me my baby is still there. Please!"

Dr. Thorne gently pried her fingers loose, patting her hand. "We're doing everything we can to help your body recover. I'm giving you medication to prevent infection and stop any further hemorrhaging. But you must stay in bed. Absolute rest is required for your traumatized body." He gave her one last sympathetic look and left the room.

The room fell silent. Crista lay there, her hand resting on her flat stomach. A suffocating wave of grief pressed down on her chest. She had to tell Conrad. Maybe if he knew about the baby they had just lost, the child he had unknowingly killed, he would finally see the truth.

She leaned over, ignoring the pull of the IV, and grabbed her phone from the nightstand. The screen lit up. No missed calls. No messages.

A heavy weight settled in her chest, but she bit the bullet and dialed Conrad's private number.

It rang for a long time. Finally, the line clicked. But the voice that answered wasn't Conrad's.

It was Else. A giggling, laugh. "Hello? Sister?"

Crista's blood ran cold. Her hand tightened around the phone. "Where is Conrad? Let me talk to him."

Else laughed again, a sound full of cruel triumph. "He's right here. He's peeling an apple for me. He's been by my side this whole week, Crista. He doesn't care if you live or die."

To prove her point, Else called out, her voice sickeningly sweet, "Conrad! My sister is on the phone!"

Then, Conrad's voice came through the receiver. It was cold, impatient, and utterly devoid of emotion. "Tell her, unless she signs the divorce papers, don't bother me."

The words hit Crista like a physical blow. The phone slipped from her numb fingers, landing silently on the blanket.

The door to the room burst open. Audrey rushed in, her face flushed, her eyes red and puffy.

"Crista!" Audrey ran to the bed, taking in her friend's pale face. She burst into tears. "That bastard! That absolute bastard!"

Crista grabbed Audrey's hand, tears finally spilling over. "I was pregnant, Audrey," she choked out, her voice breaking into a sob. "And I lost the baby. But he just wants a divorce."

Audrey gasped, her face draining of color. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a crumpled square of glossy paper. "While you were unconscious, I went to your apartment to get your things. I found this ultrasound picture in your bag. You were going to surprise him, weren't you?"

Crista looked at the blurry image and squeezed her eyes shut, unable to speak. Audrey's face then twisted in rage. "I've already contacted my cousin, Caleb Arnold. He's one of the best trauma surgeons here at Mount Sinai. He's going to make sure you get the best care while I go deal with that bastard!" She stood up, rolling up her sleeves. "Where is he? I'm going to go give that son of a bitch a piece of my mind!"

Crista looked up, confused. "What are you talking about?"

Audrey pointed angrily toward the door. "They're in this hospital! Else is in the VIP suite at the end of the hall. 'Severe ankle sprain observation,' my ass. He's been playing nurse with her while you were dying!"

The realization hit Crista like a bucket of ice water. He was right there. Just a few steps away. And he hadn't come.

The grief in her eyes slowly hardened into something cold and sharp. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, her jaw setting. She placed both hands protectively over her stomach.

"Get me a wheelchair, Audrey," she commanded, her voice weak but firm. "I'm not lying here while he plays happy family. I'm going to see him."