The Unwanted Wife: No Longer His Shield

Aryanna rolled down the window of the Maybach just an inch.

The freezing Manhattan rain immediately whipped against her face, the icy droplets splashing onto the leather of her Birkin bag. She didn't blink. She couldn't. Her eyes were locked on the floor-to-ceiling windows of Le Coucou across the street.

Inside the warmly lit restaurant, her husband of two years, Branden Montgomery, was standing up.

He shrugged off his custom-tailored suit jacket. With a movement so natural it made Aryanna's stomach violently drop, he draped the expensive fabric over the shoulders of the blonde woman sitting across from him. Kaylen.

Kaylen looked up at him, offering a fragile, trembling smile. Branden reached out. His large hand, the same hand that wore their platinum wedding band, gently tucked a stray strand of blonde hair behind Kaylen's ear.

A sharp pain radiated from Aryanna's chest, traveling down her arms until her fingertips went completely numb.

Her lungs forgot how to work. She had to open her mouth, gasping for the cold, damp air filling the car just to keep from passing out.

Her hands shook violently as she unlocked her phone. She dialed Branden's private number, her eyes never leaving the man in the restaurant.

The phone rang. Once. Twice. Five times.

Finally, the line clicked open.

"What." Branden's deep, cold voice filled her ear. The heavy irritation in his tone was impossible to miss.

Aryanna dug her manicured nails into her palm, using the physical sting to keep her voice perfectly steady.

"Are you coming back to the Central Park penthouse tonight?" she asked.

Across the street, she watched Branden glance down at Kaylen.

"No," Branden said flatly into the phone. "The merger requires an all-night board meeting. Don't wait up."

He hung up. Just like that.

The dial tone buzzed in Aryanna's ear. Her vision blurred, the streetlights smearing into ugly yellow streaks. The "old money emotional detachment" she had tried so hard to understand for two years was nothing but a sick joke. He wasn't detached. He just saved his warmth for someone else.

A sudden, violent wave of anger crashed over her, entirely swallowing the grief.

She hurled her phone at the passenger seat. It bounced off the leather with a dull thud.

"Drive," Aryanna ordered her chauffeur, her voice hard. "Find the nearest CVS. Now."

The Maybach's tires screeched against the wet asphalt as the driver hit the gas.

Minutes later, Aryanna pushed through the glass doors of the pharmacy. Her red-soled Louboutins clicked sharply against the cheap linoleum floor. She ignored the wide-eyed stares of the late-night cashier and marched straight to the family planning aisle.

She grabbed the largest box of Trojan Magnums on the shelf. She didn't stop there. She grabbed three boxes of premium personal lubricant and slammed them onto the checkout counter.

Back in the car, she ripped a piece of heavy, cream-colored stationery from her bag. The Montgomery family crest was embossed at the top.

She pulled the cap off her Tom Ford lipstick. Using the blood-red wax, she scrawled a message across the expensive paper.

A little something extra for your all-night merger. Don't make a bastard that tanks the group's stock price.

She shoved the condoms, the lube, and the note into a brown paper bag. She used her phone to order an expedited Manhattan courier.

Ten minutes later, she rolled down the window and handed the package to a guy on a motorcycle. Watching the taillights of the courier disappear into the rain, a sick, vindictive thrill washed over her skin.

"Take me home," she told the driver.

By 1:00 AM, Aryanna was sitting alone in the massive, silent living room of the Central Park penthouse. A half-empty glass of neat whiskey sat on the table in front of her.

The antique clock on the wall ticked. Then, the private elevator chimed.

Aryanna stood up instantly, her muscles tense, ready for Branden to storm in and scream at her.

The silver doors slid open.

It wasn't Branden. It was Reid Holloway, Branden's chief executive assistant.

Reid wouldn't meet her eyes. He looked incredibly uncomfortable as he stepped into the penthouse, clutching his leather briefcase. He pulled out a crisp white envelope and held it out to her.

Aryanna's face turned into a mask of ice. She snatched the envelope and ripped it open.

A blank Chase Bank check fluttered out. It was signed by Branden.

"Mr. Montgomery's exact words, ma'am," Reid said, his voice tight. "He said to take the money, go to Fifth Avenue, and buy something that will keep you quiet. He told me to tell you to stop playing these cheap games."

The humiliation hit Aryanna like a physical slap to the face.

Her nails dug so deeply into her palms that the skin nearly broke. She stared at the blank check. It represented limitless wealth, yet it was the coldest thing she had ever touched.

A single tear broke free, dropping straight onto Branden's bold signature.

She didn't scream. She didn't yell.

Aryanna grabbed the check with both hands and ripped it straight down the middle.

Reid's eyes went wide.

She stacked the pieces and tore them again. And again. Until the blank check was nothing but confetti. She opened her hands, letting the shredded paper snow down onto the priceless Persian rug.

Reid was speechless. The wife who was famous for loving money had just destroyed a blank check.

Aryanna pointed a shaking finger at the elevator.

"Get out of my apartment," she whispered, her voice laced with pure venom. "Now."

Reid didn't hesitate. He practically ran back into the elevator.

The doors closed. Aryanna collapsed onto the velvet sofa. She stared at the torn paper on the floor. For the first time in two years, the words terminate the marriage flashed in her mind.

Before she could process the thought, her phone vibrated violently against the glass coffee table.

The screen lit up. It was an emergency call from her adoptive father, Damian Garza.

Aryanna swiped the screen to answer.

Before she could even breathe a greeting, Damian Garza's voice exploded through the speaker.

"Get your ass back to the Long Island estate. Right now."

The raw, unhinged fury in his tone made Aryanna's stomach twist into a tight knot. He didn't wait for a response. The line went dead.

She didn't bother cleaning up the shredded check on the rug. She grabbed her Porsche keys from the console and walked out.

At 2:00 AM, Aryanna's Porsche tore up the gravel driveway of the Garza family's North Shore estate. The massive iron gates clanged shut behind her, sounding like a prison door locking into place.

The head butler met her at the entrance. He wouldn't look her in the eye. As he led her down the long, dimly lit hallway toward the study, every maid they passed quickly lowered their heads, staring at the floorboards. The butler's averted gaze, the maids' sudden deference tinged with pity-a cold knot of dread formed in Aryanna's stomach. This wasn't just about a late-night summons. Something was fundamentally broken.

Aryanna pushed open the heavy oak doors of the study.

Damian and her adoptive mother were sitting rigidly on the leather sofa. Their faces were pale and twisted with rage.

On the mahogany coffee table between them sat a torn medical envelope. The logo for the Mount Sinai DNA Testing Center was stamped in bold blue ink on the front.

Damian stood up. He grabbed the thick stack of papers and hurled them directly at Aryanna's feet.

"You are a fake," Damian spat, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. "A pathetic, worthless fraud who stole someone else's life."

Aryanna's breath hitched. Her trembling fingers reached down and picked up the scattered pages.

Her eyes scanned the bold text at the bottom of the first page. 99.9% exclusion of biological relationship.

The air was sucked out of her lungs. The room started to spin.

Her mother looked at her with pure disgust. "A nurse at the hospital swapped you. She wanted revenge against the rich. She took our real daughter and left us with a nobody. An orphan with dirty blood."

"Mom..." Aryanna whispered. She took a step forward, reaching out her hand to seek the warmth she had known for twenty-four years.

Her mother slapped her hand away so hard it stung. "Don't touch me."

Damian stepped into Aryanna's personal space, his shadow towering over her.

"We found her," Damian said coldly. "We found our real daughter. We are bringing her back to New York society where she belongs."

Aryanna's throat burned. "And what about me? What about the last two decades?"

"You?" Damian sneered. "You are going to keep your mouth shut. The Montgomery family cannot know about this scandal. Your only value to this family now is keeping Branden in your bed until the yacht merger is signed."

The reality crashed down on her, crushing her chest. She had just lost her bloodline. She had lost the only leverage she had in her marriage.

She forced her spine to straighten. She looked Damian dead in the eyes.

"And what if Branden is already cheating on me?" she asked, her voice a hollow rasp.

Damian's hand flew through the air.

The slap sounded like a gunshot in the quiet study.

Aryanna's head snapped to the side. The metallic taste of blood instantly flooded her mouth.

"Even if he brings his whore into your bedroom, you will smile and play the perfect Mrs. Montgomery!" Damian roared. "Do not ruin this deal!"

The burning pain in her cheek cleared the fog in her brain. She looked at the two people she had called parents. They were monsters. They only cared about the money.

She didn't say another word. She turned on her heel and walked out the door, shutting Damian's screaming behind her.

The autumn wind bit through her thin clothes as she walked out of the main house. She was shivering uncontrollably.

She climbed into the driver's seat of her Porsche. Before she could start the engine, her phone lit up again.

Eleonora Montgomery. Her mother-in-law.

Aryanna closed her eyes. She took a deep, jagged breath, swallowing the blood in her mouth. She pressed answer.

"Hello, Eleonora," Aryanna said, forcing her voice into its usual sweet, polished tone.

"Sending condoms to my son's office via courier?" Eleonora's crisp London accent dripped with absolute disdain. "How incredibly vulgar."

Aryanna gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white.

"The Montgomery family does not need a daughter-in-law who acts like a jealous streetwalker," Eleonora warned coldly. "If you cannot handle your husband's little distractions with grace, we will find someone who can."

The double blow of losing her family and being threatened by her mother-in-law made Aryanna's vision go dark at the edges. She bit down on her lower lip so hard it bled again.

Normally, she would apologize. She would beg for forgiveness to keep the peace.

Not tonight.

"I will handle my marriage exactly how I see fit," Aryanna said. Her voice was dead flat.

She hung up the phone.

She dropped her head against the steering wheel. A low, guttural sob ripped from her throat, sounding like a dying animal. She cried until her ribs ached.

When she finally lifted her head, the tears were gone. Her eyes were completely empty.

She turned the key, slammed her foot on the gas pedal, and tore out into the dark night, heading straight back to Manhattan.

The tires of the Porsche squealed against the polished concrete as Aryanna whipped into her reserved spot in the underground garage of the Central Park penthouse. The first hints of dawn were breaking over the East River when she finally returned.

She killed the engine.

Her phone buzzed in the cup holder. Three rapid text messages from JPMorgan Chase.

She picked it up. The bright screen burned her tired eyes.

Notice: Your family trust account has been frozen.

Notice: Black Card ending in 4091 declined.

Notice: Black Card ending in 8823 declined.

A second later, an email notification popped up from the Garza Family Legal Department. Her 2% shares in the family corporation had been forcibly revoked.

Aryanna stared at the "Insufficient Funds" warning on her banking app. A dark, mocking smile curled her lips. Damian moved fast. He was making sure she had absolutely nothing left to run with.

She pushed the car door open and walked to the private elevator. She pressed the button for the penthouse. The mirrored walls of the elevator reflected her face. Her left cheek was swollen and bright red from Damian's hand.

The doors slid open.

The penthouse was pitch black. The moment she stepped into the foyer, a smell hit her. It was the sharp, clinical scent of hospital disinfectant mixed with the heavy, floral notes of Chanel No. 5.

She slammed her hand against the wall switch.

The massive crystal chandelier flared to life, flooding the living room with blinding light.

Branden was sitting on the center of the leather sofa. His tie was pulled loose, his top button undone. Deep exhaustion lined his face, but his blue eyes were wide awake.

He squinted against the sudden light. His gaze swept over Aryanna's messy hair and pale face.

He stood up. His massive frame instantly dominated the room.

"Where the hell have you been all night?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

The smell of Kaylen's perfume on his clothes made Aryanna's stomach heave. She felt physically sick.

She ignored him. She walked straight past him to the marble wet bar, grabbed a glass, and filled it with ice water to wash down the nausea.

Branden's jaw tightened. He hated being ignored. He closed the distance between them in three long strides and grabbed her wrist. His grip was entirely too tight.

"The condom stunt was over the line," Branden warned, his voice dropping an octave. "I will not let you turn this marriage into a joke for your socialite friends."

Aryanna violently yanked her arm out of his grip.

The ice water sloshed out of the glass, splashing directly onto his custom suit jacket, leaving a dark, spreading stain.

She tilted her head up, meeting his furious blue eyes with pure, unfiltered disgust.

"You want to talk about a joke?" Aryanna sneered. She pointed a shaking finger at his collar. "You have another woman's lipstick on your neck. If you're going to cheat, at least learn how to wipe your mouth."

Branden froze. His hand instinctively went to his collar.

His face darkened. The lipstick was from a medical emergency with Kaylen at the hospital, a situation so complex and classified he was forbidden to speak of it. But he couldn't say that. The NDA locked the words in his throat.

His silence felt like a physical knife twisting in Aryanna's chest. He wasn't denying it. He was protecting the other woman.

Aryanna took a slow step backward, putting physical space between them.

She looked at the man she had desperately loved for two years. The man she thought she could warm up. He looked like a total stranger. She was just so tired.

Branden's eyes suddenly dropped to her face. He finally noticed the angry red welt on her left cheek.

His eyebrows pulled together. Without thinking, he reached his hand out, his fingers brushing the air near her bruised skin.

Aryanna flinched violently. She jerked her head away as if his touch carried a deadly disease.

Branden's hand stopped in mid-air. A sharp, unfamiliar pain pricked his chest, but he quickly buried it under a layer of annoyance.

He dropped his hand. He adjusted his silver cufflink in a sharp, jerky motion.

"Go wash your face and go to sleep," Branden ordered coldly. "You need to look presentable for the charity gala tomorrow night."

Aryanna stared at his arrogant posture. A laugh bubbled up from her throat. It started small, then grew into a loud, hollow sound that echoed terribly in the empty apartment.

She stopped laughing abruptly. Her eyes were dead.

"I am not playing pretend with you anymore, Branden."

Branden sighed heavily. He assumed this was another one of her dramatic tantrums, perhaps over some perceived slight from the night before.

"I'm not dealing with this tonight," he muttered, ripping his tie completely off. He turned his back on her and walked toward the master bedroom.

Aryanna stood in the dim light of the living room, watching his broad shoulders disappear down the hall.

Her nails dug into her palms one last time. She knew exactly what she had to do.