Divorce from my husband after he drowned my parents

The seventh anniversary kiss burned like acid on my lips.

Before I could recoil, he gripped my jaw, his wedding band digging into my skin. "1000cc, now."​

Chandelier shards rained light over the sterile chaos.

Nurses strapped me to the sofa as he barked orders into his phone.

His silhouette, once my sanctuary, now loomed like a guillotine.​

"Transplant team. State-of-the-art." His voice dripped ice.

"She's donor."​

Needles glinted in the lamplight.

I gasped as cold metal touched my arm-and time folded in on itself. T

I dug my nails into my palm. Blood welled, confirming the impossible.

This wasn't déjà vu.

I'd lived this nightmare before.

And this time, I wouldn't end up a nameless body in a biohazard bag.

The moment the needle pierced my skin, I was hurled back seven years.​

He was the perfect heir of the Merrick family-calm, restrained, always putting interests first.

And I was the only one who dared to chase him openly.

While other heiresses could only admire him secretly, I followed him everywhere. On the day he was to choose a partner for a political marriage, I personally offered a billion-dollar group as my dowry.

The wedding bells faded into a death knell.

Our mansion echoed with the sound of separate bedroom doors locking.

He treated me like a porcelain doll on a shelf-polite smiles, empty conversations, the master suite forever cold.

I counted the nights I spent alone, convincing myself his distant nods were tokens of affection.

After all, wasn't sharing the same roof enough?​

Then Beatrice Harrington walked into our lives like a hurricane.

A slip of a girl, her eyes wide and innocent, but her presence shattered the fragile peace I'd built.

Leonard's armor cracked at the sight of her.

He hovered over her like a shadow.​

Rumors swirled faster than I could blink.

"Mr. Merrick canceled a billion-dollar deal just because she said she couldn't sleep."

While I'd been waiting years for a single tender look, he'd upended empires for her.

The man who'd never shared a bed with me would burn the world to keep her warm.

"She likes the ocean," they said, "so he carved out a Maldivian paradise, a private island carpeted in her beloved bluebells-a sea of sapphire blooms for his precious Beatrice."

Another rumor burned hotter than the sun: "He chartered a private jet, hurtling through the night sky to Iceland, all because of her fleeting desire to witness the Northern Lights."​

In a blind rage, I stormed the Merrick Group, heels clicking like the ticking of a time bomb. The polished floors echoed my anger as I marched past startled employees, my presence a tempestuous force. I would confront the man who'd given the world to another while leaving me with nothing but crumbs of his attention, and this time, there would be no more silence, no more pretending.

I clung to the last shred of hope, convinced that the man I'd loved for so long would never truly abandon me.