I Quit Being a Trophy Wife to Reclaim My Empire

The woman in the mirror was a stranger.

Elara Vance stared at her reflection, her eyes tracing the sharp contour of her jawline, currently softened by a layer of professional contouring powder.

The diamonds around her neck felt like a noose, cold and heavy against her collarbones.

They were beautiful, undoubtedly—Sterling family heirlooms, emeralds the size of quail eggs surrounded by a galaxy of diamonds—but tonight, they felt less like jewelry and more like a price tag.

"Chin up, darling. You look a little... wilted."

Mrs. Higgins, the housekeeper who had seen Elara cry more times than her own mother, adjusted the hem of the emerald-green gown. Her voice was kind, but her eyes held a pity that stung worse than any insult.

"He's waiting in the car," Mrs. Higgins whispered, stepping back. "Don't keep him waiting. You know how he gets about the schedule."

Elara didn't sigh. She had trained herself out of sighing three years ago. It was considered "ungrateful." Instead, she took a shallow breath, holding it in her lungs until they burned, and then released it silently through her nose.

"Thank you, Mrs. Higgins," Elara said. Her voice sounded thin, like paper tearing.

She walked through the penthouse, the marble floors clicking sharply under her heels. Every step sent a jolt of pain up her calves, but she didn't falter. She reached into the hidden pocket of her clutch, her fingers brushing against the cool plastic of a cheap burner phone. It was fully charged. It was her lifeline.

Downstairs, the limousine idled like a hearse. The driver opened the door, and Elara slid into the cool, leather-scented darkness.

Ethan Sterling didn't look up from his tablet. The blue light illuminated his face, sharpening the angles of his cheekbones and the permanent furrow between his brows. He was devastatingly handsome, the kind of man who made rooms go quiet when he entered, the Golden Boy of the tech industry.

"You're two minutes late," Ethan said. He didn't check his watch. He just knew.

"I had to fix my lipstick," Elara lied softly.

"Next time, fix it faster. We have investors meeting us at the entrance."

He finally looked at her then. His gaze swept over her, not with affection, but with the critical eye of an appraiser checking for flaws in a newly acquired asset. He nodded once, satisfied. The trophy was polished.

The ride to the Metropolitan Museum of Art was silent. Ethan typed furiously on his device, the soft tap-tap-tap the only sound in the cabin. Elara looked out the window, watching the blur of New York City lights. It was the city she had lived in for six years, yet she felt like a ghost haunting its streets.

When the car stopped, the noise hit them before the air did. Screams, camera shutters, the chaotic roar of the paparazzi.

"Smile," Ethan commanded, his hand finding the small of her back. His grip was tight, his fingers digging into her skin through the silk