The Jilted Wife's Spectacular High Society Return

Eleonora Shepherd adjusted the flame under the braised short ribs, the rich scent of red wine and rosemary filling the open-concept kitchen. The meat had been slow-cooking for six hours, falling off the bone exactly the way Jace preferred. She wiped her hands on the linen apron tied around her waist and glanced at the Patek Philippe wall clock.

Two hours until his usual arrival.

She had planned everything perfectly. The vintage Bordeaux breathing on the sideboard, the 999 pale pink roses arranged in crystal vases throughout the living room, the soft glow of the candles she intended to light. Three years ago today, she had signed her name on a marriage certificate that felt like a lottery ticket she didn't deserve. Tonight, she would remind him why he had chosen her.

Eleonora dried her hands thoroughly and walked down the hallway lined with Persian rugs. The study door stood at the end, polished mahogany with a brass handle that had always been forbidden territory. Jace's sanctuary. His private domain where billion-dollar deals were sealed and secrets kept.

She pushed it open.

The room smelled of Cuban cigars and cedarwood, cold and expensive. Her eyes moved past the leather-bound volumes to the massive desk where his multi-screen workstation sat dormant, screens dark. She wasn't looking for a file or a secret, but for something small and symbolic. The silver cigar cutter he kept in the right-hand drawer, the one that had belonged to his father. She wanted to use its flame to light their anniversary candles, a private ritual, a bridge to a time when he spoke of family and legacy.

Her fingers found the drawer pull. No cigar cutter inside. But her elbow brushed the mouse as she straightened, and the screens blazed to life.

Eleonora froze.

The interface displayed Jace's private encrypted cloud server, the one he accessed through triple-authentication protocols. The screensaver hadn't engaged. A folder sat in the corner of the desktop, labeled in stark black text: Project Retribution. A red warning icon pulsed beside it.

She should have clicked away. Should have shut down the machine and walked back to her kitchen, to her roses, to her pathetic hope.

Instead, she moved the mouse.

The password prompt demanded ten digits. She typed their wedding anniversary. Error. She bit her lip, entered Jace's birthday. Error again. Her fingers hovered, trembling, as a name she had spent three years trying to forget surfaced in her mind like poison.

Isabella Ramos. October 14, 1995.

10141995.

The green unlock chime sang through the speakers.

The folder bloomed across the screen, and Eleonora's breath stopped. Hundreds of photographs tiled the display, organized by year. Isabella at Coachella, 2019. Isabella at the Met Gala after-party, 2020. Isabella on a yacht in Monaco, candid shots, professional shots, paparazzi shots, all catalogued with obsessive precision.

Eleonora's hand moved independently of her brain, scrolling deeper.

A document titled Preferences opened to reveal meticulous notes. Isabella favored pale pink roses, specifically the David Austin cultivar