The Surgeon's Revenge: My Ex-Husband's Regret

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out. The screen was cracked, but the message was clear. It was from a number saved as "Sienna."

Game On.

She felt the corner of her mouth twitch. It was the first time she had almost smiled in four years.

The view from the penthouse was worth twenty million dollars, or so the real estate brochures claimed. Central Park lay below, a rectangular patch of dying autumn leaves trapped within the steel grid of Manhattan. She stood before the floor-to-ceiling glass, her reflection a ghostly overlay on the city lights. She looked tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes, but the kind that settles in the marrow of her bones after years of holding her breath.

Behind her, the heavy oak door of the study creaked open. She didn't turn. She knew the cadence of those footsteps. Heavy. Hesitant. Hunter Rutledge.

"Iris."

His voice was rough, like he had spent the afternoon rehearsing this speech and worn his throat raw.

She turned slowly. The cup of black coffee in her hands was cold. She had poured it an hour ago, just to have something to hold, something to anchor her to the physical world while her life was being dismantled.

Hunter stood by the large marble coffee table. He was wearing the navy suit she had picked out for him three years ago, the one that made his shoulders look broader than they actually were. He wouldn't meet her eyes. He was staring at a blue folder resting on the cold white stone.

"Sit down, please," he said.

She didn't sit. She walked to the table and placed the coffee cup down. The porcelain clicked against the marble, a sharp sound that seemed to echo in the cavernous, expertly decorated room.

"It's the papers," she said. It wasn't a question.

Hunter exhaled, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. He looked pained. He always looked pained when he had to do something unpleasant, as if he were the victim of his own choices.

"Dorothea is back in the city," he said.

The name hung in the air, sucking the oxygen out of the room. Dorothea. The woman who had left him for a venture capitalist five years ago. The woman whose shadow Iris had been living in since the day she said "I do."

"I know," she said. Her voice was steady. It surprised her how steady it was.

Hunter looked up then, his brows knitting together. He expected tears. He expected her to fall to her knees, to beg, to scream. He was prepared for hysteria. He wasn't prepared for silence.

"We need to expedite this," he said, tapping the folder. "The pre-nup is clear, Iris. You know the terms. But... I've added a settlement. A generous one."

He pushed the folder toward her.

"Given your... history," he continued, his voice dropping an octave, taking on that patronizing tone he used when speaking to the staff. "And