Chapter 8
The flashbulbs were blinding. A dozen cameras captured the scene: the sobbing woman in the ruined white dress, the furious man in the tuxedo, and the calm, crippled woman in the wheelchair. It was a PR nightmare, and it was playing out on the grandest stage in New York.
"You're unbelievable," Holt snarled, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He wanted to grab her, to shake her, to force her to show some remorse, but the cameras were rolling. He had to maintain control. "You think this is going to win you points? Humiliating her? Humiliating me?"
"Humiliating you?" Diandra repeated, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "You did that the moment you chose her over your wife."
"Here we go," a voice called out from the crowd. Sterling Thorne IV, a trust fund brat with a permanent sneer, stepped forward, his phone already recording. "The tragic victim routine. Tell me, Diandra, did you practice that fall in the mirror, or was it improv?"
"Shut up, Sterling," Nathan hissed, appearing at Diandra's side. He grabbed the handle of her wheelchair, his knuckles white. "This is a disaster. You need to fix this. Now."
"Fix it?" Diandra said, pulling her wheelchair out of his grip. "You want me to fix it? Fine."
She looked at the crowd, at the eager, hungry faces of the socialites and the reporters. They wanted a show. They wanted a scandal. She would give them one.
She maneuvered her wheelchair forward, the crowd parting before her like the Red Sea. She stopped in the center of the room, directly under the glittering chandelier. A microphone had been set up for the auctioneer nearby. Just as a waiter stumbled near the podium, dropping a tray of glasses with a loud crash that created a momentary diversion, Diandra wheeled herself to the now-empty stand. In that split second of chaos, before anyone could react, she grabbed the microphone.
The feedback whine echoed through the room, silencing the last of the whispers. Every eye was on her.
"Apologize," Holt said again, his voice tight. "Do it, Diandra. End this."
Diandra looked at him, her expression unreadable. "You're right, Holt," she said into the microphone, her voice clear and strong. "I do owe some apologies."
A murmur went through the crowd. Chelsi, still dabbing at her eyes with a napkin, allowed a small, triumphant smile to cross her lips. She had won. Diandra was breaking.
"I want to apologize," Diandra continued, her gaze sweeping across the room, "for wasting so many years trying to fit into a world that never wanted me."
The smile slipped from Chelsi's face. Holt's brow furrowed.
"I want to apologize for being so blind that I fell in love with a man who would ski away while I lay broken on the slope."
A collective gasp rippled through the room. The reporters' pens flew across their notepads. This was not the apology they had been expecting.
"I want to apologize for being so stupid that I believed a marriage of convenience could ever be anything more than a transaction." She looked directly at Nathan, whose face had gone purple with rage. "And I want to apologize to myself, for ever thinking I was less than any of you."
She paused, letting the silence stretch, letting the weight of her words sink in. Then she turned back to Holt, who was staring at her as if she had grown a second head.
"So, to correct the biggest mistake of my life," she said, her voice ringing with a conviction she hadn't known she possessed, "Holt Farmer, I want a divorce."
The word hung in the air, explosive and absolute.
"Not a separation. Not a legal negotiation. A divorce. My lawyer will deliver the papers to your office tomorrow morning."
For a long moment, the room was utterly still. Then, chaos erupted. The reporters surged forward, shouting questions. The socialites whispered behind their fans. The flashbulbs were a constant, blinding strobe.
Holt stood frozen, his face a mask of shock. He had expected tears, begging, a negotiation for more money. He had never expected this. He had never imagined that the woman he had controlled for years would simply walk away.
Then, Sterling Thorne IV started to laugh. It was a harsh, mocking sound that cut through the noise. "A divorce? Really? That's your play?" He looked around at the crowd, his arms spread wide. "She's going for the big payout! This is just a negotiating tactic, folks. She wants a bigger settlement!"
The narrative shifted instantly. The shock faded, replaced by cynical nods of understanding. Of course. It was always about the money. The dramatic speech, the public humiliation-it was all just a performance to drive up the price.
"That's low, even for you," one of the socialites muttered.
"She's bleeding him dry," another agreed.
Holt's shock curdled into rage. He stepped toward her, his eyes burning with a cold, hard fury. "You think this changes anything?" he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "You think you can just walk away? You're mine, Diandra. Until I say otherwise."
Diandra looked at him, the man who had broken her body and her mind, and felt nothing but a profound, liberating sense of detachment.
"I'm not yours," she said, her voice steady. "I never was."
She turned her wheelchair around and headed for the exit, the crowd parting before her in stunned silence. She had said her piece. She had set herself free.
But as she reached the doors, she heard Nathan's voice behind her, low and dangerous. "You have no idea what you've just done."
She didn't look back. She just kept rolling.
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