The Unwanted Wife's Spectacular Billionaire Comeback

"Smile, Edith."

Giovanni's fingers dug into the soft flesh of her upper arm, the pressure intense enough to leave a bruise. Edith forced the corners of her mouth upward, the muscles in her face aching from the strain of maintaining the illusion.

The flashbulbs were blinding, a staccato of white light that made her eyes water. They stood on the red carpet of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the pinnacle of New York's social calendar. To the world, they were the perfect couple. The formidable Giovanni Baldwin, the King of Wall Street, and his lovely, placid wife. But the world couldn't feel the bite of his fingertips through the delicate silk of her gown.

Kassandra Ayala stood just behind Giovanni's shoulder, sheltered under his arm. She caught Edith's gaze and offered a small, pitiful smile, her eyes gleaming with a mockery that only Edith could see. Kassandra, the younger sister of Giovanni's late, sainted love, Dakota, looked fragile, perfectly crafted for the part of the grieving sister, the keeper of a sacred memory.

"Edith!" A society matron in a towering feather fascinator approached, her champagne flute sloshing. "That gown is exquisite. The detailing is divine."

Edith opened her mouth to thank her, but Giovanni's voice cut through the noise like a blade.

"It's merely a costume for the role she plays," he said. His tone was light, conversational even, but the words landed like a physical blow to Edith's chest. He wasn't just talking about the gala; he was talking about her role as Mrs. Baldwin, a position he believed she had stolen.

The matron's smile faltered, her eyes darting between them in awkward confusion. A heavy silence pressed down on the small group. Edith felt the heat crawl up her neck, the shame a living thing under her skin.

Giovanni raised his own glass, catching the eye of a consortium partner across the room. "To the show," he toasted.

As he brought his arm down to clink glasses, his wrist flicked. It was a sharp, deliberate movement. The deep crimson liquid arced through the air.

The cold splash hit Edith square in the chest. The Cabernet Sauvignon soaked into the pure white silk instantly, spreading like a wound blooming across her torso, dripping down onto the skirt.

Gasps rippled through the nearby crowd. The flashbulbs went crazy, capturing the moment of her humiliation in high definition.

Giovanni pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed uselessly at the spreading stain. His eyes met hers. There was no apology there. Only a cold, sharp satisfaction.

"My apologies, darling," he said, his voice carrying to the lingering listeners. "How clumsy of me."

He didn't give her a chance to respond. His grip shifted from her arm to her wrist, his fingers wrapping around the bone like a shackle.

"She's feeling faint," Giovanni announced to the room, his tone brooking no argument. "The heat, you understand. We must go."

He pulled her through the crowd. Edith stumbled on her heels,