2

Graham I stood at the edge of the grand dining room, staring at the empty doorway long after the heavy front doors had slammed shut. The silence in the mansion was suffocating. On the polished mahogany table lay the bright diamond ring Opal had worn for three years, resting right on top of the photographs that had just ripped my world apart. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped animal. Part of me—a pathetic, desperate part I hated myself for—wanted to run after her. I wanted to grab her by the shoulders, look into those tear-filled eyes, and hear her say something, anything, that could make this nightmare go away. I wanted her to prove it was all a lie. "Graham..." My younger cousin, Ethan, broke the silence, his voice hesitant as he gestured toward the scattered documents. "Are you absolutely sure about this? Is it possible... I don't know, could someone have tampered with the files?" "No," I growled, my jaw tightening until it burned. "The private investigator who gathered this has worked for Morrison Group for fifteen years. He’s meticulous. The photos, the hotel logs, the text transfers—it’s all verified." I couldn't afford to doubt it. Doubting meant admitting that the woman I had given my heart to had fooled me completely. When I brought Opal into my life, my entire family had opposed the marriage. They called her a social climber, a nobody with no background, someone who saw my bank account before she saw me. I had fought them all for her. I had stood up to my father, defied my board, and built a fortress around our love because I believed she was pure, honest, and entirely mine. That conviction made the sting of these photographs feel like a blade twisted into my chest. "You need to end this fast, Graham," my father said, placing a heavy, unsympathetic hand on my shoulder. "Before this scandal leaks and damages the company stock. Sign the papers, get her out of your life, and protect the family name." I didn't answer. I just wanted to handle it quietly. I wanted to cut the cord without a public spectacle, sign the papers behind closed doors, and pretend the last three years had never happened. But by the next morning, control was ripped out of my hands. My phone exploded at six in the morning with panicked calls from my public relations team. I opened my tablet, and my blood ran cold. The story was everywhere. Local tabloids, national news outlets, and high-society blogs had blasted the scandal across their front pages. Billionaire Graham Morrison Betrayed: Wife’s Secret Affair Exposed. The Fraudulent Society Wife: Opal Morrison’s Secret Downtown Meetings. Detailed descriptions of the photos, the hotel stays, and Julian Vance’s name were plastered across the internet. Someone had leaked the dossier directly to the press. A rage deeper than anything I had ever felt settled into my stomach. Opal was trying to control the narrative, or maybe her lover was trying to make a quick payday off my name. I grabbed my coat and drove straight to our penthouse downtown. When I unlocked the door, I found the apartment in disarray. Opal was in the master bedroom, a single small suitcase open on the bed. She was packing her clothes—not her expensive designer gowns or the jewelry I had bought her over the years, but her plain, simple sweaters and casual pants. She turned when she heard my footsteps. Her face was pale, her eyes red and swollen, with dark circles bruised beneath them. Seeing her standing in our room, surrounded by our memories, made my anger flare out of control. "You couldn't even wait twenty-four hours, could you?" I demanded, tossing a printed headline onto the bed next to her suitcase. "Did you leak this to the press? Was your little lover hoping to humiliate me publicly before the ink on our marriage license was even dry?" Opal looked down at the paper, then looked up at me, her eyes hollow. She didn't flinch. She didn't yell. She just looked terribly, agonizingly tired. "I didn't leak anything, Graham," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I have no reason to talk to the press. I spent the entire night in a cheap motel trying to understand how my husband could look at a stack of paper and throw away three years of marriage." "The paper doesn't lie, Opal!" I shouted, stepping closer to her, my voice cracking under the weight of my own grief. "The bank accounts! The texts! You were in his room!" Opal stopped packing. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, taking a deep, shuddering breath. When she opened them, she walked right up to me. She stood so close I could smell the faint lavender soap she always used. "Graham," she said, her voice eerily calm, trembling only with the raw emotion she was trying so hard to hold back. "Look me in the eyes." I stiffened, refusing to lean away. "Look at me," she repeated, her eyes searching mine with a devastating intensity. "Tell me, right now, that when you look at my face, you genuinely believe I went to a hotel and gave myself to another man. Tell me you truly believe I cheated on you." My heart hammered against my ribs. Her gaze was clear, desperate, and painfully open. For a split second, a c***k formed in my anger. For a fraction of a second, I saw the woman I loved, the woman who used to nurse me back to health when I was sick, the woman who had never asked for a dime of my money. Then, the images of the dossier flashed in my mind—the high-definition photos, the text messages, the cold hard facts verified by my own team. I hardened my posture. "The evidence leaves me no other choice." A terrible, soft laugh escaped her lips—a sound completely devoid of joy. Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them back, refusing to let them fall in front of me. "The evidence," she whispered. "You think love is about math, Graham. You think it's about evidence. Trust was supposed to be a choice, too. And you chose not to trust me." I pulled a thick folder from my coat pocket and slammed it onto the dresser beside her suitcase. "My lawyers prepared the divorce papers. They included a generous settlement—five million dollars, the car, and a monthly stipend. Sign it so we can end this." I expected her to fight. I expected her to cry, to scream, to ask for more money, or to beg me for another chance like any normal person would when faced with losing everything. Instead, Opal walked over to the dresser. She opened the folder without even looking at the terms. She grabbed a pen from the nightstand, flipped to the final page, and signed her name with a firm, unbroken stroke. Then, she turned to the financial breakdown section, drew a sharp line straight through the settlement figures, and wrote two words across the paper in bold handwriting: WAIVED completely. I stared at the paper in absolute shock. "What are you doing? That's five million dollars. You have nothing." "I took nothing when I came into this marriage, Graham," she said, zipping up her single, small suitcase and setting the pen down softly. "And I want nothing from a man who believes I could be bought, sold, or shared." She didn't beg. She didn't shed another tear. She picked up her bag, pushed past me, and walked toward the foyer. Her refusal to take the money unnerved me. It didn't make sense. It shattered the image of the greedy, scheming woman my family had painted her to be. If she had cheated on me for money or thrill, why was she walking away with nothing? My mind raced, anger and confusion tangling together in my chest. "Opal, wait!" I called out, following her into the hallway. She didn't stop. She didn't look back. She opened the front door, stepped out into the corridor, and left the apartment without saying another word. I stood by the window of the living room a few minutes later, watching the street below. I saw her small figure emerge from the glass doors of the building, stepping out onto the crowded sidewalk into the cold afternoon air. She took three slow steps toward the street, her posture stiff and rigid. Then, suddenly, her footing gave way. She halted, her hand flying to her head as if the world were spinning out of control. Her knees buckled beneath her, her suitcase slipped from her grip, and before anyone on the street could reach her, Opal’s body went limp, collapsing face-down onto the cold concrete sidewalk.