The porcelain teacup trembled in Violet's grip, her knuckles whitening as she scrubbed a stubborn coffee stain.
A bead of sweat slid down her temple despite the crisp air conditioning humming through the penthouse.
Her pulse thrummed in her ears—a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with the spotless kitchen she'd spent three hours polishing.
*Something's wrong.
* The instinct clawed at her, sharp and primal, even as she forced a smile for the security camera blinking innocently above the marble countertop.
She hadn't felt this exposed since the night she'd traded her CEO title for a wedding band.
"Darling?
" Ethan's voice boomed from the foyer, colder than the Arctic winds that battered the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Violet froze.
He never came home before sunset.
Three rapid clicks of stilettos echoed behind her.
Clara Dupont, Ethan's so-called "business partner," sauntered into the kitchen with a smirk that could curdle milk.
"Surprise," the redhead purred, dangling a USB drive like a venomous snake.
"Did you really think a little *housewife* could outsmart me?
"
The teacup shattered on the floor.
Ethan stormed in, his charcoal suit immaculate but his eyes volcanic.
Violet's gaze darted between his clenched jaw and the damning device in Clara's manicured hand.
Her throat tightened—air suddenly scarce as the truth detonated between them.
"What is this?
" Ethan snatched the drive, his voice cracking like a whip.
The screen of his platinum laptop flared to life, broadcasting Violet's face—*her real face*—from a two-year-old Forbes cover.
*"Violet Zhou: Tech Prodigy Disappears After Billion-Dollar Merger.
"*
Clara's laugh was a scalpel.
"Your precious bride's been lying since day one.
That 'modest bakery' she claimed to manage?
A front for Zhou Enterprises' offshore holdings.
"
Violet's knees buckled.
She gripped the counter, the jagged edges of her shattered facade cutting deeper than any porcelain shard.
Ethan's gaze locked onto hers, fury and betrayal warring in his storm-gray irises.
"Explain.
" The single word hung like a guillotine blade.
"I…I wanted to be loved for *me*," she whispered.
The admission tasted like ash.
Her billion-dollar inheritance, the boardroom wars, the paparazzi hounding her since adolescence—none of it mattered when Ethan had kissed her under the cherry blossoms, his calloused hands cradling her face like she was something precious.
Something *real*.
Clara snorted.
"Spare us the melodrama.
You manipulated him to sabotage my merger!
"
"That's not—"
"Enough!
" Ethan's fist slammed onto the counter, rattling the copper pans overhead.
"You weaponized our marriage.
Was any of it genuine?
The dinners?
The…the lavender scones you baked because I mentioned my mother…" His voice fractured.
Violet's heart splintered.
She reached for him, but he recoiled as if her touch were acid.
Clara's perfume—sickly-sweet gardenias—choked the room.
Then, like a switch flipping, Violet's panic crystallized into icy clarity.
*Think.
Strategize.
Survive.
* Her boardroom persona clawed its way to the surface.
"Check the timestamps," she said, squaring her shoulders.
"Clara's 'evidence' shows Zhou Enterprises acquiring those shares *after* our wedding.
But Ethan?
" She stepped closer, ignoring Clara's hissed protest.
"You proposed on June 14th.
The merger closed June 12th.
"
Ethan stilled.
"Impossible!
" Clara snapped.
"The documents—"
"Are as fake as your eyelashes.
" Violet's laugh held no warmth.
She yanked open a drawer, pulling out a leather-bound planner.
Pages fluttered to a dog-eared spread—Ethan's handwritten proposal date circled in gold ink.
"Corporate filings are public record.
Verify it yourself.
"
For three excruciating heartbeats, silence reigned.
Then Ethan's shoulders slumped—a fraction, but enough.
Clara lunged.
"You conniving little—"
"Enough!
" Ethan's roar shook the crystal chandelier.
He massaged his temples, the anger leaching from his frame.
"Violet…why the charade?
"
The vulnerability in his tone almost broke her.
Almost.
"Because I—"
A manila envelope slapped onto the counter.
"Cute story," Clara hissed, her composure cracking like old lacquer.
"But perhaps you'll explain *this*?
"
Violet's blood turned to slush.
Nestled among forged contracts was a photo—Ethan and Clara at last month's charity gala, his hand resting on her bare shoulder.
The timestamp glowed maliciously: *9:47 PM.
* The exact moment Violet had been trapped in a stalled elevator, her frantic calls to Ethan's phone going straight to voicemail.
"You…" Violet's nails bit into her palms.
The room tilted.
Clara's whisper slithered into her ear: "Checkmate, *Mrs.
Blackthorn*.
"