Chapter 3
But the power seat was occupied by someone else.
Isla.
She was wearing a way-too-big white shirt, Hudson's spare.
The most glaring thing was the heels on her feet, studded with diamonds.
Those were my shoes.
Kept in Hudson's private lounge just in case, global limited edition, only three pairs exist.
When I walked in, Isla didn't even bother to stand up; she just stayed perfectly calm in the chair.
Instead, she shifted her position, deliberately swinging her ankle and shooting me a smug, taunting smile.
"Oh, Ms. Porter, you're here. Mr. Gomez said it was a waste to let these shoes just sit there, so he told me to try them out," she cooed, her voice dripping with fake sweetness.
Hudson looked up, and the moment he saw me, his brows twisted into a knot.
"What are you doing here? Didn't I tell you not to come to the office and make a scene?" he snapped.
He didn't even bother to hide the annoyance in his voice.
In his eyes, I was just a drama queen, always causing trouble, while Isla was the perfect, capable assistant.
I ignored Hudson and headed right over to Isla.
I glanced down at her feet.
Those shoes were size 7.
But judging by the way they squeezed her toes, Isla's feet were at least a size 9.
Her heels were red and rubbed raw, but she kept forcing them on like nothing was wrong.
"Aren't they a bit tight?" I asked, keeping my tone light.
Isla paused, then tilted her chin, flashing a triumphant smile.
"They fit perfectly. Mr. Gomez said these shoes were practically custom-made for me," she chirped.
Hudson let out an impatient sigh.
"Lillian, it's just a pair of shoes. Do you have to be so petty? Isla's just giving them a try," he said.
"Just trying them on?" I scoffed, my tone dripping with sarcasm.
With a cold laugh, I suddenly reached out.
I grabbed Isla's ankle and yanked hard.
"Ah!" Isla shrieked.
She slid right off the chair and crashed to the floor, totally humiliated.
I ripped those shoes off her feet, not caring how rough I was.
Sure enough, her heels were raw, blood already seeping out.
"Ugh, with feet that big, you've stretched my shoes out of shape," I said, full of contempt.
I dangled the shoes by the heels, holding them like they were contaminated.
Isla's eyes welled up with tears as she looked at Hudson, all pitiful and desperate.
"Mr. Gomez, Ms. Porter, she..." Isla whimpered, pleading for help.
Hudson suddenly jumped to his feet.
"Lillian. You've crossed the line. Do you really get a kick out of humiliating people in front of everyone?" he barked.
"Humiliation?" I shot back, my tone cold as ice.
I turned and strode over to the massive shredder in the corner of the office.
This beast could chew up even hard drives.
I flicked the switch.
The machine thundered to life.
With Hudson and Isla staring at me like they'd seen a ghost, I tossed those six-figure, limited-edition heels straight in.
The sound was so nasty.
That gorgeous leather and all those diamonds were pulverized into nothing but trash.
"Now that's what real humiliation looks like," I said, voice sharp.
I dusted off my hands, staring at Isla, white as a sheet, and Hudson, about to explode.
"Even if I destroy my things, I'd never let anyone scavenge from me," I sneered.
"Hudson, get this straight. This is my property," I said.
I yanked the signed divorce papers from my bag and slapped them right across Hudson's face.
The paper sliced his cheek, leaving a bright red mark.
"And this, sign it," I demanded.
Hudson clutched his face, chest heaving, fury practically pouring out of his eyes.
"Lillian. Don't you dare regret this." he roared.
"Regret?" I echoed, a mocking smile on my lips.
I glanced at the pile of shredded luxury on the floor, grinning wide.
"The only thing I regret is ever being stupid enough to fall for someone like you," I said.
After storming out of Hudson's company, I headed straight for the bank.
If we're getting divorced, then every dollar needs to be crystal clear.
Yeah, I was pampered, but I was not dumb.
For three years, I never touched the company stuff, but I always thought I was managing my money.
Or so I believed.
Turns out, Hudson was the one handling most of the paperwork behind my back.
Back then, I trusted him more than I trusted myself.
Sitting in the VIP lounge, watching the manager print out my transaction history, my hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Not because it was cold, I was just furious.
The transfer records were endless, each line stabbing me right in the heart.
All the money went to the same overseas account.
Every single transfer marked as "investment."
But when I dug into where that account was registered, it was an underground casino in Auckland.
Seventeen million dollars. Gone.
My money, drained by Hudson bit by bit, just to fill up some giant black hole.
I had someone trace the money trail.
And right there, on the list of gamblers tied to that account, was a name: Dylan Bailey.
Isla's little brother.
A useless, hopeless gambling addict.