Chapter 1
On the day of our sixth wedding anniversary, answered a phone call—then walked back and slammed a divorce agreement down on the dining table.
"Macey's back. It's time for you to step aside," he said.
I signed without hesitation and walked away with nothing.
He offered me a 250,000-dollar settlement, even as he suggested I could stay—if I didn't mind playing the background figure in his life with Macey Valentine.
He still thought I was the same helpless, penniless girl he once married.
What he didn't know was that my father was Alexander Murphy, the man whose name was stamped across half the private hospitals in this city.
And he had no idea that the 8-million-dollar lifeline that saved his company had come from my father.
*****
The divorce papers sat on the dining table, right next to a plate of steaming sea bass.
Desmond was standing by the window, talking on the phone.
"You've arrived? I'll send someone to pick you up," he said. "The place is ready for you. If it's not to your liking, just say the word and we'll change it anytime.
"Macey, it's been tough on you these past few years."
He hung up, turned around, and froze for a second when he saw me standing by the table.
"Emmaline, sign it," he said.
He pulled out a chair, sat down, twisted the cap back onto the pen, and set it next to the papers.
I glanced at the stack of papers.
Three pages, all printed out. A small pencil arrow marked where I needed to sign.
He'd even gone so far as to mark the spots with a pencil.
"Desmond, do you even know what day it is?" I asked.
He paused for a couple of seconds.
Then his face relaxed—not with guilt, but with a look that said, "Oh, that's what this is about.
"Emmaline, it's been six years. Macey's waited for me all this time. I can't make her wait any longer."
He nudged the pen closer to me.
"So, when did you start seeing Macey?" I asked.
He paused for a few seconds and said, "Six years ago."
"Say that again," I said.
"Emmaline," he said, putting both hands on the table with a resigned shrug. "Macey and I have been together for six years. She's the one I should've married. Having you stuck between us. It's just miserable for everyone."
I pushed the plate of fish aside, as if it was in the way.
"You want me to step aside?" I asked.
"Yes," he said.
"So you want me to give up my place to Macey."
"Emmaline, Macey's not the unreasonable type," he said, pausing like he was doing me some massive favor. "Even after the divorce, you don't have to move out. She said she's totally fine with it."
It took me three seconds to wrap my head around what he said.
He wanted me to be the side piece.
After six years of marriage and a 250,000-dollar breakup fee, I was expected to step aside and play second fiddle to him and his shining star, Macey.
"If you're not happy with the terms, just name your price," he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs.
I didn't even look at the number.
When I married him six years ago, the heat in his rented place was busted, and we spent the whole winter squeezed under one blanket just to stay warm.
I used to scour the supermarket for veggies about to go bad because they were cheaper. He'd always tell me, "Emmaline, just wait till I finally make it. I'll have you eating seafood every day, I promise."
Now his company's worth 400 million dollars, he got two mansions to his name, and there was a Bentley parked in his garage.
And the breakup fee he handed me? 250 thousand dollars.
That was just 0.0625% of what he got now.
"Desmond, do you really think I can't survive without you?" I asked.
He didn't say a word, but his face said it all.
He figured I was some nobody with no family, no degree, no job—someone who couldn't even afford rent on her own if she left him.
So he handed me 250 thousand dollars, thinking he was being generous.
And he thought letting me stay on as their background, just to make them look good, was some act of kindness.
I picked up the pen, turned to the last page, and signed my name, carefully and deliberately.
My hand didn't even shake.
Desmond was clearly caught off guard.
He probably thought I'd break down, cry, or throw a fit—just like all those nights I used to wait for him on the couch, eyes red, asking if he'd gone to see her again.
But I didn't.
I closed the papers and pushed them back across the table.
"It's signed," I said.
He stared at the papers for several seconds, like he never expected it would go down this easy.
"Emmaline..." he hesitated.
"No need to see me out," I said.
As I stood up, I felt a little kick in my belly.
Three months in, the baby was already moving. With my baggy clothes, he had no clue.
He never cared about what I wore, whether I was getting thinner or putting on weight, or even how I was feeling.
He finally stood up and followed me to the front door.