Chapter 2

The courtroom erupted.

Camera flashes exploded in a blinding frenzy.

My lawyer stared at me in absolute shock. "Mrs. Winston, what are you doing? We have the evidence this time—"

"I said, I'm dropping it."

I cut him off, raising my head to look directly at Arthur.

"The last thirty attempts were just me being hysterical," I said, my voice carrying clearly over the murmurs. "I was jealous and acted out. I'm done wasting the court's time. I won't ask for a divorce again."

Dead silence fell over the room.

The careless boredom vanished from Arthur's face. He narrowed his eyes dangerously, searching my face for a trap. But I just stood there, the picture of a submissive, defeated wife.

It took the judge a long moment to recover before he hastily banged his gavel, formally dismissing the case.

That night. The Long Island estate.

Arthur ended his business dinners early and returned to the gilded cage he hadn't stepped foot in for half a month. He shrugged off his suit jacket, tossed it onto the sofa, and closed the distance between us with long, predatory strides.

His oppressive aura instantly sucked the oxygen out of the living room.

I stood quietly at the wet bar, holding a crystal decanter, pouring his favorite vintage of Domaine de la Romanée-Conti.

Arthur stepped up right behind me. Without warning, his large hand clamped down on the back of my neck.

"What the hell was that stunt in court today?"

I didn't struggle. I obediently turned around and offered him the glass of DRC.

"It wasn't a stunt, Arthur."

I looked up into his eyes and forced a flawless, placid smile. "I just finally thought things through."

"Thought things through?"

Arthur scoffed. His fingers slid from my nape to my jaw, gripping it hard enough to bruise, forcing my head up. "And what exactly did you figure out?"

"I realized keeping Vivian stashed in a hotel is beneath the Winston name."

I paused slightly, letting the words hang. "Bring her here. I'll make the arrangements."

The air in the room turned to solid ice.

Arthur's grip on my jaw faltered. For the first time, genuine shock flickered in his grayish-blue eyes.

After a long, tense silence, he suddenly released me and let out a low, dark chuckle.

"You better pray you've actually learned your place, Veronica."

He took the wine glass from my hand and downed it in one swallow. "Since you're being so generous, I'll have my people bring her over tomorrow."

"Alright."

The next afternoon, a convoy of three Maybachs rolled through the wrought-iron gates of the Long Island estate.

Vivian had arrived. She brought exactly thirty custom Louis Vuitton trunks, swarmed by a dozen bodyguards and assistants who hauled them into the grand foyer.

Her stilettos clicked sharply against the marble as she marched straight up to the second floor. Without a shred of hesitation, she pushed open the double doors to the master bedroom I shared with Arthur.

"God, this room is so dated."

Vivian wrinkled her nose in disgust. She walked straight into my walk-in closet and yanked the doors open. Inside hung the limited-edition haute couture and priceless jewelry I had won at auctions all over the world.

"This Dior starry-night gown... I asked for this last month, but they told me the only one in the world was sold."

Vivian ruthlessly ripped the dress off its hanger and held it up against her body. "Turns out Mrs. Winston bought it just to let it gather dust. You could never pull off this kind of elegance anyway. Why don't you just give it to me?"

The assistants behind her let out low, mocking snickers.

Everyone was waiting for me to snap. They were waiting to see the hysterical meltdown of the abandoned billionaire's wife who had just lost her 31st court battle. In the past, if a woman even breathed too close to Arthur, I would have torn the house down.

Instead, I calmly walked past her, pulled a standard suitcase from the corner of the closet, and opened it.

"Keep it."

I didn't look at her. "The master suite is yours."

Vivian froze, her smug smile slipping.

Ignoring her confusion, I dragged my suitcase out of the master suite and moved into the guest room at the far end of the hall.

Over the next three days, the Long Island estate became Vivian's personal runway.

She fired the gardener who had served me for five years, simply because he planted my favorite white roses. She ordered the staff to replace my auctioned antique vases with tacky gold ornaments. She paraded around the estate every day, wearing my clothes and dripping in my jewelry, flaunting her victory.

And I? I woke up on time, sat quietly in the guest room reading, and treated her provocations like thin air. I stopped eating in the dining room, instructing the maids to bring simple sandwiches to my door.

But I wasn't doing nothing.

Using my new status as an invisible ghost in my own home, I sat by the guest room window every day, my eyes glued to the grounds below.

In a small notebook, I meticulously tracked every detail:

The perimeter bodyguards change shifts at exactly 8:00 PM and 2:00 AM.

The security camera blind spot is located by the abandoned fountain in the rear gardens.

The security system in Arthur's study undergoes an automatic reboot every day at 3:00 PM, lasting exactly one minute.

These were the chips I was gathering to buy my way out of hell.