Chapter 3

The kitchen was hot and stuffy. I tied on an apron and started cleaning the tuna, which was still thrashing in my hands.

All these years, I was the one staying up late, writing the core content for Ryan's company.

However, in the Lambert family's eyes, I was nothing more than a useless housewife who contributed nothing, lived off their family, and couldn't give them a child.

An hour later, I carried out three dishes and a soup.

The dining table was already covered with fancy takeout boxes. They were from the priciest seafood restaurant in town.

Rosalie was brandishing Ryan's credit card, directing the servants as they arranged the dishes.

"Hazel, everything you made is way too bland. Ryan has been working hard lately. He needs something healthier." She picked up the plate of tuna I'd set down.

Her hand suddenly jerked. The entire dish tipped neatly into the trash can beside her.

"Oops, I didn't mean it. Anyway, there's no space left on the table." She stuck out her tongue.

I stood there, staring at the food in the garbage.

Ryan walked out of the bathroom, pulled out a chair, and sat down. "What happened?"

"I accidentally knocked over the tuna Hazel made." Rosalie dropped her head, acting all sad and innocent.

Ryan looked at the trash can, then at me. "It's fine. It's only a dish."

He cut the steak for Rosalie. "Rosalie, you always pay such close attention to what I like. How do you know I've been craving seafood lately?"

Then he looked at me, his tone indifferent. "You're home all day anyway, and your cooking hasn't exactly gotten better. Don't bother making anything anymore."

I slipped off my apron and tossed it over the chair. "Enjoy your meal. I'm not hungry."

I headed up to the guest room on the second floor.

Pushing the door open, I sat at the desk and turned on my laptop. In my inbox was an unread email from the Marketing Department of Lambert Media Group.

I clicked on the attachment.

It was the promotional poster for the new novel I had spent three years preparing. Right in the center of the poster, beside my pen name, were several words in bold: [Co-written by Rosalie Owens.]

I stared at the screen, barely able to blink.

The door opened, and Ryan came in, holding a glass of water.

He walked over, glanced at the screen, and set the glass down on the desk. "Did you see it?"

He braced both hands on the back of my chair and leaned over me. "Rosalie wants to try her hand at publishing. She needs something good on her resume.

"You're the senior writer here. Give her a little help. It's only a name on the cover."

With an air of complete certainty, he dismissed my three years of work as though it were nothing and casually handed part of it to someone else.

I spun my chair around and looked up at Ryan. "I spent three years writing this novel. The outline, the characters, and the detailed plot structure. I wrote every single word myself.

"Has she read a single page? What gives her the right to put her name on it?"

My voice wasn't loud, but in the silence of the room, every word came through clearly.

Ryan straightened, a look of impatience settling across his face. "Hazel, do you have to be so petty right now?

"The promo materials went out overnight. Everything is scheduled to go live across all the major channels tomorrow. If you make a scene now, who's going to cover the company's losses?"

He looked down at me like I was a stubborn child throwing a fit. "It's only a name. The royalties still go to your account. You aren't losing anything."

He had reduced three years of my blood, sweat, and tears to something money could simply buy away.

"And what if I say no?" I looked straight at him.

Ryan's gaze turned icy. "Hazel, that's enough."

He pulled out a cigarette, stuck it between his lips, but didn't bother lighting it. "Don't forget. We got our divorce papers today.

"Legally, you're out of the Lambert family. This novel was developed using company resources. I have every right to decide who gets credited."

He played his ace, sure I'd cave like always.

"Ryan." Rosalie's sweet voice called from outside the door. "Mrs. Lambert said I could stay in your room tonight. Wouldn't it be inconvenient for Hazel to stay here?"

Ryan glanced at me, his tone slipping back into that fake warmth. "Why don't you head back to your apartment for tonight? Rosalie gets scared easily, and she has trouble sleeping anywhere but her own bed.

"She'll feel awkward if you're here."

He pressed the intercom and called for the security guard. "Escort her out."

I looked at him without struggling or arguing.

I closed my laptop, slipped it into my bag, and picked it up. "Okay."

I turned and walked out.

When I stepped out of Lambert Manor, rain was pouring down in sheets. I hadn't brought an umbrella, so I had no choice but to walk through the downpour.

Halfway down the road, my phone buzzed.