Ex-Wife Rising: The CEO's Regret

Fallon stood frozen by the side of the bed.

She stared down at her right hand. The tips of her manicured nails were coated in a thin, bright red layer of blood. Ashely's blood.

She slowly raised her eyes and looked at Ashely. The woman was thrashing against the pillows, clutching her bleeding arm, screaming hysterically. But beneath the screaming, Fallon saw it-a sick, triumphant, twisted smile pulling at the corners of Ashely's mouth.

Fallon's breath caught in her throat. She had completely underestimated the depth of this woman's insanity.

A massive, violent crash shattered the air.

The heavy wooden door of the hospital room was kicked open with such force that the deadbolt splintered the doorframe.

Corbin burst into the room, followed immediately by the two bodyguards.

Corbin's eyes swept the scene in a fraction of a second. He saw the smashed phone on the floor. He saw Ashely curled into a ball on the bed, her arm covered in fresh, bright red blood, sobbing uncontrollably.

And then he saw Fallon. Standing right next to the bed. Her hand raised, her fingers tipped with blood.

The visual evidence locked together into a flawless, undeniable narrative of a brutal assault.

"Fallon!"

Corbin's roar shook the glass in the windows. He crossed the room in two massive strides, shoving Fallon roughly out of the way. He threw himself onto the edge of the bed, wrapping his large arms around Ashely, pulling her trembling body into his chest.

He turned his head and looked up at Fallon.

His eyes were entirely black. There was no anger left. It was pure, murderous hatred. It was the look of a man who had completely and permanently severed all ties.

"I didn't touch her," Fallon said. Her voice sounded hollow, floating in the air like a ghost. She knew, even as she spoke the words, how utterly useless they were against the weight of what he was seeing.

"Get out." Corbin didn't yell this time. His voice was a low, vibrating growl. He kept his arms wrapped tightly around Ashely, burying his face in her hair. He didn't even look at Fallon. "Get out of my sight."

The two bodyguards stepped forward. They grabbed Fallon's arms, their grips tight and unforgiving, and physically hauled her backward toward the door.

Fallon didn't fight them. She didn't scream. She let them drag her out. She kept her eyes locked on Corbin's broad back until the broken door was pulled shut, cutting off the sight of her husband holding another woman.

That night, Fallon returned to the penthouse on Central Park West. It was the massive, multi-million dollar apartment they had bought as their marital home. She had only lived here for three weeks after the wedding before Corbin had moved out to a hotel "for work."

She walked into the master bathroom, turned on the faucet, and stepped into the marble tub fully clothed. She sat there as the water soaked through her white dress, turning it heavy and translucent. She sat there until the water turned freezing cold. She needed the physical shock to numb the burning in her chest.

At exactly midnight, the sound of the front door unlocking echoed through the cavernous apartment.

Corbin was home.

He didn't turn on the main lights. He walked straight to the wet bar in the living room. He poured three fingers of neat whiskey into a crystal glass and swallowed it in one violent gulp.

Fallon walked slowly down the sweeping glass staircase. She had changed into a long, dark silk robe. Her bare feet made no sound on the marble steps.

"Is she dead?" Fallon asked. Her voice was terrifyingly calm, slicing through the dark room.

Corbin spun around. His dark eyes caught the faint light from the city outside. "Not yet. But you successfully ensured she needs a team of trauma therapists."

He reached into his briefcase resting on the bar. He pulled out a thick, heavy manila envelope and threw it onto the massive marble dining table. It landed with a heavy smack.

"What is that?" Fallon asked, though the cold dread in her stomach already knew the answer.

"The divorce agreement. The final draft," Corbin said, his voice hard and flat. "My legal team works fast. Your physical assault on Ashely today constitutes a severe, undeniable breach of the morality clause in our prenuptial agreement."

"I did not assault her," Fallon repeated, emphasizing every single syllable.

"Fallon, I saw it with my own eyes." Corbin rubbed his face, his voice heavy with exhaustion and absolute finality. "I am not debating this with you anymore. Sign the papers. It's the only way you walk away with any shred of dignity."

Fallon walked over to the table. She opened the envelope and pulled out the thick stack of legal documents. She flipped through the pages rapidly.

The terms were brutal. She would receive zero shares in the Mcgowan Group. She was permanently removed as a beneficiary of the family trust. The only thing she would receive was a lump sum "severance" payment that was insultingly low-less than a fraction of the dowry her family had provided.

He was throwing her out with nothing.

A sound bubbled up in Fallon's throat. It started as a breath, and then it turned into a laugh. The sound echoed off the high ceilings, sharp, dry, and entirely unhinged.

She picked up the thick stack of papers. She turned away from the table and walked toward the massive stone fireplace in the center of the living room, where a gas fire was roaring.

Corbin frowned, taking a step forward. "What are you doing?"

Fallon didn't answer. She stood in front of the flames. The heat blasted against her face.

She looked Corbin right in the eyes. Then, she ripped the first page off the stack and dropped it directly into the fire.

Corbin's eyes widened in shock.

Fallon didn't stop. She maintained unbroken eye contact with him as she slowly, deliberately, tore the multi-billion dollar agreement apart, dropping the pages one by one into the consuming flames.