He Tried to Kill Me for His Mistress

The process server stood in the lobby of our building, clipboard in hand, looking slightly nervous as the elevator doors opened and Kian stepped out. I watched from the security camera feed on my phone, heart hammering against my ribs.

"Dr. Russell?" The server's voice was steady despite Kian's imposing presence. "You've been served."

I zoomed in on Kian's face as he took the envelope. The confusion that flickered across his features quickly hardened into something darker when he recognized the law firm's logo.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered, tearing open the envelope.

The lobby was bustling with evening activity—residents returning from work, the doorman greeting them, a couple waiting for their car. All of them witnesses to Kian's public humiliation.

I switched off the feed and waited in the penthouse, hearing his key in the lock twenty minutes later. The door slammed open with such force that a framed photo on the wall toppled over.

"Eleanor!" His voice echoed through the apartment. "What the hell is this?"

I emerged from the kitchen, a glass of wine in hand. "Divorce papers. I thought that was obvious."

He stormed toward me, papers clutched in his fist. "You had me served? In the lobby? Where everyone could see?"

"Where you couldn't hide," I corrected calmly.

His face contorted with rage. He ripped the papers in half, then quarters, then eighths, until they were confetti in his hands. With a violent motion, he threw them at me.

"I will never sign these," he hissed, adjusting his glasses with trembling fingers. "This tantrum is pathetic. You'll come crawling back when you realize what you're throwing away."

I didn't flinch as the paper scraps settled around me. "There's nothing to crawl back to, Kian."

* * *

A week later, Isabella and Saint insisted on dragging me to a rooftop bar in SoHo. "You need to remember what it feels like to be alive," Isabella had said, pushing me into a cab.

The bar was everything Kian would have hated—loud music, colorful lights, people dancing and laughing. I felt conspicuous in my new emerald dress, but Saint's warm smile made me feel brave.

"You look stunning," he said, handing me a cocktail.

"Thank you for tonight," I replied. "I needed this."

Isabella raised her glass. "To freedom."

We were laughing when I spotted them—Kian and two colleagues from his lab, standing by the entrance. His eyes locked on mine across the crowded space.

"Ele," Saint murmured, noticing my sudden tension. "Don't let him ruin this."

But Kian was already making his way toward us, his colleagues trailing behind. "Eleanor," he said, his voice carrying that familiar note of command. "This has gone on long enough. You're embarrassing me."

I stood slowly, my heels giving me an extra inch of height. The music seemed to fade as I faced him.

"Embarrassing you?" I repeated, my voice clear and cold. "Like when you called out my aunt's name during our anniversary? Or when you bought her a diamond necklace while I got nothing?"

His colleagues exchanged uncomfortable glances.

"Eleanor, please," Kian lowered his voice. "We can discuss this at home."

"I'm not your wife anymore, Kian," I said, stepping closer. "I'm just the woman taking half your empire."

His face paled. "You can't do this."

"I already have."

Kian moved toward me, but Saint stepped smoothly between us. "Back off, Russell," he said quietly.

"This doesn't concern you," Kian spat.

"Everything about Eleanor concerns me now," Saint replied, his voice level but firm.

* * *

The Hamptons estate looked smaller than I remembered. I'd come to collect my paintings—the ones I'd stored there before my marriage, pieces of myself I needed to reclaim.

I was loading the last canvas into my car when I heard the crunch of tires on gravel.

"Eleanor!" My mother's voice carried across the lawn. She emerged from her car, face flushed with anger. "How dare you!"

"How dare I what?" I asked, continuing to secure my painting.

"Divorce Kian! Do you have any idea what you've done to this family's reputation?"

I turned to face her. "The family reputation was never mine to protect."

"You ungrateful girl," she hissed, moving toward her car. "After everything we've done for you."

I slid into my driver's seat, but before I could start the engine, my mother jumped into her car and pulled directly in front of me, blocking my exit.

"Move, Mother," I called out the window.

Instead, she gunned the engine and jerked forward, then swung wildly to the side. Metal scraped against metal as she sideswiped my car, sending me careening off the driveway and into a ditch.

The impact jolted me forward against my seatbelt. When I looked up, my mother was accelerating down the driveway, tires squealing as she took the turn too fast.

I sat there, heart pounding, as the reality of what had just happened washed over me. My own mother had just tried to run me off the road.

And somewhere in the distance, I heard sirens approaching.