His Billions Can't Buy Her Forgiveness Now

The scissors made a sickening crunch as I severed the long hair Marcus worshipped.

For three years, I had been his "silk anchor," the hidden woman who grounded him while he conquered New York.

But as the dark strands hit the porcelain sink, my phone lit up with a news alert that shattered my world.

*Thorne Enterprises CEO Marcus Thorne and Isabella Vance announce engagement.*

While I was waiting for his call, he was sliding a massive diamond onto another woman's finger.

At the gala that night, I was forced to watch them.

Izzy leaned across the table, her voice sweet enough to rot teeth.

"You look exhausted, Olivia. Especially now that you're... alone."

Marcus didn't defend me.

He didn't even look at me.

He just swirled his scotch and told me to focus on the merger data, dismissing me like an inconvenient employee rather than the woman he swore to protect.

He thought I was a pragmatist.

He thought I would stay in the shadows, accepting the scraps of his affection while he married for power.

He was wrong.

I went home and packed my life into a single suitcase.

I took the river rock he had carved for me—the one he called his anchor—and left it on the empty easel with a note in black marker.

*You were my rock. Now you’re just a stone.*

By the time he realized his mistake and came pounding on my door, I was already gone, flying toward a new life in Montana where he couldn't reach me.

Chapter 1

Olivia POV

The scissors made a sickening, wet crunch as they bit through the thick lock of hair.

I watched the strands fall into the porcelain sink, dark ribbons contrasting violently against the white ceramic. They looked like dead things. In the harsh bathroom light, they looked like pieces of a corpse.

For three years, Marcus had worshipped my long hair. He used to run his fingers through it while reading documents, a mindless habit that made me feel essential, grounding him to the earth. He called it his silk anchor.

Now, looking at the jagged, uneven ends grazing my shoulders in the mirror, I didn't feel lighter. I just felt severed.

My phone buzzed on the marble counter.

I shouldn't have picked it up. I knew I shouldn't have. But the pathetic, hopeful part of my heart—the part I hadn't managed to cut out with the scissors yet—reached for it like an addict.

I dialed Marcus.

It rang twice before someone picked up. But it wasn't the deep, baritone voice that used to whisper promises to me in the dark.

"Hello?"

Izzy.

Her voice was breathless, light, the sound of a woman who doesn't just think she is winning—she knows the game is already over.

"Is Marcus there?" I asked. My voice sounded foreign, scratchy, like I had swallowed glass.

"Oh, Olivia," she said. She didn't sound surprised. She sounded tolerant. "He's a bit tied up right now. We're just dealing with Barnaby. He's being such a drama queen about his paw."

Barnaby. Her golden retriever.

In the background, I heard him. Marcus. His voice was a low rumble, gentle and coaxing—a tone I hadn't heard directed at me in months.

"Easy, buddy. I've got you. Just hold still. I'm not going anywhere."

The patience in his tone shattered me.

Last week, when I called him because my car broke down on the highway in the pouring rain, he told me to call AAA because he was in a meeting. He had hung up in ten seconds.

But for Izzy's dog, he had all the time in the world.

"Marcus?" I said, louder this time, desperate for him to hear me, to prove me wrong.

"Who is that?" Marcus's voice cut through the background noise. It wasn't gentle anymore. It was sharp. Impatient.

"It's Olivia," Izzy said.

"Tell her I'll call her back. This needs my attention."

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone screen. The wallpaper was still a photo of us from two years ago, smiling in Central Park. He looked at me then like I was the only person in the world.

I remembered the day he gave me the stone. It was a rough, grey river rock he had carved himself during a trip to the Adirondacks. He wasn't an artist, but he had spent hours smoothing it down, carving a crude heart into the surface.

*I will always protect you, Olivia,* he had said, pressing the cold weight of it into my palm. *This stone will last longer than us, and so will my love.*

Lies.

Beautiful, polished lies.

I looked back at the sink full of hair. I turned on the faucet. I watched the water swirl, dragging the dark strands down the drain. They resisted for a moment, swirling around the metal stopper, before being sucked into the darkness.

I needed to leave.

Not just this apartment. Not just this mindset. I needed to leave the version of myself that waited by the phone for a man who was currently holding another woman's dog while she smiled at him.

I walked to the closet and pulled out my suitcase. It was dusty.

I started throwing things in. Not clothes. I didn't care about the clothes. I packed my sketchbooks. My charcoals. The things I had neglected because Marcus preferred me to be available for his galas and his dinners.

My phone buzzed again.

A text message.

It wasn't from Marcus. It was a news alert.

BREAKING: Thorne Enterprises CEO Marcus Thorne and Isabella Vance announce engagement.

My phone slipped from my fingers. It hit the floor with a thud that echoed in the empty room.

I didn't pick it up. I stared down at the screen. The photo was recent. Professional. Marcus looked powerful in his black suit. Izzy was draped over his arm, a massive diamond glittering on her finger.

They were smiling.

It wasn't a candid shot. This was planned. While I was calling him, while I was cutting my hair, while I was bleeding out internally, they had this ready to go.

The walls of the apartment seemed to close in. The air felt too thin.

I was trapped in a maze of my own making, built on a foundation of his false promises.

I sank to the floor, my knees hitting the hardwood hard enough to bruise. But I didn't feel the pain.

I reached for the phone again. My thumb hovered over his name. I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to ask him why. Why he kept me around if he was planning this. Why he carved that stone.

I typed: *Congratulations.*

My finger hovered over the send button.

I deleted it.

I typed: *How could you?*

Deleted it.

I typed: *Goodbye.*

I stared at the word. It looked final. It looked terrifying.

I didn't send it. I couldn't. Not yet. The cowardice tasted bile-bitter in my throat.

Instead, I opened Instagram. The photo was everywhere. The comments were pouring in. *Power couple.* *Finally.* *Perfect match.*

In the photo, Marcus's eyes were smiling, but there were lines of exhaustion around them that only I would notice. He looked tired.

Why did that make me want to cry? He was destroying me, and I was worried that he looked tired.

I hated myself for it. I hated that my heart still beat for a man who had already buried me.

I stood up, my legs shaking. I walked over to the window. New York City sprawled out below me, a grid of lights and noise. It used to look like a playground. Now it looked like a cage.

I grabbed my father's contact. David Hayes.

"Dad," I whispered when the voicemail picked up. "I think... I think I'm done with the history research. I think I'm done with New York."

I hung up.

I looked at the suitcase.

I looked at the phone screen one last time. Marcus and Izzy. Their happiness was a physical blow.

I turned the phone off. The screen went black, reflecting my own tear-streaked face and jagged hair.

It was time to go. Thoroughly. Completely.