His Unwanted Wife, Her Vengeful Heart
To save my father and our family's gallery, I was forced to marry the ruthless Caleb Wiley. He treated me like a commodity, his heart belonging only to another woman, Eva.
When my father needed a life-saving surgery, Caleb made me a cruel offer. To get the money, I had to drink a fatal allergen during a high-stakes poker game.
I drank it and nearly died. I woke up in the hospital to learn the money was never sent. My father was dead.
Caleb had abandoned me to chase after Eva, later trading me to a lecherous judge like a piece of property. My life, my father's life-it was all worth less than his obsession.
But then I found the proof. His mother had orchestrated everything-my family's ruin, my father's murder. My grief turned to ice.
From the shadows, I began to broadcast every one of the Wiley family's crimes to the world.
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Chapter 7
Isabelle Hensley POV:
My childhood home stood silent and mournful, a ghost of its former glory. The Hensley Gallery, once a vibrant hub of art and conversation, was now boarded up, a monument to ruin. I walked through the dusty rooms, each shadow holding a memory, each empty space an echo of laughter and life. My father's studio, where the scent of oil paint and turpentine still faintly lingered, was the hardest. This was where I had spent countless hours with him, where he had taught me to see the beauty in every stroke, every note.
I began the heartbreaking task of going through his belongings. Each item, a conduit to a past I desperately missed. His favorite armchair, worn smooth by years of contemplation. His spectacles, resting on a half-finished crossword puzzle. The grief was a physical weight, pressing down on my chest.
As I cleaned his old oak desk, my fingers brushed against a loose panel. It yielded with a soft click, revealing a hidden compartment. Inside, nestled amongst old letters and dried flowers, was a small, locked wooden box. Curiosity warred with the dread that always accompanied secrets in my family. I found the delicate, ornate key hidden beneath a loose floorboard.
Inside the box, beneath a faded photograph of my parents, was a stack of legal documents. My hands trembled as I read them. They weren't just any documents. They were meticulously detailed records of financial transactions, land deeds, and property transfers related to the gallery. Dates. Names. Signatures. They painted a devastating picture: a systematic, deliberate campaign to undermine my father's business, to drive it into bankruptcy. The final, damning piece of evidence was a series of encrypted emails, exchanged between Clarence Wiley and various shadowy figures, discussing the "acquisition" of the Hensley estate.
My breath hitched. Clarence. It wasn't just a consequence of bad luck or poor management. It was orchestrated. My mother-in-law, Caleb' s mother, had meticulously planned the downfall of my family. The forced marriage wasn't just to save the gallery; it was to take it, after she had already ensured its ruin.
A cold, hard fury settled in my soul, replacing the raw grief. This wasn't just about Caleb's cruelty anymore. This was about a calculated, generational betrayal.
I knew what I had to do. I hired a private investigator, a former detective I'd heard good things about, giving him the documents and a single instruction: "Find everything. Leave no stone unturned."
Days later, I received a frantic call from the investigator. "Miss Hensley, you need to get to the old Hensley estate immediately. They're tearing it down. The demolition crews just arrived."
My heart leaped into my throat. The estate. The gallery. My childhood home. No. Not that. I grabbed my keys, my body moving before my mind could fully process the shock.
I sped through the city, my hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, my mind replaying every memory tied to that place. The sprawling gardens where my parents had their wedding reception. The sun-drenched studio where my father had painted his masterpieces. The secret nooks where I'd hide with my books. It wasn't just a building; it was the last physical embodiment of my family's history, my father's legacy, my own childhood.
When I arrived, plumes of dust already billowed into the sky. Cranes gnawed at the elegant stone facade, their jaws tearing into the heart of my past. "Stop!" I screamed, my voice hoarse, rushing past the yellow tape, ignoring the shouts of the construction workers. "Stop the demolition!"
A figure emerged from the dust, tall and imposing. Caleb. He looked at me, a flicker of surprise, then something akin to concern, in his eyes. He started to walk toward me. "Isabelle? What are you doing here? It's dangerous."
"Dangerous?" I spat, my voice laced with venom. "You want to talk about dangerous, Caleb? You destroy lives, you orchestrate ruin, and you call this 'dangerous'?" I held up the documents, crumpled in my hand. "Did you know, Caleb? Did you know your mother engineered all of this? My family's ruin? The forced marriage? Was it all a part of the grand plan to tear down our history just so you could build your soulless towers?"
He stared at the papers, then at me, his face suddenly pale. "What are you talking about? My mother? This is… this is for Eva. She wanted a new beginning, a blank canvas for our future. A place to build our home." He gestured vaguely at the crumbling mansion. "I promised her. Don't worry, Isabelle. I'll build you a new gallery, a better one, when the time is right. A memorial, perhaps."
The insult, the sheer audacity, was breathtaking. "A memorial? You think you can buy off centuries of history with a 'memorial'? You think you can replace a lifetime of memories with your sterile, soulless concrete? Never!" I ripped the papers, scattering them into the wind. "I wouldn't accept a single stone from your tainted hands!"
Eva Dillon emerged from behind Caleb, a delicate frown on her face. "Isabelle, really. Must you be so dramatic? It' s just an old building. Sentimentality is so… passé. Caleb is offering you a fresh start. A clean slate. You should be grateful." She turned to one of the crane operators. "Don't just stand there! Keep going! We have a schedule to keep!"
The crane roared back to life, its massive wrecking ball swinging toward the last intact wing of the gallery-my father's studio.
"No!" I screamed, lunging forward, desperate to stop it, to save the last piece of him.
But it was too late. The ball struck with a thunderous crash, sending debris flying. A precious stained-glass window, a masterpiece designed by my great-grandmother, shattered into a million glittering fragments. The wall crumbled, revealing the wreckage within. My father's easel, his half-finished painting, buried under rubble.
A primal scream tore from my throat. Blinded by grief and rage, I turned on Eva. With a strength born of pure fury, I launched myself at her, my hands flying, slapping her, scratching her face. "You evil, soulless witch! You destroyed everything! Everything!"
Caleb roared, pulling me off her. His hand clamped around my throat, his eyes blazing with a terrifying, murderous rage. "You bitch! Don't you dare touch her!" He squeezed, cutting off my air, lifting me off the ground. My feet dangled uselessly.
A sharp pain lanced through my side. A piece of flying debris, a splintered beam, had struck me. Blood bloomed rapidly on my shirt. But Caleb didn't notice. He was consumed by his rage, his grip tightening. My vision swam.
"Caleb… stop…" My voice was a desperate rasp, barely audible. Darkness encroached again.