His Unwanted Wife Is A Genius Designer

Francis stood frozen. His chest heaved with rapid, shallow breaths.

"Have you lost your damn mind?" he hissed, his voice vibrating with anger.

He reached up, his fingers automatically adjusting the collar of his suit jacket. He glared at her, fully convinced this was just another one of her dramatic tantrums to get his attention.

"You're using our son's illness to throw a jealous fit over a necklace. It's pathetic."

Arianna raised the back of her bloody hand and wiped a stray tear from the corner of her eye.

"You severely overestimate your own charm, Francis," she replied, her voice eerily calm.

Before he could respond, the red light above the trauma room clicked off.

The heavy doors pushed open, and the attending physician walked out, pulling down his surgical mask.

"He's stabilized," the doctor announced. "We've removed the tube. We are moving him to a regular room now."

The adrenaline that had kept Arianna standing for the last hour instantly evaporated.

Black spots danced in her vision. Her knees buckled, and her body pitched forward.

Francis's hand shot out instinctively to catch her waist.

Arianna twisted her torso violently, dodging his touch as if his skin were coated in acid. She stumbled, catching herself against the wall.

A nurse pushed the hospital bed out of the trauma room. Benjaman was sleeping soundly.

Arianna ignored Francis entirely and followed the rolling bed down the hall.

Inside the spacious VIP suite, Arianna sat in the hard plastic chair beside the bed. She didn't take her eyes off her son's pale face.

The door clicked open.

Francis and Chanelle walked in. Chanelle was holding a large, limited-edition Transformers toy box in her hands.

The sedative was wearing off. Benjaman's long eyelashes fluttered, and he slowly opened his eyes.

Arianna leaned forward, a desperate, relieved smile breaking across her face. "Benji, baby," she whispered, tears spilling over her cheeks.

Benjaman blinked. He shrank back slightly against the pillows.

His gaze moved past his mother, still hazy and unfocused from the drugs, and landed on the woman standing at the foot of the bed.

His gaze moved past his mother, still hazy and unfocused from the drugs, and landed on the woman standing at the foot of the bed.

Last spring, the Mother's Day tea party at his preschool. Each child had been given a single red carnation to give to their mother. Benjaman had run straight past Arianna's open arms and thrust the flower into Chanelle's hand. "Auntie Chanelle, this is for you!"

Six months ago, the brutal winter flu. A 105-degree fever in the dead of night. Arianna had held him on the cold bathroom floor for three hours, rocking him, singing until her voice gave out. When his glassy eyes finally opened, his cracked lips had parted and whispered, "Auntie Chanelle? Did she come?"

His fourth birthday party. Two months of planning every detail. The night before, she had sat on his bed and asked, "Benji, what's your birthday wish?" He had looked up at her with those big, earnest eyes, the ones he had inherited from his father. "I wish Daddy would come. And Auntie Chanelle." Just them. As if she, the woman who had carried him and birthed him and held him through every nightmare, was merely a background character in his story.

Chanelle immediately stepped forward, holding up the brightly colored Transformers box to catch his dazed attention. Drawn entirely by the familiar toy and the sudden movement, he reached out a weak, trembling hand.

"Auntie Chanelle..." he whimpered, his voice raspy.

The words drove like a serrated knife straight into Arianna's chest. Her entire body went rigid.

Six years.

Six years of choosing him. Of choosing them. Of being the invisible woman in her own son's life while the usurper collected his affection like a debt owed. She had given up her career, her name, her very sense of self for this family, and in return, she had become a ghost in her own home.

The final thread holding her heart together did not simply snap. It disintegrated into ash.

Chanelle shot Arianna a triumphant, pitying look. Her high heels clicked against the linoleum as she walked to the side of the bed and pressed the heavy toy into the boy's arms.

Benjaman clutched the box to his chest. When Arianna reached out to brush the sweaty hair from his forehead, he turned his face away, rejecting her touch.

Francis stood near the window, his hands in his pockets. He didn't correct the boy.

"You always know exactly how to calm him down, Chanelle," Francis said smoothly.

Arianna sat frozen, staring at the three of them. They looked like a perfect, happy family.

The death of her marriage was absolute. But so, it seemed, was the death of something far more painful. The death of the illusion that her son needed her the way she needed him.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

It was an email from Elias Adler. Attached was a PDF file.

She stood up. She took two steps forward, physically inserting herself between Francis and Chanelle, cutting off his line of sight to the other woman.

She held up her phone, shoving the glowing screen directly into Francis's line of vision.

"I am filing for divorce," she said. Her tone was as casual as if she were ordering coffee. "Effective immediately."

Francis's eyes dropped to the screen. He read the bold header: Divorce Agreement.

His pupils contracted sharply. He took a half-step back.

His jaw tightened. He assumed this was a bluff, a desperate negotiation tactic because of the necklace.

"Stop this childish nonsense right now, Arianna," he ordered, his voice dropping into a dangerous warning.

Arianna looked at him with dead eyes.

"The physical copies will be on your desk by 8:00 AM. I am taking zero alimony. Keep your money."

She turned her head to look at Chanelle.

"Congratulations," Arianna sneered. "You can finally take out the trash."

Francis's face flushed with rage. He lunged forward, his large hand clamping down hard on her wrist.

"Don't do something you're going to regret," he threatened through gritted teeth.

Arianna ripped her arm out of his grip with a violent jerk.

She looked at Benjaman one last time. He was already absorbed in the toy, his small fingers tracing the Autobot emblem on the box. He did not look up.

Arianna turned on her heel. She did not slam the door. She pulled it quietly shut behind her, the soft click of the latch marking the end of everything.