Left To Die: Now The CEO Begs
On our third anniversary, my husband Marcus walked out on our dinner because his "best friend" Izzy had a crisis.
That was the ninth time he chose her call over my presence. According to the sick bet I made with her years ago, it was game over.
But the true end didn't come in a restaurant. It happened inside a plummeting elevator.
When the cable snapped and the emergency brakes slammed us to a halt, I lay trapped under debris, my leg fractured and head bleeding. Izzy, terrified but scratched-free, screamed for help.
Marcus didn't even look at me.
He stepped over my broken body to scoop her up.
"I've got you, Iz," he whispered, carrying her out to safety while I lay alone in the dust, gasping his name.
He left me to die in that metal box.
Later, when I confronted him, he called me "unstable" and "jealous." He claimed I was a burden, a placeholder he married just to pass the time until Izzy was ready for him.
He even shoved me into a freezing lake to protect her from a confrontation she started.
He thought I would always be there, the pathetic wife waiting in the shadows. He thought his love was a prize I would endure any torture to keep.
He was wrong.
I signed the divorce papers, threw my ring into the ocean, and vanished without a trace.
Three years later, I returned to New York as a celebrated artist, with a man who treated me like a masterpiece, not a prop.
Marcus, now ruined by Izzy’s lies and stripped of his fortune, found me. He knelt in the rain on the city street, weeping, begging for one more chance to fix us.
I looked down at the husband who had let me drown.
"There is no 'us', Marcus," I said calmly.
Then I turned my back on him and walked into my future.
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Chapter 2
Ellie POV
The ballroom at The Pierre smelled of expensive lilies, old money, and judgment.
It was the NYU alumni gala, a shark tank disguised by tuxedos and designer gowns.
I shouldn't have come. I knew that.
But I had moved out of the penthouse only three days ago, and Chloe—my best friend and only remaining lifeline—had insisted I needed to show my face.
"Don't let them think you're broken, Ellie," she had said, pinning my hair back with fierce precision. "You are titanium."
Standing there, I felt more like aluminum foil—crinkled, flimsy, and easily discarded.
I hovered near the bar, clutching a glass of sparkling water like a weapon, praying for invisibility.
Then, the room went quiet.
It was the kind of sudden, heavy silence that sucks the air right out of a space.
Marcus walked in.
He looked devastating. Of course he did. Black tuxedo, sharp jawline, and eyes that could freeze water.
And on his arm was Izzy.
She was wearing red. A blood-red gown that clung to her curves like a second skin. She beamed, waving at people, playing the part of the returning queen to perfection.
Marcus looked down at her, not with annoyance, but with a intense, protective focus that made my chest ache.
They moved through the crowd, a parted sea of admirers.
I tried to shrink into the shadows, but Izzy's radar was impeccable.
Her eyes locked onto me across the room. Her smile sharpened into something predatory.
She whispered something to Marcus, then steered him purposefully in my direction.
"Ellie!" she chirped, her voice pitched loud enough to turn heads. "I didn't know you were coming."
I kept my face blank, masking the tremor in my hands. "Hello, Izzy. Marcus."
Marcus frowned. He looked at my simple black dress, then at my face. He seemed annoyed that I was even there, occupying space in his world.
"You look... tired," Izzy said, tilting her head with mock sympathy. "Doesn't she look tired, Marcus?"
"She looks fine," Marcus muttered, checking his watch, dismissing me entirely.
I turned to leave. I couldn't do this.
"Wait," Izzy said, reaching out.
She grabbed my arm. Her nails dug into my skin, sharp and deliberate.
I pulled back. It was a reflex.
Izzy stumbled.
No, she didn't just stumble. She threw herself backward with the dramatic grace of a trained dancer.
She gasped, her hands flailing, and collapsed onto the marble floor in a heap of red silk.
"Oh!" she cried out, clutching her ankle. "Ellie, why?"
The room gasped in unison.
Marcus was on his knees instantly. "Izzy? Are you okay?"
"She pushed me, Marcus," she sobbed, looking up at him with wide, watery eyes. "I was just trying to say hello."
Marcus stood up slowly.
He turned to me. His eyes were dark, filled with a cold fury I had never seen directed at anyone but his worst enemies.
"What is wrong with you?" he snarled.
His voice boomed across the silent ballroom.
"I didn't push her," I said calmly. My voice was steady, though my hands were trembling violently behind my back.
"She is trying to be nice to you, and you assault her?" Marcus stepped closer, looming over me. "You are pathetic, Ellie. Jealousy makes you ugly."
The words hit me like a physical blow. *Ugly. Pathetic.*
Around us, the whispers started, buzzing like angry hornets.
*"Did you see that?"*
*"She's crazy."*
*"Poor Marcus."*
Jessica, Izzy's college lackey, stepped forward from the circle. "I saw it too," she announced loudly, eager to please. "Ellie shoved her."
It was a firing squad. And I was standing there without a blindfold.
Izzy sat on the floor, looking up at me with a triumphant smirk masked by fake tears. She had won. Again.
But then, something shifted inside me.
The shame I expected to feel didn't come. Instead, a cold, numbing detachment washed over me.
I looked at Marcus. I mean, I *really* looked at him.
He wasn't asking for my side. He wasn't looking for the truth. He had made his choice before he even entered the room.
I didn't argue. I didn't scream. I didn't beg him to believe me.
I just smiled. It was a small, sad thing.
"Okay, Marcus," I said softly.
He blinked, clearly confused by my lack of resistance.
I stepped around Izzy, who was still sprawled on the floor waiting for her encore.
I walked past Jessica, who sneered at me.
I walked through the crowd of people who were judging a book they hadn't even read.
I held my head high. I felt their eyes on my back, burning holes in my dress, but I didn't falter.
I walked out of the ballroom, through the gilded doors, and into the cool night air.
I didn't look back. Not once.
Izzy watched me go, her smirk faltering for a fraction of a second. She expected a fight. She expected tears.
She didn't expect silence.
Silence, I realized, is the loudest scream of a woman who is finally done.