Neglected Wife's Bitter Sweet Revenge

Elinor Frost POV:

The scent of aged leather and antique wood filled Grandfather Harmon's study, a familiar aroma that had always signaled authority and consequence. He sat behind his massive mahogany desk, his silver hair impeccably combed, his gaze sharp and unwavering. Guy sat beside me, his hand resting on my knee in a gesture of quiet support.

"Elinor, my dear," Grandfather Harmon began, his voice surprisingly gentle, "your mother has informed me of your decision. Are you truly certain about this?"

I met his gaze, my own unwavering. "Yes, Grandfather. I am."

He sighed, a deep, weary sound. "A divorce, Elinor," he said, his voice laced with the weight of generations. "It's not a decision to be taken lightly. Our families, as you know, are deeply intertwined. This will have... implications."

I knew. The Frost family, with its legacy of musical genius and artistic integrity, and the Harmon empire, built on shrewd business and ruthless ambition. Our marriage had been a strategic alliance, a merger of assets and influence. My father's unreleased songbook, a treasure trove of musical brilliance, was the crown jewel. Grandfather Harmon saw me not as a person, but as a gateway to that legacy. I felt the pressure of his words, the centuries of tradition and expectation pressing down on me. But this time, it didn't break me.

"With all due respect, Grandfather," I said, my voice firm despite the tremor in my hands, "the implications of remaining in this marriage are far greater. For me. For my well-being." I looked him directly in the eye, unwilling to back down. "My family supports me in this, completely. This isn't a request for permission. It's an announcement."

He stared at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Guy squeezed my knee, a silent reassurance.

Finally, Grandfather Harmon leaned back, his gaze softening almost imperceptibly. "Perhaps," he said, his voice low, "we owe you more than we have given, Elinor. You have borne a great deal, quietly. Too quietly." He paused, then looked at Guy. "I will instruct my legal team to cooperate fully. You will have full access to all necessary resources." He looked back at me. "And tell Braden that any attempts to obstruct this will be met with the full force of my displeasure."

A wave of relief washed over me. It wasn't the kind of emotional, heartfelt support I craved, but it was practical, decisive, and powerful. Braden's opinion, his hurt feelings, his manipulative games, no longer mattered. Grandfather Harmon had spoken.

"Now," he said, pushing a button on his intercom, "I believe it's time for lunch. You'll stay, won't you, dear?" It wasn't a question.

As Mrs. Gable, his personal assistant, wheeled in a pristine white cart laden with delicate sandwiches and fruit, my phone rang. It was Braden. Again. I hesitated, but Grandfather Harmon, with a knowing glance, nodded towards the phone. I answered, putting it on speaker at his insistence.

"Elinor, what is the meaning of this?" Braden's voice was sharp, laced with barely suppressed rage. "Mrs. Gable just told me you refused to prepare my lunch! Are you deliberately trying to embarrass me?"

I almost laughed. Embarrass him? After last night's performance? The irony was thick and bitter. It suddenly clicked. He hadn't just eaten my lunch all these years; he had expected it. He had taken my efforts, my love, my care, as his due. He never liked my cooking, but he never actually stopped eating it. He just complained. Now, faced with the prospect of actual hunger, or perhaps the indignity of finding his own food, he was furious.

I remained silent, struggling to find my voice. The shock of his sheer entitlement, even after everything, left me momentarily speechless.

Grandfather Harmon reached over, plucked the phone from my hand, and activated the speakerphone. His voice, now devoid of its earlier warmth, boomed through the room. "Braden, you ungrateful imbecile! Are you truly complaining about lunch when your wife is sitting here contemplating divorcing you?"

There was a stunned silence on the other end, quickly followed by a frantic, high-pitched voice. "Braden, who is that? What's going on?" It was Destany. Her voice, thin and reedy, was unmistakable.

"Grandfather, I-" Braden stammered, clearly caught off guard.

"Don't 'Grandfather' me!" Keshawn roared. "I heard you had quite the performance last night, Braden. And now you're complaining about lunch? Perhaps Miss Aguilar can rustle you up something. I hear she's quite adept at 'preparing meals' for you, among other things."

Destany's voice, now tinged with a desperate sweetness, cut in. "Oh, Mr. Harmon, I'd be happy to! Braden loves my vegan wraps. He always says Elinor's cooking is... well, a little too traditional for his refined palate."

A cold, hard lump formed in my throat. It wasn't a surprise, not really. But to hear it confirmed, so casually, so cruelly, by the woman he openly flaunted, twisted a fresh knife in the old wound. He had hated my cooking. All those years, all those efforts, all those attempts to please him, had been in vain. He had been lying even then, mocking me behind my back.

Grandfather Harmon's voice sliced through my thoughts. "I don't care what you make for him, Miss Aguilar! Just keep him away from my granddaughter. And let me make something very clear to both of you: Elinor Frost is still a Harmon. And if I hear one more word about either of you publicly humiliating her, there will be consequences you cannot imagine. Is that understood, Braden? I expect you to conduct yourself with some semblance of dignity, or I will personally ensure you lose everything you've ever worked for."

He didn't wait for a reply. He simply ended the call with a definitive click, then handed the phone back to me. "My apologies, Elinor," he said, his expression grim. "That boy has no sense whatsoever."

I merely nodded, a strange mix of emotions swirling inside me. Gratitude for his blunt intervention, but also a deep cynicism. His "apology" felt less about my pain and more about maintaining the family's image, about protecting his assets. I was a valuable commodity, and my dignity, in his eyes, was part of that value.

After lunch, I left Grandfather Harmon's study, feeling a sense of quiet resolve. As I walked down the long corridor, I heard his assistant say to him, "Mr. Harmon, do you think Braden will finally understand now?"

Grandfather Harmon let out a tired sigh. "He will, eventually. When it's too late."

I barely registered the words. Let him understand when it was too late. I didn't care anymore. Braden probably wanted me gone now that he had Destany. He just didn't want to be the one to initiate it.

My first official meeting with my attorney, Guy's colleague, Eleanor Vance, was at a small, unassuming coffee shop near my old apartment. It was a place Braden and I used to frequent in the early days, before his world became all about VIP lounges and exclusive clubs. I remembered us laughing over mediocre lattes, planning our future, a future that now seemed impossibly naive. I even remembered joking, "One day, when you're a big shot producer, you'll still come here with me, right? No fancy places, just our little spot." He had smiled then, that real, genuine smile I rarely saw anymore. "Always, Frosty," he had promised.

As Eleanor and I were discussing the specifics of the divorce settlement, I looked up. And there they were. Braden and Destany, walking into our coffee shop, hand in hand, their faces alight with a careless joy that made my stomach churn. My old joke, his old promise, echoed in my ears, a cruel, mocking refrain.

Destany was clinging to his arm, her head thrown back in a laugh as Braden whispered something into her ear. They looked utterly, undeniably besotted. The familiarity of the scene, the ease of their intimacy, was a fresh stab to my heart. It was too much.

"Elinor?" Eleanor's voice cut through the haze of my pain, pulling me back to the present. "Are you alright?"

"I just need some air," I mumbled, pushing my chair back. I needed to get out, to escape their presence.

But as I stood, a sudden wave of dizziness washed over me, even more intense than the one at the party. The room spun, the faces of Braden and Destany blurring into an indistinguishable mass. My vision grayed at the edges. My hand flew to my stomach, a familiar, protective gesture.

Eleanor was quick, her hand gripping my arm, steadying me. "Elinor, what's wrong?"

The clatter of a dropped spoon, loud in the suddenly hushed coffee shop, drew attention. Braden' s head snapped up. His eyes, usually so cold, widened in surprise as they landed on Eleanor's hand, still firmly on my arm. A flicker of something, possessiveness? Jealousy? crossed his face. He ignored Destany's confused murmurings, his gaze fixed solely on us.

Then, his face contorted into a dark, furious scowl. He began to stalk towards us, his eyes blazing with a dangerous intensity. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded, his voice low and venomous, directed not at me, but at Eleanor. "Get your hands off my wife!"

My heart hammered. This was going to be a disaster.