Replaced By A Mistress: The Wife's Revenge

I went to the City Clerk's office to update my passport, desperate to feel alive again after losing my ability to draw. Instead, the clerk handed me a reality that killed me. "Mrs. Crosby," she whispered, her face drained of color. "You aren't married to Bennet. The divorce was finalized three years ago. On October 12th." The date hit me harder than a physical blow. October 12th was the day my right hand was crushed. The day Gianna Skinner, a woman obsessed with my husband, shattered twenty-seven bones in my drawing hand with a marble bust. Bennet, the most ruthless Don in New York, had promised me justice. He swore he locked Gianna in a dungeon to rot for hurting his "Angel." But the screen in front of me told a different story. He had married Gianna the very same day he divorced me. I drove to the Lake House where she was supposed to be suffering. I didn't find a prison; I found a modern glass palace. There they were, sitting on a swing set I had designed. Gianna wasn't rotting. She was laughing in his lap, wearing a silk robe. "She is so pathetic," Gianna purred, tracing his jaw. "Five years and she still thinks she is the Lady of the house." Bennet chuckled, the sound dark and terrifying. "She is broken, Gianna. A bird with no wings. She has no value to the Family anymore, except as a trophy on my shelf. She is my pet. You are my fire." My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Bennet. "Happy Anniversary, my Angel. Tonight, I give you the world." He wasn't giving me the world. He was building a cage out of lies. Through a bugged ring, I later heard his endgame: he planned to institutionalize me for "mental instability" so he could bring Gianna into the light. I didn't go home to cry. I went to my office and opened a secure browser on the dark web. *Subject: Protocol Erasure.* *Target: Harper Cline.* *Execution: Immediate.* Bennet thought he had broken his pet. He was about to realize he had just unleashed a lioness. Chapter 1 Harper POV I stepped into the City Clerk's office with a singular goal: to update my passport. It was a desperate bid for the only thing that still made me feel alive-my art. But instead of a stamp, the clerk handed me a reality that killed me. My husband, the most ruthless Don in New York, hadn't just betrayed me. He had secretly divorced me three years ago to marry the very woman who had crushed my right hand. The fluorescent lights of City Hall buzzed overhead, a sickly sound that drilled into my temples. Brenda, the clerk who had smilingly processed my marriage license five years ago, looked at her computer screen, then up at me. Her face was drained of color. "Mrs. Crosby," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I think there is a mistake in your paperwork." I shifted my weight, instinctively shoving my right hand deep into the pocket of my wool coat. It was a reflex honed over three years of shame. The hand that used to sketch skylines and dream up skyscrapers was now a mangled claw of scar tissue and stiff joints. "What mistake?" I asked, forcing a polite smile. "It is our fifth anniversary. I just need to update my status for the visa application." Brenda hesitated, then slowly turned the monitor toward me. "You are not married to Bennet Crosby," she said softly. "The divorce was finalized three years ago. On October 12th." The date hit me harder than a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs. October 12th. The day my hand was destroyed. "That is impossible," I stammered, the room beginning to tilt. "I live with him. I share his bed." Brenda clicked a mouse button, her eyes full of pity. "He remarried the same day, Harper. To a Ms. Gianna Skinner." The world stopped. Gianna Skinner. The name tasted like ash and copper on my tongue. Three years ago, she had cornered me in the drafting room of the Crosby estate. She was a soldier's daughter, wild, feral, and obsessed with my husband. I could still hear the crunch of bone as she slammed a heavy marble bust onto my drawing hand, shattering twenty-seven bones in a single strike. Bennet had promised me justice. He had promised me Vendetta. He told me he had locked her in the dungeon of the Lake House, to rot in darkness for hurting his Angel. I stared at the screen again, willing the words to change. Legal wife: Gianna Skinner Crosby. My phone buzzed in my left pocket, startling me. I pulled it out with my trembling good hand. A text from Bennet: Happy Anniversary, my Angel. Tonight, I give you the world. I felt bile rise in my throat, burning and acidic. He wasn't giving me the world. He was building a cage out of lies. I left City Hall without a word, my heels clicking sharply against the linoleum. I got into my car and drove. I didn't drive home to the estate where I played the role of the perfect, broken wife. I drove to the Lake House. The place where my monster was supposed to be rotting. It was an hour drive north, deep into the woods that Bennet owned. I parked the car a mile away and walked through the treeline, the damp earth muffling my steps. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I expected to see guards. I expected to see a dark, damp prison. Instead, I saw a palace. The Lake House had been renovated into a modern glass retreat. It glowed in the twilight like a profane jewel. I crept closer, hiding behind the massive trunk of an oak tree. There was a swing set on the porch. A bitter laugh caught in my throat; I had designed that swing set years ago, in a sketchbook I thought Bennet had burned. And there they were. Bennet was sitting on the swing. He looked like a god of war in his tailored suit, his dark hair falling carelessly over his forehead. And in his lap sat Gianna. She wasn't rotting. She was laughing. She wore a silk robe that slipped off her shoulder, revealing skin that had never known a dungeon's cold. Bennet's hand-the hand that caressed my face every night-was resting possessively on her thigh. The wind carried their voices to me, clear and cutting. "She is so pathetic, Bennet," Gianna purred, tracing a finger down his lapel. "Five years and she still thinks she is the Lady of the house." Bennet chuckled, a low, dark sound that used to make my knees weak. "She is broken, Gianna. A bird with no wings. She has no value to the Family anymore, except as a trophy on my shelf." "But you promised," Gianna whined, pouting. "You said she was just for show." Bennet kissed her neck, his eyes closing briefly. "She is my pet. You are my fire. You did well breaking her hand, cara. It made her dependent. It made her mine completely." I clamped my left hand over my mouth to stop the scream that threatened to tear my throat apart. He had rewarded her. He had married her for crippling me. My love for him didn't die in that moment. It curdled. It turned into something black and cold and sharp. I backed away slowly, stepping carefully over the dead leaves. I wasn't going to cry. I had spent three years crying over a hand that would never draw again. Now, I was going to use my left hand to draw a map out of hell. I was going to Paris. And Bennet Crosby was going to burn.