Shattered Vows: The Unwanted Wife's Escape

She stood under the awning, her body trembling.

The cold wind, carrying rain and snow, lashed her face. She took a deep breath, the frigid air burning her lungs, and then walked to the roadside.

A yellow taxi screeched to a halt in front of her, splashing mud onto the hem of her coat. She opened the door and slid into the back seat.

"Central Park West," she said, her voice barely audible.

The taxi lurched forward. She stared out the blurry window, watching the neon lights blur in the rain.

The hollow pain in my chest is slowly changing. The sorrow dissipates, leaving behind a hard, cold core.

Twenty minutes later, the car stopped in front of a high-rise apartment building.

She took the private elevator directly to the top floor. The doors opened, revealing a spacious lobby.

She went inside. She took a copy of the divorce papers from her bag and threw it on the marble entryway table. A dull thud.

She walked into the huge walk-in closet.

Rows of conservative designer suits hung neatly. Mrs. Moran's wardrobe. The wardrobe of a submissive, vase-like wife.

As she looked at them, a sour feeling rose in her stomach.

He would leave without even glancing at her in the mornings. He would walk right past her on his way home from work late at night. When he introduced her at banquets, he would only use a title and never call her by her name.

Three years.

She thought she could melt his heart.

That's really stupid.

She pushed the suit aside, the hanger slamming against the metal bar. She reached deep inside, rummaging through a pile of old lockers from her college days.

She pulled out a bag of clothes. Older than her marriage.

She unzipped it. A small, silver sequined slip dress clung to her curves, barely covering her thighs.

She bought it during her final year of university. She had fantasized about wearing it to him. He never gave her that opportunity.

She took off her soaking wet clothes and let them fall to the ground. The cold sequins slid against her skin.

She sat in front of the vanity mirror.

Forget your usual soft makeup. Pick up a liquid eyeliner and draw a sharp line. Pick up a matte blood red lipstick and apply it to your lips.

She put on a pair of black stilettos.

Stand up and look at yourself in the mirror.

The woman looking back at her looked dangerous. She seemed like someone who didn't care about being abandoned.

She smiled at herself in the mirror. A chilling, terrifying smile.

An hour later, Uber dropped her off at a Michelin three-star French restaurant in Tribeca.

The supervisor took her coat. Her eyes widened slightly when she saw her shimmering skirt, but she quickly regained her professional composure.

"This way, Miss Romero." He used her maiden name.

He led her through the dimly lit restaurant to a private room at the back, where he drew back the heavy velvet curtains.

Hayden was already there. He was sitting there motionless, holding a martini glass.

Just one table away.

He had a deep wrinkle on his forehead.

The moment she entered, his gaze immediately lifted. It slid down her bare chest, along the silver sequins clinging to her skin. His pupils dilated for a split second, then he forced himself to look away.

She slid into the chair opposite him. She crossed her legs. Her feet brushed lightly against his calves under the table.

He trembled slightly and pulled his leg back.

The waiter appeared and poured some frothy water into her cup.

Silence. A suffocating silence. A pervasive, unspoken hostility.

They both picked up the leather menus and pretended to read them.

Elsa snapped the menu shut and looked at the sommelier.

Romanée-Conti. 2015.

The most expensive bottle in the cellar. A blatant provocation.

Hayden didn't even blink. He simply nodded curtly and dismissively to the sommelier. "Bring it here."

The appetizers were served. They were small and delicate, but neither of them touched them.

Hayden placed the silver fork on the porcelain plate. The clanging sound was jarring.

"The Moran family trust will be restructured next month." His voice broke the tension. He was completely focused on official business.

Elsa's hand, which was reaching for the water glass, froze in mid-air.

She caught the timeline. Her heart began pounding wildly in her ribs.

She stared into his cold blue eyes. "When did you file for divorce?"

Hayden looked at her, expressionless.

"The Monday after my grandfather's funeral."

The air in her lungs was sucked out. Her stomach cramped violently.

Monday after the funeral. She remembered that day. She had cried until her eyes were swollen and red for the only old man who had ever been kind to her. Hayden squeezed her hand—the only time in three years that he had touched her without her consent. She thought it was comforting. She thought he had finally shown her tenderness in her moment of vulnerability.

It turned out that was a farewell.

Now everything makes sense. Indifference. Hasty paperwork. Huge compensation.

She wasn't a wife. She never was. She was a condition in the deceased's will. A tool he used to secure his inheritance. She was discarded the moment her grandfather was buried.

She bit her lower lip, tasting the metallic flavor of blood. She refused to let the tears fall. She absolutely couldn't let them fall in front of him.

The sommelier poured the priceless red wine into her glass.

She grasped the crystal goblet. Without shaking it or smelling it, she tilted her head back and drank the entire glass in three large gulps.

The alcohol burns the throat, temporarily numbing the pain.

She slammed the empty glass down on the table. The sound of the crystal clashing was sharp and clear.

"You're a shrewd schemer," she sneered, her voice dripping with venom. "I hope that trust fund keeps you warm at night."

She grabbed her handbag and slid out of the private room. "Excuse me. I'm going to the restroom."

She walked quickly, her high heels clattering aggressively on the hardwood floor.

I pushed open the heavy bathroom door and locked myself in the largest stall.

Her back pressed against the cold tiles. She gasped for breath. Her chest heaved violently. Panic and humiliation nearly overwhelmed her.

She frantically wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, trying to stop herself from crying. But tears kept flowing, mixing with the black of her mascara as they streamed down her face. She didn't even dare to cry out loud, afraid the waiters outside would hear.

What had she given? She asked herself.

Every morning. Every cup of coffee. Every light left on late into the night. Every time I shielded him from difficulties at a dinner party. Every time I practiced smiling in front of the mirror, just to be worthy of standing beside him.

He never gave her a second glance.

From the very first glance, she was doomed. She was twenty-two when she first saw him, and she was instantly smitten. Back then, she was young, believing that hard work could melt an iceberg, that perseverance could wear down even the hardest stone.

But an iceberg is just an iceberg. There's nothing inside. Only ice.

She gave it her all. Her youth, her dignity, every vulnerable part of her being.

In return, I received a cold check.

He never even actually touched her body.

She took her phone out of her bag. Her fingers were shaking so badly that she dropped it once before finally unlocking it.

Dial the phone with Leo Finch, Hayden's executive assistant.

The call was answered after two rings. "Mrs. Moran?"

"Now it's Romero, Leo." Her voice dropped to a deadly, icy tone. Her forehead pressed against the cold tiles. "Book a first-class ticket to Maui. Tomorrow morning. The first flight from Kennedy."

"Maui? The gentleman didn't mention it—"

"I don't care what he mentions." His voice was dripping with menace. "Use his company credit card. Do it now. Otherwise, I guarantee you'll be fired before breakfast."

She hung up without waiting for a reply.

I walked to the marble sink. I turned on the cold water and splashed it on my wrists.

Look at yourself in the mirror. Take a deep breath. Smooth your facial expression into a mask of absolute calm.

Reapply lipstick. The edges are as sharp as a knife.

I pushed open the restroom door and walked back to the restaurant. My back was straight. My head was held high. I walked back to the private room, like a queen returning to her throne.