Spectacular Comeback Of The Unwanted Wife

"Sign here, Mrs. Maldonado."

The sharp voice of Walter Finch cut through the dead silence of the Beverly Hills apartment. Athena Williams stared at the thick black folder in his hands. The morning sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but the light offered no warmth. Her fingertips were ice cold.

She stood in the entryway. A black lace veil covered the lower half of her face, a permanent fixture in her life for the past three years. Walter kept his eyes fixed on the bridge of her nose, carefully avoiding the scarred tissue he assumed lay beneath the fabric.

Athena reached out. The leather of the folder felt heavy, dragging her hands down. She flipped past the dense legal jargon directly to the last page.

There it was. Caswell Maldonado. His signature was bold, aggressive, and completely devoid of hesitation.

Her stomach twisted into a tight, painful knot. The air evaporated from her lungs. Eight years of loving him in secret, three years of a hollow marriage, all reduced to a stroke of black ink.

"The Beverly Hills property will be transferred to your name entirely," Walter said, his tone purely transactional. "Mr. Maldonado has also arranged for a substantial severance deposit to your personal account."

The words sliced through her chest. Severance. Like she was a fired employee.

Athena bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. She picked up the Montblanc pen resting on the console table. Her wrist shook. She squeezed the barrel of the pen so hard her knuckles turned stark white.

She pressed the nib to the paper. The scratching sound echoed in the quiet room. She forced her hand to move, signing her name next to his. The moment the pen lifted, a wave of nausea hit her. Her knees went weak.

She shoved the folder back into Walter's chest. "Thank you." Her voice came out as a raw, broken rasp.

Walter gave a stiff bow. He turned on his heel and walked toward the private elevator. The click-clack of his dress shoes against the marble floor sounded like a countdown.

The elevator doors slid shut.

Athena slammed the heavy oak door closed. The loud bang rattled the walls. She pressed her spine against the solid wood and slid down until she hit the floor. The cold seeped through her silk pajamas.

Her hands flew to her face. She grabbed the black lace veil and ripped it off. She threw it across the room. It landed in a crumpled heap near the sofa.

She pushed herself up on trembling legs. She stumbled down the hallway, her bare feet slapping against the hardwood, and pushed open the bathroom door.

She gripped the edges of the marble sink. Her chest heaved as she forced herself to look up.

The woman in the mirror stared back. There were no burns. There was no twisted, monstrous flesh. Three years of agonizing, experimental treatments had erased every flaw. Her skin was flawless, her features striking and perfect. The absurdity of it all-the perfect face hidden away, the love wasted on a man who despised a monster of his own imagination-struck her. A raw, bitter laugh escaped her lips before her expression settled into a bitter, self-mocking smile.

He will never know, she whispered to the empty room.

She turned her back on the mirror. She walked into the kitchen and opened a drawer, shoving her copy of the divorce agreement inside. She slammed it shut.

Her phone vibrated violently against the kitchen island. The screen flashed with Annabel Huff's name.

Athena took two deep breaths, forcing her heart rate to slow down. She swiped to answer.

"Did that bastard do something again?" Annabel's voice blasted through the speaker, vibrating with immediate anger. "You sound stuffed up."

"Just a cold," Athena lied. She swallowed hard, trying to clear the thickness in her throat.

"Don't lie to me. Get dressed. We are going to Rodeo Drive tomorrow. You need retail therapy, and I need to max out a credit card."

"Okay," Athena said softly. "Tomorrow."

She hung up the phone. The apartment fell back into a suffocating silence. Athena walked over to the bar cart. She grabbed a bottle of whiskey and poured a generous amount into a crystal glass.

She lifted the glass and tipped her head back, swallowing the amber liquid in one gulp. The alcohol burned a fiery trail down her throat and settled hot in her empty stomach. Her eyes watered, but her gaze hardened into cold, absolute resolve.