The Billionaire's Ex-Wife Is A Queen

A few days later, night fell over the city. Luxury cars lined up outside the Metropolitan Opera House in New York. The elite of the city gathered at the entrance. Crawford wore a custom tuxedo. He pushed Delphine's wheelchair through the VIP entrance. Delphine wore an incredibly expensive gown. She soaked in the flashing cameras and the envious stares of the crowd. She acted as if she were the real Mrs. Morris. Crawford seemed distracted. His eyes kept sweeping the crowd. He was looking for the woman who hadn't shown her face in days. Deep underground, in the premium dressing rooms, Holly sat in front of a bright vanity mirror. Her socialite best friend, Tess Koenig, sat next to her with a cast on her leg. Tess was begging her for help with a panicked look on her face. Tess was supposed to be the lead dancer for tonight's finale. But she fractured her ankle during rehearsal. If she didn't perform, the breach of contract fee would ruin her. Holly looked at her own reflection. She remembered the legendary identity she had buried three years ago just to marry into the Morris family. She took a deep breath. She reached out and took the obsidian half-mask from Tess's hands. Holly changed into the costume. It was a black feather dress that offered almost no coverage. It clung to her curves and radiated raw power. Up in the theater, Crawford settled Delphine into the best VIP box in the house. The show started. The first few acts were boring. Crawford leaned back in the red velvet chair, scrolling through work emails on his phone. Suddenly, all the lights in the theater went black. A single, freezing white spotlight hit the center of the stage. A wild, heavy drumbeat echoed through the speakers. The entire audience gasped. A woman wearing an obsidian mask rose slowly from the stage elevator. The name "Nyx" flashed across the giant screen behind her. Crawford casually looked up. The second his eyes hit the figure on stage, his pupils shrank to pinpricks. Holly began to move. Every single movement was packed with lethal power and pure seduction. It was the exact opposite of the quiet, obedient wife he knew. A male backup dancer named Rhys Fallon stepped onto the stage. The two of them engaged in a deeply physical, tension-filled routine. Their bodies tangled and fought. Crawford's hand tightened around his glass. His knuckles turned bone white. He stared unblinking at the familiar lines of the woman's body. He saw it. Right below her collarbone was a tiny, hidden red mole. It was the exact spot he had kissed on countless nights. A wave of jealousy and blind rage exploded in Crawford's chest like a volcano. He watched the male dancer's hands slide down Holly's waist. Crawford squeezed his crystal glass so hard it nearly shattered in his palm. Delphine noticed his dark mood. She followed his stare. Jealousy flashed in her eyes. she deliberately whispered that the dancer on stage had no shame. For the first time, Crawford did not agree with her. He stood up abruptly. He threw down a cold excuse about needing the restroom. He stormed out of the VIP box. A terrifying, murderous aura radiated from him. He headed straight for the backstage access doors. On stage, the music hit its peak. Holly executed a flawless, high-flying leap and landed perfectly. The crowd erupted into deafening applause. Holly breathed heavily. She soaked in the absolute freedom and control she had missed for years. But as she bowed, the thin string of the mask snapped. The heavy obsidian mask slipped off her face and plummeted toward the wooden floor. In a split second of pure adrenaline, Holly threw her arm up, her flowing feathered sleeve instantly covering the lower half of her face. The giant screen's close-up camera only caught a fleeting, blurred glimpse of her striking eyes before the stage lights abruptly cut to black, a planned part of the finale. The theater went dead silent for one second. Then, a massive shockwave of whispers and shouts exploded. No one could definitively confirm her identity, but the air buzzed with frantic speculation about the mysterious dancer's familiar gaze.