The Broken Ballerina's Secret Paris Escape
I traced the floral patterns on the silver candlestick, my fingertips numb from the cold of the penthouse. It was our fifth anniversary, and the Wellington steak I’d spent four hours preparing sat soggy and defeated under the dim chandelier.
Fielding finally walked in at 1:00 AM, smelling of scotch and tuberose—a scent I didn't own. When I tried to touch him, he recoiled as if my fingers were acid, then disappeared into the bathroom where I heard him moan his ex-girlfriend's name with a desperate, guttural longing.
The betrayal didn't end there. The next day, I found him at a luxury restaurant, watching him slide a massive pink diamond onto Corinna’s finger—the same ring he’d told me was a "business investment."
I stood hidden behind a frosted glass partition as his friends laughed, calling me a "lame duck" and a "depressed millstone" around his neck. Fielding didn't defend me; he calmly told them our marriage was just a "debt" he had to pay because I’d saved his life in the crash that ended my ballet career.
"She's a millstone, Fielding. How long are you going to play nursemaid?"
"I owe her. It's a debt. I pay my debts."
When I finally confronted him, he didn't show remorse. Instead, he threatened to use his power to declare me mentally unstable and freeze my grandmother’s trust fund so I’d be left "crippled and penniless" on the street.
I realized then that Fielding didn't want a wife; he wanted a martyr to ease his survivor's guilt, as long as I stayed broken and dependent. He thought he’d clipped my wings for good, but he didn't know I’d been secretly studying for the Sorbonne while he was out with his mistress.
As I put on my designer gown for the charity gala, I wasn't preparing for a party. I was liquidating my jewelry for untraceable cash and planning the ultimate exit.
He thinks I’m his prisoner, but the countdown to my final act has already begun.
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Chapter 1
The silver candlestick on the mahogany dining table was cold against Ariel's fingertips.
It was the kind of cold that seeped through the skin, past the muscle, and settled directly into the bone.
She traced the intricate floral patterns of the metal, her eyes fixed on the grandfather clock against the far wall. Her other hand, acting on a nervous muscle memory that predated her injury by decades, was busy with the linen napkin. Without looking, her fingers creased, folded, and tucked the fabric. Within seconds, a perfect, stiff-winged crane sat beside her plate. It was a habit from the hospital days-folding paper cranes for luck, for healing, for a miracle that never came.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
The rhythmic sound was a hammer against the silence of the penthouse.
One o'clock in the morning.
Ariel looked down at the Wellington steak she had spent four hours preparing. The pastry, once golden and flaky, now looked soggy and defeated under the dim chandelier light. The red wine in the decanter had likely turned to vinegar by now.
She picked up her phone for the fiftieth time.
The screen lit up, blindingly bright in the dark room.
No new messages.
Just the one she had sent six hours ago: Happy 5th Anniversary. Dinner is ready when you are.
It remained on 'Read'.
Ariel pushed herself up from the chair. A sharp, familiar bolt of electricity shot up her right leg, originating from the scarred tissue around her knee and terminating at the base of her spine.
She gritted her teeth, waiting for the spasm to pass, then limped toward the kitchen.
The garbage disposal roared to life, a mechanical beast swallowing the expensive beef, the truffle mash, and the glazed carrots. She watched the crane she had folded teeter on the edge of the table, a small white bird grounded by gravity, much like herself.
She didn't feel anger. Anger required energy, and she was running on fumes. She felt a heavy, suffocating numbness.
Beep. Whir. Click.
The sound of the biometric lock on the front door sliced through the hum of the refrigerator.
Ariel's heart slammed against her ribs. It was a violent, physical reaction-a Pavlovian response she had developed over five years.
He was home.
She wiped her hands on a dish towel, smoothing down the silk of her dress, and limped toward the foyer.
Fielding Gardner walked in, bringing a gust of winter air with him.
He looked impeccable, as always. His custom-tailored suit showed no wrinkles, his hair was perfectly coiffed, and his jawline was as sharp as the glass shards of the life she was living.
But there was a scent clinging to him.
It was faint, buried under the smell of cold wind and scotch, but Ariel caught it.
Tuberose.
It wasn't a scent he owned. It wasn't a scent she wore.
Ariel forced the corners of her mouth upward. It felt like stretching old rubber.
"Welcome home," she said softly. She reached out to take his trench coat.
Fielding side-stepped her.
It wasn't just avoidance; it was a visceral recoil. His shoulder jerked back, his muscles contracting as if her fingers were coated in hydrofluoric acid that would burn through his cashmere. He practically threw himself against the wall to evade her touch, throwing the coat onto the bench himself.
His eyes swept over the empty dining table, then landed on her face. There was no warmth in them. Only a tired resignation.
"You're still up?" He loosened his tie, pulling it from his collar with a snap. "I told you not to wait."
Ariel's hand hovered in the empty air where his coat should have been. She lowered it slowly to her side, her fingers curling into a fist to stop the trembling.
"It's our anniversary, Fielding," she whispered. "Five years."
Fielding paused. His hand stilled on the top button of his shirt.
For a second, she saw a flicker of something in his eyes-guilt? Annoyance? It was gone before she could decipher it.
"I know what day it is, Ariel," he said, his voice clipped. "I've been working. I'm exhausted."
He walked past her, his shoulder brushing against hers, hard enough to make her stumble slightly on her bad leg.
"Don't start with the pageantry," he threw over his shoulder. "I don't have the energy for your emotional needs tonight."
He headed straight for the master bedroom, his strides long and confident.
Ariel stood in the hallway. The phantom pain in her leg throbbed in time with her pulse.
Your emotional needs.
As if wanting to eat dinner with her husband on their anniversary was a pathological demand.
She took a deep breath, inhaling the lingering scent of tuberose in the hallway, and followed him.
By the time she entered the bedroom, the lights were off. Fielding was already in bed, his back to her side of the mattress. His breathing was deep and even.
Ariel changed into her nightgown in the dark. It was a slip of pale blue silk, one he had bought her three years ago. He used to say it made her look like water.
Now, she felt like she was drowning.
She climbed into bed, keeping to the very edge, afraid that if she moved too much, her broken body would offend him.
The sheets were cold.
She lay there for ten minutes, staring at the shadows dancing on the ceiling. The distance between them was only a few inches, but it felt like an ocean.
She needed to know he was there. She needed to feel something other than the ache in her bones.
Slowly, tentatively, Ariel reached out.
Her fingertips grazed the cotton of his t-shirt, resting lightly on his spine.
Fielding's muscles seized.
It was instantaneous. His body went rigid, like a steel trap snapping shut, a physiological rejection that hit Ariel harder than a slap.
He threw the duvet off and sat up, the movement violent enough to shake the mattress.
"I need a shower," he muttered, his voice thick with irritation.
He didn't look at her. He practically ran to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
Ariel lay frozen, her hand still extended on the empty sheet. The warmth he left behind was rapidly dissipating.
She heard the water turn on. The shower in the penthouse had a heavy, torrential flow.
Usually, she would just roll over and cry herself to sleep. But tonight, something pulled at her. Maybe it was the tuberose. Maybe it was the way he had flinched.
She swung her legs out of bed. The carpet was plush under her feet, silencing her uneven gait.
She walked to the bathroom door. It wasn't fully latched; a sliver of golden light spilled onto the floor.
Inside, the water hammered against the tiles.
And then she heard it.
A sound that wasn't the water.
It was a low, guttural groan. The sound of a man in the throes of pleasure.
Ariel's face burned. Guilt washed over her. He was relieving himself. He was stressed, and she had been pressuring him, and now he had to take care of his own needs because he couldn't bear to touch her.
She felt sick with shame. She raised her hand to knock, to apologize, to offer him a towel-anything to be a good wife.
"Corinna..."
The name was a whisper, hoarse and desperate, but it cut through the noise of the shower like a serrated knife.
Ariel stopped breathing. The air in her lungs turned to solid ice.
"Corinna... god, Corinna..."
Fielding's voice was laced with a longing so raw, so painful, that it vibrated through the wood of the door.
Ariel's hand fell from the doorframe.
She staggered back. Her bad leg gave way, and she collapsed onto the thick carpet.
The thud was muffled by the wool, silent to the man moaning another woman's name ten feet away.
It wasn't PTSD. It wasn't stress. It wasn't the scars on her leg that repulsed him.
He was in love. Just not with her.
Ariel sat on the floor, her arms wrapped around her chest, trying to hold her shattering heart inside her ribcage. The sounds from the bathroom stopped. The water turned off.
She scrambled to her feet, adrenaline masking the pain in her knee, and practically crawled back into bed.
She pulled the duvet up to her chin, her teeth chattering violently.
When Fielding came out, drying his hair with a towel, she was motionless. Her eyes were closed, feigning sleep, but under her eyelids, the tears were burning hot tracks into the pillow.
He didn't check on her. He got back into bed, sighed contentedly, and fell asleep within minutes.
Ariel opened her eyes in the dark. The tears had stopped.
The sorrow was draining out of her, replaced by a cold, hollow clarity.
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8.4
For three years, she was the gentle, obedient wife to a man whose heart never thawed.
Their marriage was a lopsided bargain, sealed by her brother's injury.
Millie clung to hope that her devotion would win him over, only to discover someone else already held his heart.
On their anniversary, she waited alone in the freezing mountains, while he celebrated with another woman.
Without complaint, she packed up and signed the divorce papers.
Everyone believed Darren never loved her, so divorce was certain.
But time passed, and instead, he pleaded, "Sweetheart, can we not get divorced?"
8.4
After her eleventh miscarriage, Clara Fulton became pregnant again. To protect the pregnancy, she lay in a hospital bed day after day, enduring injection after injection, waiting for the special drug meant to save her child.
Then she discovered the truth. Her husband of eight years, Ethan Grayson, had already given that one dose of the special drug to his newly pregnant mistress.
Clara wiped the tears from her face and made a ruthless decision, ending the pregnancy she had fought so desperately to keep.
She no longer wanted a man who wavered between women. But anyone who betrayed sincerity would have to pay a price.
She took out a phone she had never once used and dialed the only number saved on it.
"You wanted me to acknowledge you as my father, didn't you? Come pick me up in a week. I'll take your seat."
She had no idea that after she left, Ethan would kneel before every god he could think of, praying for nothing but her return.
8.4
I was drugged and sent to a hotel room to be compromised, but I ended up in the presidential suite with a stranger.
I didn't know the man I clung to in my hallucinogenic haze was my own husband, Devaughn Winters, a man I hadn't spoken to in a year.
When I woke up the next morning, the terror of what I’d done hit me like a physical blow. I fled, leaving behind nothing but a shredded dress and a lingering sense of dread.
I thought I’d finally escaped the cold, suffocating contract of our marriage when I signed the divorce papers, but I was wrong.
My mother-in-law arrived at my apartment, freezing my sick mother’s medical funds and threatening to ruin me for the "infidelity" she claimed I’d committed.
She dragged my secrets into the light, leaving me with no choice but to fight back with a knife in my hand and a 911 call on speaker.
But just as I thought I was free, the man I’d spent the night with—the man who was supposed to be my stranger—tore up our divorce papers and declared that I was his to keep.
I was a pawn in a game I didn't understand, trapped between a ruthless father who wanted to sell me for corporate secrets and a husband who demanded I belong to him in life and in death.
How did he not know who I was that night, and why is he suddenly claiming me as his own?
I’m done being a victim, and if he thinks he can own me, he’s about to find out exactly what happens when a cornered woman decides to burn it all down.
7.9
I woke up in a burning warehouse, twelve years after my supposed death. My body had been reset to its physical prime, the deep burn scar on my wrist completely gone.
Through the smoke, my eldest son, Kennard, rushed blindly into the flames. He was screaming the name of the very woman who had orchestrated this trap—Brittnie.
When I tackled him out of the way of a falling steel beam, he didn't recognize my youthful face. Instead, he pinned me to the concrete and nearly crushed my windpipe.
"How much did she pay you to carve up your face to look like a dead woman?"
He hissed the words at me, treating me like a sick corporate spy. For a decade, a bizarre narrative "script" had brainwashed my son, forcing him into pathetic devotion to Brittnie. She had drained his wealth, turned my daughter against him, and hollowed out our family empire.
Whenever Kennard tried to resist her, the mind control punished him with agonizing migraines, driving him to smash his own hands against the wall just to cope with the pain.
Hearing him quietly sobbing outside my locked door, my heart shattered. How could this invisible force torture my brilliant son and turn my family into puppets for a D-list actress?
I dragged him to the hospital for a DNA test.
When the results confirmed my maternity at 99.999%, the cold billionaire collapsed to the floor, weeping in my arms like a lost child.
I wiped his tears and smiled ruthlessly. It was time to take back my empire and burn Brittnie's life to the ground.
7.7
Remi Puth had been married to Lacy Web for seven years, and raising their five-years son, Ian, with all her heart.
But despite everything, Ian choses another woman as his new mother, and Lacy was also having an affair with the same woman behind her back.
Remi had never imagined both Lacy and Ian would chose another woman over her one day. She asked for a divorce and even gave up custody of Ian before walking away with grace.
Years later, she has transformed into a confident woman. Now, both Lacy and Ian are drowning in regret, desperately chasing after her-but by that time, it's already too late.
7.9
Emily Parker has a simple life plan: write her steamy romance novels, collect her royalties, sleep whenever she wants, and avoid anything that sounds like responsibility.
Marriage? Absolutely not.
But when her aunt threatens to drag her back to the countryside and marry her off the traditional way, Emily makes a desperate promise-she'll find a husband in three months.
There's just one problem.
She's single. She hates dating. And she's far too lazy to fall in love.
So she does what any rational, comfort-loving woman would do-she signs up for a contract marriage. Temporary husband. Minimal effort. Clean divorce. Peace restored.
Except the man who accepts her proposal isn't just some convenient stranger.
He's Adrian Vale. Thirty-one. Devastatingly calm. CEO of a global empire.
And he remembers her.
Emily may have lost her childhood memories in the accident that killed their parents-but Adrian never forgot a single detail. Not the night that changed everything. Not the little girl who once held his hand. Not the name she would one day unknowingly choose as her pen name: Vale.
To her, it was just a contract.
To him, it was fate.
As secrets from the past begin to surface and the truth behind their shared tragedy threatens to tear them apart, Emily must decide whether to keep running from responsibility... or finally choose the man who has loved her long before she could remember him.
She wanted a temporary husband.
He's been waiting for her his entire life.