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 4
The Uber smelled of pine air freshener and stale cigarettes.
Ariel sat in the back, her knees pressed together, clutching a clear plastic folder. Inside were her study guides for the DALF C1 exam-the advanced French certification she needed to finalize her enrollment.
She wore a beige trench coat over a simple white shirt and jeans. Her hair was pulled back in a low bun, and she wore thick-rimmed glasses she usually only needed for reading.
She looked like a student. A nobody.
"Traffic is bad on 5th," the driver grunted, glancing in the rearview mirror. "Accident. I gotta cut through 51st."
"That's fine," Ariel murmured, her eyes scanning the conjugation of subjonctif.
The car swerved right, the tires hitting a pothole that sent a jolt of pain through her leg. She winced but didn't complain.
The car slowed to a crawl as they turned onto West 51st Street.
They were passing Le Bernardin.
The three-Michelin-star seafood temple. Fielding's favorite place to close a deal.
Or open a wound.
Ariel glanced out the window idly. The massive glass windows were usually tinted, but the interior lights were bright enough to cast silhouettes.
And then she saw him.
He was sitting at one of the prime tables near the window, but screened by a large decorative palm.
Fielding.
He wasn't alone.
Sitting next to him, leaning in so close her shoulder brushed his chest, was Corinna. She was wearing white-a dress that looked suspiciously bridal in its cut.
Across from them sat Archer Vance, Fielding's college roommate and lifelong enabler, along with two other men Ariel recognized from the hedge fund circuit.
"Stop," Ariel said. The word was out of her mouth before she could think.
"Here?" the driver asked. "It's a no-stopping zone, lady."
"Just let me out. Please."
She fumbled with the door handle, shoving a twenty-dollar bill at the driver. It was part of the cash stack she had received from the reseller the night before-fresh, crisp bills that felt like freedom.
She wasn't going in to make a scene. Her exam center, the Alliance Française, was two blocks away. But a morbid, masochistic curiosity seized her.
She had to know.
Ariel walked into the restaurant. The maître d' stepped forward, his face composing itself into a polite mask of rejection. "Madame, do you have a reservation?"
Ariel reached into her purse and pulled out the black titanium card. She hadn't sold the jewelry yet; the reseller was coming tonight. This was still her only weapon.
She flashed the card. "I'm looking for Mr. Gardner. I'm his wife."
The maître d's eyes widened slightly. He recognized the name, if not the woman. "Of course, Mrs. Gardner. He is... right this way."
"Don't disturb him," Ariel said quickly. "I just want to surprise him. Is there a table nearby? Perhaps behind the screen?"
The maître d' hesitated, but money and status spoke louder than protocol. He led her to a small two-top tucked behind a dense arrangement of birds of paradise and frosted glass.
She was invisible to them, but she could hear everything.
Ariel sat down, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She ordered a sparkling water.
Archer's voice drifted over the partition, loud and boisterous.
"So, Fielding, where is the little Lame Duck today? Surprised she didn't track you down on the GPS."
Laughter. Cruel, sharp laughter.
Ariel gripped her water glass. Lame Duck. So that's what they called her.
"Archer, stop," Corinna's voice was sugary sweet. "Don't be mean. Ariel has a hard time getting around. It's not her fault she's... limited."
It was a defense that cut deeper than the insult.
"Limited," Archer scoffed. "She's a millstone, Fielding. A depressed, limping millstone around your neck. How long are you going to play nursemaid?"
Ariel stopped breathing. She waited. She waited for Fielding to slam his hand on the table. To defend his wife. To tell Archer to shut his mouth.
Silence stretched for three seconds.
Then Fielding spoke. His voice was calm, devoid of passion.
"She saved my life, Archer. You know that."
"So?" Archer countered. "Write her a check. Set up a trust. You don't have to stay married to a woman who brings nothing to the table. She's a dropout, for Christ's sake."
"I owe her," Fielding said. "It's a debt. I pay my debts."
A debt.
Not a wife. Not a partner. Not a lover.
An invoice that hadn't been settled.
Ariel felt the blood drain from her face. The room seemed to tilt.
"It's sad, really," Corinna sighed. "If she hadn't tried to play hero, she'd probably still be dancing. Now she just... exists."
"Let's not talk about her," Fielding said, his tone softening as he evidently turned to Corinna. "Try the caviar, Corinna. It's your favorite."
The sounds of the restaurant-the clinking cutlery, the low hum of conversation-faded into a buzzing white noise in Ariel's ears.
She looked down at her study guide. L'avenir. The future.
There was no future here. Only a past that was being cannibalized for their amusement.
Suddenly, a loud, cheerful chime rang out.
Beep-beep-beep!
Ariel froze. It was the alarm on her phone. The reminder for her exam check-in.
In the hush of the high-end dining room, it sounded like a fire alarm.
The laughter at the next table cut off instantly.
"What was that?" Fielding's voice was sharp. "Is someone there?"
Ariel fumbled with the phone, her fingers shaking so badly she dropped it onto the table. Clatter.
Footsteps. Heavy, authoritative footsteps coming around the screen.
There was nowhere to hide.
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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.