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 5
Ariel grabbed her bag, her knuckles white. She tried to stand, but the adrenaline had made her muscles spasm. Her right leg buckled, and she grabbed the edge of the table to keep from falling.
The movement was clumsy. Loud.
The frosted glass partition was shoved aside.
Fielding stood there.
His face went through a kaleidoscope of expressions: Shock. Recognition. And then, a dark, thunderous anger.
"Ariel?"
The name was an accusation.
"What the hell are you doing here? Are you following me?"
Corinna appeared behind his shoulder, her eyes wide with faux-innocence. Archer loomed behind them, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Well, well," Archer drawled. "Speak of the devil and she limps in."
Ariel straightened her spine. She used the table for support, forcing herself to stand tall.
"I was just passing by," she said. Her voice was thin, but steady.
"Passing by Le Bernardin?" Fielding scoffed. "You don't even like seafood. You were spying."
"Ariel," Corinna stepped forward, reaching for Fielding's arm in a proprietary gesture. "Don't be upset. We were just catching up on old times. We didn't mean to leave you out."
Ariel looked at Corinna's hand on her husband's sleeve. Then she looked at the pink diamond on Corinna's finger.
"Old times?" Ariel asked. "Is that what you call calling me a 'Lame Duck'? Or debating whether I'm a good enough return on investment?"
Fielding stiffened. "You were listening."
"I couldn't help it," Ariel said. "You were quite loud about your... debts."
"It was a joke, Ariel," Fielding snapped, running a hand through his hair. "Archer had too much wine. You're being hypersensitive. As always."
"Hypersensitive?" Ariel let out a dry, incredulous laugh. "You sat there and let them humiliate me. You called our marriage a debt."
"Because it is!" Archer interjected. "Let's be real, sweetheart. Fielding has been carrying you for five years. He buys you clothes you don't wear, pays for a house you haunt like a ghost. You should be grateful."
Ariel turned her head slowly to look at Archer. Her eyes, usually soft and brown, were hard as flint.
"Be quiet," she said. It wasn't a scream. It was a command.
Archer blinked, taken aback.
"This doesn't concern you, Archer," Ariel said. "You're just the audience they perform for."
"Ariel!" Fielding stepped forward, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "Apologize to Archer. Now."
Ariel looked at her husband. She really looked at him.
She saw the man who had bought into the myth of her inadequacy because it suited him. If she was the "dropout," the "cripple," then he was the benevolent savior, not the man who drove a Ferrari into a wall.
"He insulted your wife," Ariel said softly. "And you want me to apologize to him?"
"He's my friend. And you are making a scene in a Michelin-star restaurant." Fielding hissed. "Look at Corinna. She's trying to be a peacemaker. Why can't you have a shred of her grace?"
Ariel looked at Corinna, who was biting her lip, looking up at Fielding with tear-filled doe eyes.
"Grace," Ariel repeated. "Is that what you call sleeping with a married man?"
The air in the restaurant seemed to vanish.
Fielding's face turned a mottled red. "That is enough. You are hysterical."
"I'm not hysterical," Ariel said. "I'm lucid. For the first time in years."
She picked up her glass of sparkling water. Fielding flinched, expecting her to throw it.
Instead, Ariel took a slow, deliberate sip. The bubbles burned her throat, waking her up.
"You're right, Fielding," she said, placing the glass down with a soft clink. "You do owe me a life."
Fielding looked at her, wary.
"But you forgot something about debts," Ariel said, meeting his eyes.
"What?"
"Debts accrue interest."
She picked up her plastic folder. She turned away from them.
"Where are you going?" Fielding demanded. "We aren't done."
"I am," Ariel said.
She started to walk away. Her limp was pronounced, her rhythm uneven-step-drag, step-drag. But she didn't stop.
Every eye in the restaurant was on her.
She felt the weight of their judgment, but for the first time, it didn't crush her. It felt like armor.
"Let her go," she heard Corinna whisper. "She's just embarrassed."
"Unbelievable," Fielding muttered. "I'll cut her card off. She'll be back by dinner."
Ariel pushed through the heavy glass doors and stepped out onto the street.
The cold air hit her face, drying the tears she hadn't realized she was shedding.
She didn't look back.
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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.