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.
Chapters
Share
Chapter 7
"Where to, lady?" the cab driver asked. His eyes in the rearview mirror were kind, concerned.
Ariel took a shaky breath. She couldn't go to a friend's house. Corinna had infiltrated her social circle years ago, poisoning the well with whispers of Ariel's "instability."
"West 96th Street," Ariel said. "The Comfort Inn."
It was a budget chain. Anonymous. Cheap.
Her phone vibrated in her hand. It wasn't Fielding-he was blocked. It was the landline from the penthouse. Then Mrs. Higgins' cell.
He was cycling through numbers.
Ariel powered the phone off completely.
Back at Le Bernardin, Fielding downed his scotch in one gulp.
"She blocked me," he said, staring at his phone in disbelief.
Archer laughed, slapping him on the back. "Relax, man. It's a tantrum. Where is she gonna go? She has no job, no skills, and a bad leg. She'll be back before the appetizers are served at the gala tonight."
Corinna rubbed Fielding's arm. "I'm so worried about her, Fielding. What if she falls? What if she hurts herself?"
"She wants attention," Fielding said, his jaw tight. "She wants me to chase her."
He signaled the waiter for another round. "I'm not doing it this time. Let her sit in the cold for a few hours. She needs to learn gratitude."
"Exactly," Archer said. "Cut off the money. That usually brings them running."
"Jessica," Fielding barked into his phone. "Freeze the secondary Amex. Now."
He hung up, feeling a grim satisfaction. He was the provider. He held the strings.
Forty blocks north, Ariel walked into the lobby of the Comfort Inn. It smelled of industrial lemon cleaner and stale coffee.
The clerk looked at her trench coat-Burberry-and then at her lack of luggage.
"One night?" he asked.
"Three," Ariel said.
She reached into her purse. She didn't pull out the black card. She pulled out a stack of twenties-the cash she had received from the luxury reseller in the service elevator just hours ago.
"Cash deposit required," the clerk droned.
"Fine."
She got her key card. Room 304.
The room was tiny. The window looked out onto a brick wall. The carpet was a suspicious shade of brown.
But as Ariel locked the deadbolt, she felt something strange.
Safety.
She sat on the edge of the stiff mattress. Her leg was throbbing with a vengeance now. She massaged the calf muscle, wincing.
She opened her bag and pulled out the clear folder. The DALF C1 exam.
Tomorrow morning. 9:00 AM.
If she passed this, she was eligible for the student visa. If she failed, she was stuck in limbo.
She should be crying. She should be mourning her marriage.
But the tears wouldn't come.
Fielding thought she was helpless. He thought she was a "dropout." He didn't know she had spent the last two years taking online courses, listening to French podcasts while he was at "meetings," reading art history journals while he ignored her at dinner.
She wasn't a dropout. She was a sleeper agent in her own life.
She pulled out her laptop and connected to the hotel's spotty Wi-Fi. She opened a Tor browser she had installed months ago. She navigated to a forum about offshore assets. Her fingers flew across the keys, searching for exchange rates for USDT and reputable brokers in Paris. She wasn't just studying art; she was studying survival.
Fielding was likely back at the office now, or maybe taking Corinna back to her apartment to "comfort" her.
He probably thought she was sitting on a park bench, shivering, waiting for him to rescue her.
Ariel opened the study guide.
Subjonctif passé.
She began to read aloud, her accent impeccable.
"Il fallait que je sois partie."
It was necessary that I had left.
In the penthouse, Fielding sat in the living room. It was midnight.
The house was silent. Too silent.
He kept looking at the door, expecting the lock to click. Expecting the limping gait, the tear-streaked face, the apology.
Nothing.
He called the chauffeur. "Did you find her?"
"Yes, sir," the driver's voice crackled. "She's at a Comfort Inn on 96th."
Fielding let out a sharp laugh. "A Comfort Inn? Jesus. She's really committing to the bit."
"Should I pick her up, sir?"
"No," Fielding said. He loosened his tie. "Leave her. Let her spend one night on polyester sheets. She'll be begging to come home by breakfast."
He hung up.
He didn't know that Ariel had grown up sleeping on tour bus benches and shared motel rooms during dance competitions. Luxury was a habit she had acquired, not a necessity she required.
Fielding went to bed alone. He reached out to the empty side of the bed.
It was cold.
"Stubborn," he muttered to the darkness. "Just stubborn."
You may also like
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.