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The Broken Mother's Ruthless Revenge Novel Cover

The Broken Mother's Ruthless Revenge

My little boy died on the operating table during a minor, routine surgery. That exact same night, my billionaire husband bought out the Hudson River for a massive, million-dollar fireworks show. It wasn't to mourn our child. It was to celebrate his first love's son being discharged from the hospital. When I confronted him with our son's death certificate, he sneered and accused me of hiding the boy to get his attention. He held his mistress in our home, watched her fake a panic attack, and threatened to bankrupt my family if I didn't get on my knees and apologize to her. But the most horrifying truth came from a terrified hospital nurse. My son's anesthesia was deliberately kept low during the procedure to keep his tissue viable to save the mistress's child. He was awake and in agonizing pain while his own father planned a grand celebration for another man's son. I couldn't understand how a father could be so completely heartless. How could he sacrifice his own flesh and blood just to please a woman who constantly manipulated him? Looking at the ashes on my son's favorite toy, my paralyzing grief evaporated, replaced by a cold, unyielding rage. I arranged my little boy's funeral alone in the freezing rain, left my wedding ring on the counter, and walked straight into the private hotel suite of my husband's most ruthless business rival. "Let's take him down," I said.
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Chapter 8

The elevator doors slid shut, but the look of shock on Ellwood's face was burned into Beverley's vision.

She lowered her phone and let out a long, shaky breath. It was done. The word was out.

She looked at her wrecked car. Undrivable. She pulled out her phone and called a car service. Twenty minutes later, a black sedan pulled into the garage and took her back to the penthouse.

The apartment was empty. She walked through the silent rooms one last time.

She didn't pack a bag. She didn't need the clothes. She went straight to Aiden's room.

She pulled the suitcase from the closet. She packed his dinosaur. His blanket. His photo album. Every single piece of him that remained.

She left the jewelry box on the dresser. She left the credit cards on the nightstand. She left the Stevenson diamond ring on the kitchen counter.

She picked up her phone and dialed her lawyer.

"It's done," she said, her voice calm. "Send the papers. I'm walking away with nothing."

"I'll have them drafted and couriered to his office within the hour," the lawyer replied.

Beverley hung up. She walked out of the penthouse, pulling the door shut behind her. She didn't look back.

Three hours later, in the top floor of the Stevenson Group tower, Ms. Reed knocked on Ellwood's office door.

"Sir, this was delivered by courier."

She placed a thick manila envelope on his desk.

Ellwood, his leg propped up on a stool, his cane leaning against his chair, ripped it open. He pulled out the stack of papers.

Divorce Settlement Agreement.

He flipped to the last page. Beverley's signature was at the bottom. It was clear. It was sharp. There were no smudges, no hesitations.

She wasn't asking for money. She wasn't asking for the apartment. She was walking away with nothing but her name.

Ellwood gripped the paper so hard it tore. The smirk, the confidence, the smugness—it all crumbled. A cold knot of panic formed in his stomach.

But he couldn't admit that. He couldn't admit that she had actually left.

"It's a bluff," he muttered to himself, throwing the papers onto the desk. "It's just a bigger, more expensive bluff."

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