The Divorced Architect's Spectacular Comeback

Three days later, Crista was transferred to a regular room. She opened her eyes, staring blankly at the ceiling. Audrey sat beside her, holding her hand, her eyes red. "Crista," she whispered, her voice cracking. "The baby... the baby didn't make it." Crista didn't scream. She didn't cry. She just closed her eyes, letting a single tear trace a path down her temple. The silence was louder than any wail. A knock came at the door. Conrad's chief lawyer walked in, his expression stiff and professional. He carried a thick briefcase. He placed the divorce agreement and a property settlement list on the nightstand. "Mrs. Anderson," he said formally. "Mr. Anderson wishes to expedite the process." Audrey jumped up, reaching for the papers to tear them apart. "Get out!" she yelled. "Stop," Crista said. Her voice was weak, but it stopped Audrey in her tracks. Crista pressed the button to raise the bed. She took the document, her eyes landing on the last page. There, in Conrad's bold, sweeping handwriting, was his signature. That signature used to be a symbol of her dreams. Now, it looked like a death sentence, burning her eyes. The lawyer cleared his throat. "According to the prenuptial agreement, you will receive a minimal cash settlement. You are also bound by a strict non-disclosure agreement." A cold, mocking smile touched Crista's lips. She didn't hesitate. She picked up the pen and signed her name right next to his. The scratch of the pen on the paper was loud in the quiet room. It was the sound of a three-year marriage dying. The lawyer gathered the documents, gave a slight bow, and left. The room felt instantly colder. Audrey threw her arms around Crista, sobbing. "What are you going to do? What's going to happen now?" Crista patted her friend's back. When she pulled away, the emptiness in her eyes was gone, replaced by a sharp, steely glint. "The weak, pathetic Mrs. Anderson is dead," Crista said, her voice steady. "Crista Cherry is back." The scene shifted. Across town, in the top-floor executive office of the Anderson Group, Conrad stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the Manhattan skyline. The lawyer walked in, placing the signed divorce papers on the massive desk. Conrad looked down at Crista's neat, delicate signature. A sudden, sharp pain lanced through his chest, as if a vital organ had just been ripped out. He pushed the feeling down, turning to his assistant, Alex. His voice was cold. "Buy the Brooklyn loft she lived in before we got married. Do it quietly." Alex blinked in surprise, but he knew better than to ask questions. "Yes, sir." Conrad stared out at the gray clouds gathering over the city. He told himself it was just guilt. It was just compensation. It had nothing to do with love. Back at the hospital, Crista pulled the IV needle out of her hand. Ignoring Audrey's protests, she insisted on being discharged. "I can't stay in this room anymore, Audrey," she said, her voice eerily calm as she swung her pale legs over the edge of the bed. "I need to pack."