The Unwanted Wife Demands A Divorce

The penthouse on Fifth Avenue was pitch black when Adina walked in. The only light came from the city skyline filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, geometric shadows across the marble floor. She stood in the doorway for a moment, listening to the silence. The apartment was massive, sprawling over the entire top floor, but it felt like a tomb. Every piece of furniture was perfectly placed, every surface spotless. It looked like a showroom. It didn't look like anyone lived here. She flipped the light switch. The crystal chandelier in the foyer blazed to life, harsh and unforgiving. Adina dropped her clutch on the console table and walked straight to the bar. She grabbed a bottle of premium vodka, not bothering with a glass, and took a long swallow. The alcohol burned a trail of fire down her esophagus, settling into a dull heat in her stomach. It didn't erase the image of the photo, but it numbed the edges. She pulled out her phone and dialed Dorman's number again. It rang until it rolled over to voicemail. You've reached Dorman Cannon. Leave a message. She hung up and dialed the only other number she had. "Evelyn Shaw." The voice on the other end was cool, professional, and utterly unflappable. Dorman's chief of staff was a fortress of corporate efficiency. "It's Adina," Adina said, her voice tight. "Where is my husband, Evelyn?" "Good evening, Mrs. Cannon." Evelyn's tone didn't waver. "Mr. Cannon is currently in a late-night conference regarding the European merger. He asked not to be disturbed." The lie. The same, rehearsed lie. It was like being slapped with a velvet glove. "Is he really?" Adina whispered, her grip on the phone tightening until the plastic casing creaked. "Is he in the conference room, Evelyn? Or is he at The Carlyle?" A brief pause. "Mrs. Cannon, I assure you, Mr. Cannon is occupied with company business. I can leave a message for him to call you in the morning." "Don't bother," Adina snapped, and ended the call. She threw the phone onto the white leather sofa. It bounced once and fell to the carpet with a soft thud. Her eyes drifted across the living room, landing on the mantelpiece above the gas fireplace. There was only one item sitting on the pristine white marble: a heavy, silver-framed photograph. It was their wedding photo. Adina walked toward it slowly, her footsteps echoing in the empty space. She picked up the frame, the metal cold and heavy in her hands. She stared at the image. She was wearing the Vera Wang gown, a confection of lace and silk that had taken months to fit. Her smile was stiff, her eyes hollow. And beside her stood Dorman, impeccable in his Tom Ford tuxedo, looking like he was attending a funeral rather than his wedding. He wasn't even looking at the camera. His gaze was fixed somewhere in the distance, his jaw clenched. It was a monument to a lie. A sudden, violent surge of energy ripped through Adina. She hated the photo. She hated the memory it represented. She hated the fake, smiling couple who looked like strangers. She raised the frame above her head. With every ounce of strength in her body, she hurled it at the opposite wall. The crash was deafening. The silver frame hit the marble wall and warped, the glass exploding into a thousand glittering shards that rained down onto the hardwood floor. The photo itself fluttered to the ground, landing face up on the pile of broken glass. Dorman's indifferent stare seemed to mock her from the torn paper. The sound echoed through the apartment, fading into a heavy silence. Adina stood there, her chest heaving, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. A strange, exhilarating sense of release washed over her. She stepped over the debris and walked into the study. She didn't cry. The tears had dried up somewhere on the Long Island Expressway. Now, there was only action. She opened her laptop and typed three words into the search bar: New York divorce lawyer. The results were overwhelming, but Adina's mind was surprisingly clear. She remembered a name whispered at charity galas, a name that always followed the spectacular downfall of a powerful man: Julianne Croft. She clicked the contact link and opened a new email. Her fingers flew across the keyboard. Ms. Croft, I need to schedule a consultation with you as soon as possible. I am seeking a divorce from Dorman Cannon. I have evidence of infidelity and I need to understand my options regarding the prenuptial agreement and the Ayers family assets. Sincerely, Adina Cannon. She hit send before she could second-guess herself. The whoosh of the outgoing email sounded like a gunshot. It was done. Adina stood up from the desk. She looked around the study, then walked back into the main living area, past the shattered glass on the floor. She wasn't going to spend another night in this mausoleum. She wasn't going to wait for Dorman to come home smelling like another woman. She marched into her massive walk-in closet. The lights flickered on automatically, revealing rows of designer clothes, shelves of expensive handbags, and drawers of jewelry. It was a treasure trove of luxury, and it made her sick. She grabbed a Louis Vuitton suitcase from the top shelf and threw it onto the center island. She opened her underwear drawer, grabbing only the practical things-cotton underwear, comfortable bras, socks. She bypassed the rows of Dior and Chanel, reaching instead for her plainest jeans, her favorite sweaters, the clothes she had owned before she became Mrs. Cannon. She didn't take a single thing he had bought her. Not the Birkin bags. Not the Louboutins. Not the diamonds. She zipped the bag shut. It was light. It felt like freedom.