The Unwanted Wife Is A Zillionaire Heiress

The wind whipped through the rows of granite headstones, carrying a sharp bite that settled deep into Audrey Bishop's bones. She pulled the collar of her black trench coat tighter against her neck. Her fingers were stiff, the skin pale and numb from the November chill. She stood completely still, her boots sinking slightly into the damp, freezing earth of the private Long Island cemetery. She leaned down. Her knees popped in the quiet air. She placed a bouquet of pure white roses against the cold base of the headstone. Her bare fingertips traced the carved letters of the name. Cole Christian. Her chest tightened. A familiar, suffocating pressure built behind her ribs, making it hard to pull oxygen into her lungs. She swallowed hard, forcing the lump in her throat down. She straightened her back and lifted her left wrist. The metal of her watch was like ice against her skin. Three o'clock. Two full hours had passed since the time they had agreed upon. Two hours of standing in the freezing wind, staring at her dead son's name. Audrey reached into her deep coat pocket and pulled out her phone. The screen lit up, illuminating her pale face. There were no missed calls. There were no text messages. The notification center was completely blank. She took a shallow breath, her chest aching, and dialed Colton Christian's private number. She held the phone to her ear. The plastic was freezing. One ring. Two rings. Three. Four. Five. The line clicked, and the mechanical, heartless voice of the automated voicemail system filled her ear. "I am waiting for you." She spoke the words mechanically, her voice rough and dry. She pressed the end button and dropped the phone back into her pocket. A dead, brown leaf blew across the grass and landed directly on the pristine petals of the white roses. Audrey knelt again and brushed it away. Her hand lingered over the flowers for a second longer. Then, she heard it. The distinct, rhythmic crunch of tires rolling over the gravel path behind her. Audrey's heart slammed against her ribs. A sudden rush of heat flooded her frozen veins. She spun around, her eyes wide, searching the long, winding road leading to the burial site. A black car pulled up and shifted into park. Audrey's shoulders instantly dropped. The heat drained from her body, leaving her colder than before. It wasn't Colton's silver Aston Martin. It was a black Mercedes sedan. The driver's side door opened. A man stepped out into the freezing wind. He was wearing a dark, custom-tailored suit. He popped open a large black umbrella and began walking toward her. Jerry Barrera. Audrey's stomach sank. Jerry was Colton's closest friend, his right-hand man in the social circles, and supposedly, one of the few people Audrey could tolerate in her husband's world. But seeing him here, right now, made a sour taste rise in the back of her throat. Jerry walked up the gravel path, his expensive leather shoes crunching loudly. He stepped right up to Audrey and tilted the large umbrella, shielding her from the biting wind. He held out a paper cup. Steam rose from the small opening in the plastic lid. "Drink this, Audrey," Jerry said. His voice was thick with what sounded like sympathy. "You look like you're going to freeze to death." Audrey took the cup. The heat burned her numb palms, but she gripped it tightly. Her knuckles turned stark white. "Why isn't Colton here?" she asked. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through the wind. Jerry let out a long, heavy sigh. He adjusted his grip on the umbrella handle, his eyes shifting away from hers for a fraction of a second. "There was an emergency at the kindergarten," Jerry said. "Willow had a massive meltdown. Colton had to rush over there. You know how he is when it comes to her. He couldn't get away." Audrey's fingers clamped down on the paper cup. The cardboard buckled under her grip, forming a deep dent. Hot coffee sloshed against the lid. Her vision blurred for a second. The suffocating pressure in her chest turned into a sharp, stabbing pain. "An emergency," Audrey repeated. She bit down on her lower lip so hard she tasted copper. "So, a living daughter throwing a tantrum is more important than a dead son?" Jerry reached out with his free hand and patted her shoulder. The weight of his hand felt heavy and wrong. "Audrey, seeing you like this truly breaks my heart," Jerry said, his voice dropping into a register of profound, practiced empathy. "Colton... he's under an immense amount of pressure lately. The corporate merger, Willow's behavioral issues... sometimes he handles his emotions like a fool. Maybe... maybe you two just need a little space to breathe." Jerry reached into the inner pocket of his tailored suit jacket. He pulled out a crisp, white rectangular card and held it out to her. "I know a phenomenal family relationship counselor in Manhattan," Jerry lied smoothly, his eyes conveying a sickeningly fake warmth. "Call him. Talk it out. Figure out what's best for your own mental health before this destroys you." Audrey stared at the business card. The black ink seemed to blur against the white background. A wave of pure nausea rolled through her stomach. She didn't reach for it. Jerry didn't wait for her to accept it. He grabbed the edge of her trench coat and shoved the thick card deep into her pocket. "Just take the help and go, Audrey," he muttered. Audrey took a sudden, sharp step backward. She jerked her shoulder away, breaking physical contact with him. Her eyes, usually soft and accommodating, turned entirely cold. She turned her back to Jerry and looked down at the granite headstone one last time. "Mommy will come see you tomorrow," she whispered to the cold stone. She didn't look at Jerry again. She walked past him, stepping out from under the shelter of the black umbrella, and headed straight into the freezing wind toward the parking lot. Her old Volvo was parked a quarter-mile away. Jerry stood perfectly still next to the grave. He watched her retreating figure until she was just a dark speck against the gray sky. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and typed a quick text message. A cold, satisfied smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.