The Unwanted Wife Is A Zillionaire Heiress

Audrey's back slammed hard against the cold wall of the hallway. She kept her hand clamped tightly over her mouth, her chest heaving as she dragged in silent, ragged breaths through her nose. Her legs felt like water. She wanted to run. She wanted to sprint back to the elevator and disappear. But a sick, masochistic urge forced her to stand up straight. She pushed herself off the wall and moved back to the two-inch gap in the doorway. She needed to see it all. She needed to let the reality burn away every last shred of hope she had left. She looked past the sofa, taking in the details of the living room. The cream-colored rug. The arched brass floor lamp standing in the corner. The abstract oil painting hanging directly above the marble fireplace. Audrey's breath hitched. It was an exact replica. The furniture, the layout, the color palette-it was a flawless recreation of the tiny, rundown apartment in Brooklyn she and Colton had shared during their first year of marriage, before the money, before the coldness. He hadn't just bought this woman a luxury apartment. He had rebuilt the purest, happiest memories of Audrey's life and gifted them to someone else. A single, hot tear broke free, sliding down Audrey's cheek. She let out a silent, bitter laugh. The sound of running water echoed from the open-concept kitchen inside the apartment. The faucet was turned off with a sharp squeak. A man walked out of the kitchen area. He was wearing a casual gray sweater, holding two crystal wine glasses filled with dark red wine. He turned around and handed one of the glasses to Colton. Audrey's eyes locked onto the man's face. The hallway spun. It was Jerry Barrera. The same man who, just three hours ago, had stood in the freezing cemetery, handed her a coffee, and told her to take the divorce money and leave. Jerry raised his wine glass in the air, a wide, genuine smile on his face. "Happy birthday, Kels," Jerry said warmly. He pointed to a small, wrapped box sitting on the coffee table. "I brought that custom mug you wanted from Milan. Had my assistant track it down." A high-pitched ringing sound erupted in Audrey's ears, drowning out the jazz music. Her husband. Her daughter. Her only trusted friend. It was a complete, flawless circle of betrayal. They had all known. They had all sat around this velvet sofa, drinking wine, laughing, while she sat alone in a massive, empty mansion, crying over a dead child and a dead marriage. She was the punchline to a joke she didn't even know she was part of. Inside the apartment, Kelsey suddenly stood up. "Oh, I forgot!" Kelsey said, her voice bright. "The florist said they left the morning delivery out in the hall." She slipped her feet into the slippers and started walking directly toward the front door. The ringing in Audrey's ears vanished, replaced by a massive spike of adrenaline. Pure, animalistic panic flooded her system. She spun away from the door. She didn't run toward the elevator-it would take too long to arrive. She darted to the left, toward the heavy metal door marked with a glowing red EXIT sign. She grabbed the handle and yanked it open. The metal hinges let out a sharp, high-pitched squeak. Audrey threw herself into the dark, concrete stairwell and let the heavy door swing shut behind her, catching it at the last second to prevent it from slamming. At that exact moment, the double doors of suite 507 were pulled wide open. Kelsey stepped out into the hallway. She looked left, then right. The corridor was completely empty. The only sound was the faint hum of the building's ventilation system. Kelsey frowned slightly. She looked down at the floor. Just outside her door, on the pristine cream carpet, were two small, dark puddles of melting snow, left behind by Audrey's boots. Kelsey stared at the water for a second, her brow furrowing. Then, she shrugged, bent down, and picked up a massive box of imported white roses sitting against the wall. She stepped back inside and pushed the door firmly shut until the lock clicked. Inside the stairwell, Audrey was running. Her high heels slapped against the raw concrete stairs, the sound echoing loudly in the narrow shaft. She gripped the metal railing, practically throwing herself down flight after flight. Her lungs burned, and her legs shook with every impact. She burst through the ground-floor exit door and ran straight out into the freezing Manhattan snow. She didn't stop running until she reached the open-air parking lot. She yanked open the door of her Volvo, threw herself into the driver's seat, and slammed the door shut. The silence of the car wrapped around her. Audrey gripped the steering wheel. She opened her mouth, and a raw, guttural scream tore from her throat. She screamed until her vocal cords felt like they were bleeding, hitting the steering wheel over and over again until her palms were bruised and numb.