The Unwanted Wife Is A Zillionaire Heiress

The morning sun pierced through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the master bedroom, casting long shadows across the mahogany desk. Audrey closed her laptop. She had been awake all night, formatting the legal documents and compiling the evidence into secure, encrypted files. Her eyes burned slightly, but her mind was sharper than it had been in years. She picked up her phone. The digital clock read 9:00 AM. The stock market had just opened. Right now, Colton would be sitting in his glass-walled office in Manhattan, staring at Bloomberg terminals, barking orders at his traders. It was the absolute worst time to interrupt him. Audrey tapped his office extension and put the phone on speaker. The call was intercepted by a receptionist, then transferred to Elliot, his executive assistant, before finally clicking through to Colton's private line. "What is it?" Colton's voice snapped through the speaker. It was harsh, impatient, and laced with irritation. He sounded like he was reprimanding a junior analyst. Audrey didn't bother with a greeting. She kept her voice flat and professional. "We need to talk about the divorce agreement," Audrey said. A sharp, derisive scoff echoed through the phone. "Are you serious right now, Audrey?" Colton sneered. "If you're throwing another tantrum because I couldn't make it to the cemetery yesterday, save it. I told you, Willow had an emergency." "I'm not talking about the cemetery," Audrey interrupted, her tone slicing through his arrogance. "I'm talking about the legal dissolution of our marriage." There was a two-second pause on the line. The silence was heavy. Then, Colton let out an exasperated sigh. "Audrey, I don't have time to play these desperate housewife games with you," Colton said, his voice dripping with condescension. "I have a board meeting in ten minutes. Stop acting like a child. I'll be home when I'm home." Click. He hung up. Audrey stared at the phone. A slow, dark smile spread across her face. He was so incredibly predictable. He truly believed he held all the power. She picked up the phone and opened a family tracking application. It was a GPS software Colton had insisted on installing on Willow's phone for "security purposes." Audrey typed in the master password. A map of Manhattan loaded on the screen. A pulsing red dot indicated Willow's current location. The dot was not at her private school on the Upper East Side. It was stationary in Midtown Manhattan. Audrey zoomed in on the street coordinates. The dot was resting exactly on the address of Le Bernardin, one of the most exclusive, three-Michelin-star seafood restaurants in the city. Audrey minimized the app and opened Instagram. She typed 'K_Yang_Private' into the search bar. It was a locked, highly restricted burner account Kelsey used exclusively for her inner circle. Kelsey was far too calculating to flaunt her billionaire affair on a public platform. But Audrey had suspected her months ago, long before the grief had entirely clouded her judgment. She had created a fake persona-a high-end boutique personal shopper-and spent weeks subtly interacting with Kelsey's main account until the woman had finally accepted her follow request on the private page. Her latest post had been uploaded exactly five minutes ago. Audrey tapped on the photo. It was a beautifully filtered shot of a plate of delicate, imported caviar and tuna tartare. But the food wasn't the focus of the picture. In the top right corner of the frame, resting casually on the white tablecloth, was a man's forearm. The sleeve of a bespoke gray suit was pulled back just enough to reveal a watch. It was a Patek Philippe Grand Complications. Audrey recognized the scratch on the lower left side of the platinum bezel. She had bought that watch for Colton with the entirety of her first year's salary before they were married. The caption below the photo read: "A late birthday celebration. So grateful for the family that surrounds me. FamilyTime Blessed" The "board meeting." Audrey's thumb pressed the volume and power buttons simultaneously. Click. She took a screenshot of the post. She saved it directly into the encrypted folder labeled Evidence. She set the phone down and walked into her massive walk-in closet. She bypassed the pastel dresses and soft cashmere sweaters Colton preferred her to wear. She reached into the back and pulled out a razor-sharp, tailored black Saint Laurent suit. She stripped off her pajamas and dressed quickly. The structured shoulders of the blazer made her posture rigid and commanding. She pulled her hair back into a tight, severe bun, exposing the sharp angles of her cheekbones. She walked into the bathroom, picked up a tube of matte red lipstick, and applied it flawlessly. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. The sad, accommodating Mrs. Christian was gone. The woman staring back had dead, cold eyes. She grabbed her leather briefcase, shoved the printed divorce documents inside, and walked out of the bedroom. It was time to meet Ford Ortega.