The Unwanted Wife Is A Zillionaire Heiress

The private VIP lounge at the Plaza Hotel was dimly lit, smelling of expensive cigars and aged leather. Audrey sat on a plush velvet sofa. A cup of black coffee sat on the low glass table in front of her, completely cold. Next to the cup rested a massive stack of legal documents-the Carlisle family trust files Ford Ortega had just walked her through. Outside the heavy velvet curtains, the lights of Manhattan began to flicker on as dusk settled over the city. Her phone, resting on top of the legal files, suddenly vibrated. The screen lit up with Colton's name. Audrey picked up the cold coffee, took a slow sip, and swiped the screen to answer. "Audrey," Colton's voice came through the speaker. It wasn't angry this time. It was smooth, practiced, and laced with a fake, placating warmth. "Yes," Audrey replied, her voice entirely flat. "Listen, the board meeting ran incredibly late," Colton lied effortlessly. "We have a crisis with the European merger. I'm going to have to sleep at the office tonight. I won't be coming back to Long Island." Audrey traced the rim of her coffee cup with her index finger. "I see." "And Willow called me," Colton added quickly, his tone shifting to sound like a responsible father. "She said she's going to a friend's house for a sleepover tonight. So the house will be empty. Don't wait up." Audrey stared at the wall opposite her. The sheer audacity of the lie didn't even make her angry anymore. It just bored her. "Okay," Audrey said. Just one word. Colton paused. He was clearly expecting a fight, a tearful plea for him to come home, or at least a sigh of disappointment. Her total lack of emotional response seemed to throw him off balance for a fraction of a second. "Right. Goodnight then," he muttered, and abruptly ended the call. The moment the screen went black, a notification chimed. A new email had arrived in her encrypted inbox. The sender was Gage Gay, the high-end private investigator she had hired online the night before. Audrey opened the email. It contained a single, heavy ZIP file. She tapped the screen to extract the contents. A grid of high-resolution photographs populated her screen. The metadata stamped on the photos showed they had been taken just three hours ago. The location was the Wollman Rink in Central Park. Audrey clicked on the first image. It was a crystal-clear shot of Colton, Kelsey, and Willow. They were all wearing matching white and silver winter coats. She swiped to the next photo. Colton was kneeling on the rubber matting near the ice, his head bowed as he carefully tied the laces of Kelsey's white figure skates. His posture was attentive, almost reverent. She swiped again. Willow was standing a few feet away, holding up a smartphone, taking a picture of Colton and Kelsey smiling at each other. The final photo in the sequence showed the three of them walking away from the rink, heading back toward the Upper East Side. Colton was holding Kelsey's hand. Willow was holding Kelsey's other hand. They looked like a perfect, wealthy Manhattan family enjoying a winter afternoon. Audrey's face remained completely expressionless. She selected all the photos and uploaded them to three separate, secure cloud servers. She set the phone down and opened her leather briefcase. She pulled out the revised divorce agreement she had finalized that morning. This wasn't the standard document. She had added specific clauses demanding full, sole physical and legal custody of Willow, citing moral turpitude. She had also invoked the hidden fault clause from the prenup, demanding fifty percent of Colton's unvested stock options and hidden offshore accounts. She pulled a heavy Montblanc pen from her pocket. She didn't read the document again. She flipped directly to the last page. She pressed the nib of the pen against the thick paper and signed Audrey Bishop in sharp, aggressive strokes. There was no hesitation. Her hand didn't shake. She took the signed document and slid it into a thick brown manila envelope. She sealed the clasp. She stood up, gathered the Carlisle trust documents, and locked them inside the heavy steel safe hidden behind a painting in the lounge. Audrey grabbed her coat and walked out of the private room. Ford Ortega was standing in the hallway, leaning against the wall. He was wearing a sharp black suit, his dark eyes scanning her face as she approached. He pushed himself off the wall. "Is it done?" he asked, his voice low. Audrey nodded. She held out the manila envelope. "Take this," Audrey said. "Have one of your people deliver it to the Long Island estate tonight. Leave it right in the center of the kitchen island." Ford took the envelope, feeling the weight of the legal documents inside. A faint, dangerous smile touched his lips. "Consider it done," Ford said. Audrey walked past him toward the elevator. Tomorrow morning, the bomb would detonate.