The Unwanted Wife: No Longer His Shield

Aryanna rolled down the window of the Maybach just an inch. The freezing Manhattan rain immediately whipped against her face, the icy droplets splashing onto the leather of her Birkin bag. She didn't blink. She couldn't. Her eyes were locked on the floor-to-ceiling windows of Le Coucou across the street. Inside the warmly lit restaurant, her husband of two years, Branden Montgomery, was standing up. He shrugged off his custom-tailored suit jacket. With a movement so natural it made Aryanna's stomach violently drop, he draped the expensive fabric over the shoulders of the blonde woman sitting across from him. Kaylen. Kaylen looked up at him, offering a fragile, trembling smile. Branden reached out. His large hand, the same hand that wore their platinum wedding band, gently tucked a stray strand of blonde hair behind Kaylen's ear. A sharp pain radiated from Aryanna's chest, traveling down her arms until her fingertips went completely numb. Her lungs forgot how to work. She had to open her mouth, gasping for the cold, damp air filling the car just to keep from passing out. Her hands shook violently as she unlocked her phone. She dialed Branden's private number, her eyes never leaving the man in the restaurant. The phone rang. Once. Twice. Five times. Finally, the line clicked open. "What." Branden's deep, cold voice filled her ear. The heavy irritation in his tone was impossible to miss. Aryanna dug her manicured nails into her palm, using the physical sting to keep her voice perfectly steady. "Are you coming back to the Central Park penthouse tonight?" she asked. Across the street, she watched Branden glance down at Kaylen. "No," Branden said flatly into the phone. "The merger requires an all-night board meeting. Don't wait up." He hung up. Just like that. The dial tone buzzed in Aryanna's ear. Her vision blurred, the streetlights smearing into ugly yellow streaks. The "old money emotional detachment" she had tried so hard to understand for two years was nothing but a sick joke. He wasn't detached. He just saved his warmth for someone else. A sudden, violent wave of anger crashed over her, entirely swallowing the grief. She hurled her phone at the passenger seat. It bounced off the leather with a dull thud. "Drive," Aryanna ordered her chauffeur, her voice hard. "Find the nearest CVS. Now." The Maybach's tires screeched against the wet asphalt as the driver hit the gas. Minutes later, Aryanna pushed through the glass doors of the pharmacy. Her red-soled Louboutins clicked sharply against the cheap linoleum floor. She ignored the wide-eyed stares of the late-night cashier and marched straight to the family planning aisle. She grabbed the largest box of Trojan Magnums on the shelf. She didn't stop there. She grabbed three boxes of premium personal lubricant and slammed them onto the checkout counter. Back in the car, she ripped a piece of heavy, cream-colored stationery from her bag. The Montgomery family crest was embossed at the top. She pulled the cap off her Tom Ford lipstick. Using the blood-red wax, she scrawled a message across the expensive paper. A little something extra for your all-night merger. Don't make a bastard that tanks the group's stock price. She shoved the condoms, the lube, and the note into a brown paper bag. She used her phone to order an expedited Manhattan courier. Ten minutes later, she rolled down the window and handed the package to a guy on a motorcycle. Watching the taillights of the courier disappear into the rain, a sick, vindictive thrill washed over her skin. "Take me home," she told the driver. By 1:00 AM, Aryanna was sitting alone in the massive, silent living room of the Central Park penthouse. A half-empty glass of neat whiskey sat on the table in front of her. The antique clock on the wall ticked. Then, the private elevator chimed. Aryanna stood up instantly, her muscles tense, ready for Branden to storm in and scream at her. The silver doors slid open. It wasn't Branden. It was Reid Holloway, Branden's chief executive assistant. Reid wouldn't meet her eyes. He looked incredibly uncomfortable as he stepped into the penthouse, clutching his leather briefcase. He pulled out a crisp white envelope and held it out to her. Aryanna's face turned into a mask of ice. She snatched the envelope and ripped it open. A blank Chase Bank check fluttered out. It was signed by Branden. "Mr. Montgomery's exact words, ma'am," Reid said, his voice tight. "He said to take the money, go to Fifth Avenue, and buy something that will keep you quiet. He told me to tell you to stop playing these cheap games." The humiliation hit Aryanna like a physical slap to the face. Her nails dug so deeply into her palms that the skin nearly broke. She stared at the blank check. It represented limitless wealth, yet it was the coldest thing she had ever touched. A single tear broke free, dropping straight onto Branden's bold signature. She didn't scream. She didn't yell. Aryanna grabbed the check with both hands and ripped it straight down the middle. Reid's eyes went wide. She stacked the pieces and tore them again. And again. Until the blank check was nothing but confetti. She opened her hands, letting the shredded paper snow down onto the priceless Persian rug. Reid was speechless. The wife who was famous for loving money had just destroyed a blank check. Aryanna pointed a shaking finger at the elevator. "Get out of my apartment," she whispered, her voice laced with pure venom. "Now." Reid didn't hesitate. He practically ran back into the elevator. The doors closed. Aryanna collapsed onto the velvet sofa. She stared at the torn paper on the floor. For the first time in two years, the words terminate the marriage flashed in her mind. Before she could process the thought, her phone vibrated violently against the glass coffee table. The screen lit up. It was an emergency call from her adoptive father, Damian Garza.