The Unwanted Wife's Ruthless Comeback

Three weeks later, the pain had dulled to a persistent, grinding ache that Diandra had learned to compartmentalize. Dr. Finch vehemently opposed her transfer, his face grim as he reviewed her chart. "It's medically reckless," he argued, his voice sharp with anger during a heated phone call she overheard. "Her spine is still stabilizing. A transatlantic flight could cause irreparable damage." But a call from the hospital's board of directors, undoubtedly influenced by the combined might of the Farmer and Riley families, had overruled him. He signed the discharge papers under protest, his final words to her a stark warning. "Avoid any stress. I mean it, Diandra. Your body is a breath away from a catastrophic failure."

Brenda helped her into the wheelchair, tucking a heavy wool blanket over her legs. The nurse's eyes were red, and she kept clearing her throat, clearly emotional about letting her patient go.

"You have the number for the clinic in New York," Brenda said, handing Diandra a folder filled with medical records and prescriptions. "And you have my personal number. If you need anything, anything at all, you call me."

"Thank you, Brenda," Diandra said, squeezing the nurse's hand. "For everything."

She rolled herself toward the clinic's entrance, the glass doors sliding open to reveal a crisp, sunny Swiss morning. She took a deep breath of the cold air, feeling a small, fragile sense of hope. She was leaving. She was free.

A sleek, black Bentley pulled up to the curb, its paint gleaming like obsidian. The driver stepped out, a stoic man in a dark suit, and moved to open the rear door.

Before Diandra could even reach for her phone to call a cab, another man stepped out of the car. He was tall, with the same dark hair and sharp features as Holt, but where Holt's face was hard and angular, this man's was smooth and calculating. He wore a suit that probably cost more than a year's rent, and his eyes swept over her with a cold, clinical assessment.

Nathan Riley. Her brother. The warden.

"Get in," he said, his voice clipped and impatient. He didn't offer a greeting. He didn't ask how she was feeling. He just stood there, holding the door open like she was a package to be loaded.

Diandra stared at him, the fragile hope in her chest crumbling. "What are you doing here?"

"Taking you home," Nathan said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You've caused enough of a spectacle in Switzerland. It's time to clean up your mess."

He nodded to the driver, who stepped forward and took the handles of Diandra's wheelchair, steering her toward the car before she could protest. Brenda stepped back, her expression tight with disapproval, but she said nothing. This was family. This was out of her jurisdiction.

The drive to the airport was a blur of snowy peaks and tense silence. Nathan sat across from her in the spacious cabin of the private jet, his attention fixed on his tablet, his fingers flying across the screen. He didn't look at her once.

When they were in the air, he finally spoke. He tossed a manila folder onto her lap. It landed with a heavy thud.

"Read this," he commanded.

Diandra opened the folder. Inside were documents detailing a proposed merger between the Riley Group and a consortium backed by Farmer Industries. There were clauses, sub-clauses, and financial projections that made her head spin. But one name kept appearing, highlighted and annotated: Chelsi Vaughan.

"Because of your little stunt in Aspen," Nathan said, his voice dripping with contempt, "Chelsi has lost her contract as the face of the Green Earth Initiative. That contract was our 'in' with the environmental regulatory board. Without her, the merger is dead in the water."

Diandra looked up from the papers, her jaw set. "And this is my fault because...?"

"Because you couldn't even fall down a mountain without making it a public relations disaster," Nathan snapped. "The media is painting her as a homewrecker. She's toxic now. All because you couldn't keep your jealousy in check."

"I was the one who got hurt," Diandra said, her voice low and dangerous. "I was the one in a coma."

"Please," Nathan scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You're fine. You're sitting here, breathing, complaining. The only thing that's hurt is your pride, and frankly, you never had much of that to begin with."

He leaned forward, his eyes boring into hers. "You are going to fix this. You are going to make this right, for the family."

The plane touched down at Teterboro. A black SUV was waiting on the tarmac. They loaded Diandra's wheelchair into the back, and the car merged into the heavy New York traffic.

Diandra watched the city lights flash by, a sense of dread building in her stomach. This wasn't a homecoming. This was a sentencing.

The SUV didn't head toward the Riley estate in the Hamptons. Instead, it pulled up in front of the Waldorf Astoria. The entrance was swarming with photographers and reporters, the red carpet a blur of flashbulbs and sequined gowns.

"What is this?" Diandra asked, her voice tight.

Nathan's assistant appeared at her door, holding a garment bag and a makeup case. "You have forty-five minutes to get ready, Miss Riley. The St. Jude charity gala starts in an hour."

"I'm not going to a gala," Diandra said, her hands gripping the armrests of her wheelchair. "I can barely sit up."

"You are going," Nathan said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Holt is there. Chelsi is there. And you are going to walk-or roll-up to her, and you are going to apologize."

"Apologize?" Diandra repeated, the word tasting like ash in her mouth. "For what? For getting hurt? For being humiliated?"

"For being a liability," Nathan snarled. He reached out and grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her jaw, forcing her to look at him. His eyes were cold, empty, devoid of any sibling affection. "You will smile. You will be gracious. And you will tell everyone that you are sorry for the trouble you've caused. Do you understand?"

Diandra stared into his eyes, seeing the same ruthless ambition that she had seen in Holt's. These weren't brothers or husbands. They were wardens. And she was their prisoner.

She had no choice. She was injured, alone, and trapped in a foreign city with no money and no allies. If she fought now, she would lose. She had to play along. She had to survive.

"Fine," she said, her voice flat. "I understand."

Nathan released her chin, a satisfied smirk on his face. "Good. I knew you'd see reason."

He didn't see the look in her eyes as he turned away. He didn't see the cold, hard calculation that had replaced the fear. He thought he had broken her. He thought she was the same weak, compliant woman she had always been.

He was wrong. She would apologize. But it wouldn't be the apology they were expecting.