The Unwanted Wife's Spectacular Billionaire Comeback

"Smile, Edith."

Giovanni's fingers dug into the soft flesh of her upper arm, the pressure intense enough to leave a bruise. Edith forced the corners of her mouth upward, the muscles in her face aching from the strain of maintaining the illusion.

The flashbulbs were blinding, a staccato of white light that made her eyes water. They stood on the red carpet of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the pinnacle of New York's social calendar. To the world, they were the perfect couple. The formidable Giovanni Baldwin, the King of Wall Street, and his lovely, placid wife. But the world couldn't feel the bite of his fingertips through the delicate silk of her gown.

Kassandra Ayala stood just behind Giovanni's shoulder, sheltered under his arm. She caught Edith's gaze and offered a small, pitiful smile, her eyes gleaming with a mockery that only Edith could see. Kassandra, the younger sister of Giovanni's late, sainted love, Dakota, looked fragile, perfectly crafted for the part of the grieving sister, the keeper of a sacred memory.

"Edith!" A society matron in a towering feather fascinator approached, her champagne flute sloshing. "That gown is exquisite. The detailing is divine."

Edith opened her mouth to thank her, but Giovanni's voice cut through the noise like a blade.

"It's merely a costume for the role she plays," he said. His tone was light, conversational even, but the words landed like a physical blow to Edith's chest. He wasn't just talking about the gala; he was talking about her role as Mrs. Baldwin, a position he believed she had stolen.

The matron's smile faltered, her eyes darting between them in awkward confusion. A heavy silence pressed down on the small group. Edith felt the heat crawl up her neck, the shame a living thing under her skin.

Giovanni raised his own glass, catching the eye of a consortium partner across the room. "To the show," he toasted.

As he brought his arm down to clink glasses, his wrist flicked. It was a sharp, deliberate movement. The deep crimson liquid arced through the air.

The cold splash hit Edith square in the chest. The Cabernet Sauvignon soaked into the pure white silk instantly, spreading like a wound blooming across her torso, dripping down onto the skirt.

Gasps rippled through the nearby crowd. The flashbulbs went crazy, capturing the moment of her humiliation in high definition.

Giovanni pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed uselessly at the spreading stain. His eyes met hers. There was no apology there. Only a cold, sharp satisfaction.

"My apologies, darling," he said, his voice carrying to the lingering listeners. "How clumsy of me."

He didn't give her a chance to respond. His grip shifted from her arm to her wrist, his fingers wrapping around the bone like a shackle.

"She's feeling faint," Giovanni announced to the room, his tone brooking no argument. "The heat, you understand. We must go."

He pulled her through the crowd. Edith stumbled on her heels, the wet fabric clinging cold and heavy to her legs. The whispers followed them all the way to the waiting Town Car.

The drive to the Upper East Side was suffocating. The partition was up, sealing them in the back of the Rolls-Royce in a silence so thick it pressed against Edith's eardrums. She stared out the window, watching the blurred lights of Manhattan streak past. She didn't look at Giovanni. She didn't dare.

The driver glanced in the rearview mirror, his eyes catching hers for a brief second. It was a look of pity. It made Edith feel sick.

The elevator ride up to the penthouse was just as silent. The doors opened into the sprawling living room, all cold marble and sharp angles.

Giovanni shoved her. Hard.

Edith stumbled forward, her knees hitting the polished floor. The tearing sound was loud in the quiet room-the hem of her ruined gown had caught on the edge of a console table, ripping the delicate fabric.

She pushed herself up onto her hands, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps. She looked up at him, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. This was the part of the night she dreaded most, the aftermath, where the public performance ended and the private cruelty began.

Giovanni walked past her, casually unfastening his cufflinks. He didn't look at her. He walked to the grand fireplace, above which hung a life-sized portrait of a smiling, ethereal woman with eyes the color of a summer sky-Dakota.

He stared at the portrait for a long moment, his shoulders slumping almost imperceptibly.

Then he turned, his eyes landing on Edith, and the cold mask of indifference was replaced by a chilling, personal fury.

In two long strides, he was on her. His hand shot out, wrapping around her throat, not squeezing, just holding, a promise of violence. He walked her backward, forcing her down onto the cold marble floor in front of him.

"Clean it," Giovanni ordered, his voice a low growl. He gestured with his chin toward the crimson stain on her dress, and the few drops that had splattered onto the floor.

Edith stared at him, her mind reeling. He wanted her to clean the wine stain he had deliberately created, here, on her hands and knees, like a servant.

"Get off me!" she gasped, her hands clawing at his wrist.

His grip tightened, not on her throat, but on her shoulders, forcing her down. His weight was a crushing force.

"You are a stain on this family, on her memory," he hissed, his gaze flickering back to the portrait. "The least you can do is clean up your own mess."

His words were a fresh wound, deeper than the public humiliation. He didn't just hate her; he saw her as a desecration.

Alistair watched her face the entire time. His expression was blank, carved from stone.

With a shuddering breath, Edith's fight drained away. Her muscles went slack. The energy drained out of her like water from a cracked glass. Her head lolled back, her cheek pressing against the cold floor. The room began to blur at the edges, the sharp lines of the furniture softening into a haze.

Giovanni stood up. He let her collapse onto the expensive rug, a discarded doll in a ruined dress.

He looked down at her, then pulled out his handkerchief again. He meticulously wiped his own fingers, as if touching her had been a contamination, his movements precise and disgusted, as if he were cleaning up filth.

He didn't say another word. He didn't need to. The silence was filled with her degradation.

He turned and walked away. The door to his study closed with a definitive, hollow thud.

Edith lay on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. The shame of the gala, the ache in her body, and the creeping terror of his bottomless hatred swallowed her whole. She tried to move her hand, to push herself up, but her limbs wouldn't obey.

The room spun. A wave of dizziness crashed over her, pulling her down into the dark.

Just before the blackness took her, the screen of her burner phone, hidden deep within the lining of her clutch a few inches away on the rug, lit up. A notification banner slid across the lock screen.

[Anya]: Code Red. The Nightingale contract is compromised. They know about our supplier. Immediate action required.