The Unwanted Wife's Spectacular Comeback

The phone rang ten times. Corinna stood in the freezing hospital stairwell, her breath forming small white clouds in the air.

Just as she thought it would go to voicemail, a sharp click echoed through the speaker.

"Holland," Corinna said quickly. Her voice shook slightly, betraying the panic clawing at her throat.

A soft, breathy laugh came from the other end of the line.

It was not Holland.

"Well, hello," Daphne said. Her voice slid into Corinna's ear like a poisonous snake.

Corinna stopped breathing. Her fingers gripped the phone so tightly her knuckles turned stark white. Her brain went completely blank for three seconds.

"Is there something you need?" Daphne asked, using the exact tone a wife would use to speak to a telemarketer.

In the background, Corinna could hear the distinct sound of a shower running. The implication was heavy and deliberate.

Bile rose in Corinna's throat. She swallowed it down, forcing her vocal cords to work.

"Put Holland on the phone," Corinna said. Her voice was flat and cold.

"Oh, I cannot do that," Daphne sighed, sounding entirely too pleased with herself. "He is in the shower. He is completely exhausted tonight. You know how it is."

Every word was a needle driven directly under Corinna's fingernails.

A massive wave of humiliation crashed over her head. Her eyes burned with unshed tears, but she bit down on her lower lip until she tasted copper. She refused to make a single sound of weakness.

"Is this about your little allowance?" Daphne asked, her tone shifting to fake pity. "Holland mentioned you are always asking for more. Like a bottomless pit."

Corinna took a deep, shuddering breath. She pulled the phone away from her ear.

She pressed the red button and cut the call.

She let her arm drop to her side. Her legs gave out. She slid down the rough concrete wall until she hit the floor. She pulled her knees to her chest and buried her face in her arms.

A loud, piercing alarm blared from the hallway outside the stairwell.

A code blue.

Corinna's head snapped up. The sound ripped her back from the edge of a total breakdown.

She pushed herself off the floor. She wiped the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand. The despair in her eyes hardened into something sharp and dangerous.

She pushed open the stairwell door and walked back to the ICU waiting area.

Marta looked up, her eyes wide with fear.

"The funds will be in the account shortly," Corinna lied. Her voice did not shake at all.

She turned away before Marta could ask questions. She walked straight into the hospital restroom.

She turned on the faucet and used cold water to scrub the remaining makeup off her face. She looked at her reflection. The pathetic, crying woman was gone.

She reached behind her neck and unclasped the heavy pearl necklace resting on her collarbone. It was a Warner family heirloom.

She dropped it into her cheap leather clutch. It landed at the bottom like a piece of worthless trash.

Corinna walked out the front doors of the hospital. The wind had died down, leaving a bitter, biting chill in the air.

She pulled out her phone and opened a secure messaging app. She tapped on a contact named Zane.

Need a black market liquidation channel tonight, she typed.

Zane replied instantly with a single question mark.

Corinna did not explain. She shoved the phone into her pocket and stepped off the curb.

She flagged down a late-night city bus. She dropped her last few coins into the meter and walked all the way to the back row.

The bus rattled and shook as it crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. Corinna stared out the dirty window at the glowing skyline of Manhattan. Her heart was completely still. There was no pain left.

She opened the notes app on her phone. Her thumbs moved rapidly across the keyboard.

She started listing every high-value item left in the Hampton estate that legally belonged to her. Designer bags, limited-edition shoes, custom jewelry.

Every single item that Holland had given her as a reward for her obedience was now nothing more than a price tag.

An hour later, she stood in front of the massive iron gates of the Hampton estate.

She pressed her thumb against the biometric scanner. The lock clicked open with a sharp beep.

The massive house was dead silent. It felt like a tomb.

She did not turn on the lights. She walked through the dark hallway and went straight up the sweeping staircase to the master bedroom.

She pushed open the doors to her walk-in closet.

Rows upon rows of custom-made dresses hung in perfect order. They were tailored to her exact measurements, but none of them felt like hers.

She grabbed the plastic dust cover of a vintage Balenciaga gown and ripped it off. She threw the heavy dress onto the center of the king-sized bed.

She walked over to her vanity and opened the bottom drawer. She dug past the velvet jewelry pouches and pulled out a heavy, dust-covered box. It was a professional, high-end ring light and phone tripod. Holland's assistant had purchased it for her years ago, instructing her to occasionally take 'socialite lifestyle' photos to post online as window dressing for the Warner family. She had never once used it. The irony tasted bitter on her tongue as she set it up on the edge of the dresser, pointing the camera directly at the bed.

She opened a small velvet box and took out a black lace half-mask. She tied it behind her head. It covered her eyes and cheekbones, leaving only her sharp jawline and lips visible.

She took a deep breath. Her lungs filled with the stale air of the bedroom.

She opened her social media app, tapped the live stream button, and turned on the anonymous broadcast feature.

The screen lit up, casting a harsh white glow across her face.