The Unwanted Wife's Spectacular Comeback

For the next three days, Corinna barely left Zane's studio.

Her workbench was a disaster zone of crumpled sketch paper, dull pencils, and half-empty coffee cups.

She sat hunched over the table, rubbing her temples. Every time she closed her eyes to visualize a design, the suffocating memories of the Hampton estate crept in. The cold walls, Carolee's sneers, Holland's indifferent back.

Zane walked over and physically snatched the pencil out of her hand.

"Stop," Zane said. He dropped a glossy ticket onto her sketchbook. "Brooklyn Art Fair. Go outside and breathe, or you are going to burn out before you even start."

Corinna let out a frustrated breath. She knew he was right. She grabbed her faded trench coat and walked out into the biting wind.

The art fair was packed. The noise of the crowd and the vibrant colors of the independent booths slowly loosened the tight knot in her chest.

She wandered through the aisles until she reached a small, poorly lit booth in the far corner.

Her eyes locked onto a raw, uncut stone resting on a piece of cheap velvet.

It was a black opal.

The surface was rough and dull, looking almost like a piece of dirty coal. But as Corinna shifted her weight, the overhead light caught a fracture in the stone.

Deep inside the dark core, a violent explosion of fiery red and electric blue light flashed.

Her breath hitched.

The stone was exactly like her. Buried in darkness, dismissed by everyone, but holding a blinding fire inside.

The inspiration hit her brain like a physical lightning bolt.

She pulled out her wallet, slammed all her remaining cash onto the table, and grabbed the stone. She did not even ask the vendor for a receipt. She turned and sprinted all the way back to the studio.

She burst through the door, ignoring Zane's surprised look. She threw off her coat and dropped into her chair.

She grabbed a fresh pencil. The graphite screamed against the paper as she drew frantic, aggressive lines.

The concept was "Cocoon."

She was going to use an incredibly dangerous technique. She would wrap the raw, unpolished black opal in a cage of hollowed-out gold wire. The gold had to be thin enough to look like fragile threads, but strong enough to hold the heavy stone.

It required absolute perfection. One slip of the hand, and the gold would snap.

She worked for ten hours straight. Her back screamed in agony. Her vision blurred.

As she pushed the engraving tool into the gold wire, her hand trembled slightly from exhaustion. The sharp steel blade slipped.

It sliced deep into the side of her index finger.

Blood welled up instantly, dripping onto the metal bench.

Zane rushed over with a first aid kit. "Corinna, stop! You need to rest."

"Do not touch it!" Corinna snapped. Her eyes were wild, completely consumed by the work.

She wrapped a piece of gauze tightly around her bleeding finger, picked up the tool, and kept carving. She could not feel the pain. She only felt the fire in her chest.

As the sun began to rise, casting a gray light through the window, she made the final polishing pass.

She set the tool down.

The piece was finished. The dark, rough opal was trapped inside a vicious, beautiful cage of gold thorns. But the gold could not hide the stone. Through the gaps in the cage, the fiery light of the opal burned brighter than ever.

Zane stood behind her. He sucked in a sharp breath.

"My god," Zane whispered. "This is better than anything you did at Van Cleef."

Corinna leaned back in her chair. Her muscles felt like jelly, but a deep, pure satisfaction settled in her stomach. She was back.

She took a high-resolution photo of the necklace, uploaded it to the competition portal, and hit confirm.

Across the river, in the towering glass monolith of the Warner Group headquarters, Alex sat at his desk.

He was scrolling through the preliminary submissions for the jewelry competition. Hundreds of thumbnails blurred past his tired eyes.

Suddenly, his finger stopped on the mouse.

He clicked on an image titled "Cocoon." The design was so aggressive, so breathtakingly unique, that it made him sit up straight.

He glanced down at the designer's name in the corner of the screen.

Corinna Massey.

Alex blinked hard. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. The name did not change.

His stomach dropped. He hit print, grabbed the paper from the tray, and ran toward the private elevator.

He bypassed the secretary and pushed open the heavy oak doors of the top-floor office.

Holland was sitting at the head of a long table, listening to three nervous executives give a quarterly report.

Alex ignored them. He walked straight up to Holland and placed the printed design and the registration form face up on the desk.

Holland frowned, deeply annoyed by the interruption. He waved his hand, dismissing the executives. They scrambled out of the room.

Holland looked down at the paper.

His eyes scanned the intricate gold work of the necklace. His usual expression of bored superiority vanished. His jaw tightened.

Then, he saw the name.

Holland's breath caught in his throat. He leaned forward, staring at the paper as if it were a bomb. He knew she had studied design in Paris before they married, but he had always assumed it was nothing more than resume-padding-a frivolous hobby meant to make a socialite look cultured. He had never imagined that the lines she drew possessed such terrifying power and vitality. This was absolutely not the work of an amateur. The sheer genius radiating from the page made him feel a sudden, violent loss of control. The woman he thought was a useless, money-hungry ornament had created a masterpiece. A violent wave of shock and confusion crashed through his chest.

He grabbed his desk phone and slammed his finger onto the intercom button.

"Alex," Holland's voice was a low, dangerous growl. "Find out exactly where Corinna has been and what she has been doing since she left my house. I want every detail."