When My Husband Killed My Pet for His Lover

The stroke of my pen against the heavy bond paper was a whisper, yet in the vaulted silence of the Kennedy Enterprises boardroom, it sounded like the release of a guillotine blade.

"Effective immediately," I said, my voice steady and cool, matching the temperature of the air-conditioned room. I slid the document across the polished mahogany table toward the Director of Procurement. He looked pale, his eyes darting from the signature to my face. "Kennedy Enterprises terminates the exclusive supplier agreement with Edwards Corporation. Initiate the penalty clauses for breach of ethical standards."

"Mrs. Edwards—I mean, Ms. Kennedy," he stammered, beads of sweat forming on his upper lip despite the chill. "This contract accounts for sixty percent of their revenue stream. Without the advance capital from this quarter… they won’t make payroll."

I stood up, smoothing the front of my charcoal blazer. My hand brushed the silver turtle pendant at my throat, the metal warming against my skin. "That sounds like a Lorenzo Edwards problem, not a Kennedy one. Freeze the joint accounts. Cancel his access to the corporate fleet. If he tries to fuel the jet, I want the card to decline."

I walked to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Manhattan skyline. Somewhere out there, Lorenzo was likely waking up in a hotel suite, or perhaps at Bonnie’s, assuming the world was still spinning on the axis he had defined. He believed power was something he was owed. He was about to learn that power is something you rent, and his lease had just expired.

An hour later, the peace of my private office was shattered.

The heavy oak doors swung open, bypassing the frantic protests of my executive assistant. Lorenzo strode in, looking impeccably groomed in a navy bespoke suit, though the tightness around his eyes betrayed his irritation. He didn't look like a man facing ruin; he looked like a man inconvenienced by a slow waiter.

"You're being childish, Iris," he announced, not even bothering with a greeting. He tossed his platinum card onto my desk. It landed with a pathetic plastic clatter. "Declined at Cartier. Do you have any idea how embarrassing that is? The sales associate actually pitied me."

I didn't look up from the quarterly reports I was reviewing. "I imagine she did."

Lorenzo planted his hands on my desk, leaning in, invading my space with the scent of expensive cologne and entitlement. "Reactivate the cards. Now. I need to pick up a replacement gift for Bonnie since you ruined the reveal last night with your hysteria. She was looking forward to that shell, and you made the whole evening about yourself."

I finally raised my eyes. I didn't see my husband anymore. I saw a stranger—a parasite I had mistaken for a partner. There was no anger in my chest, only a vast, arid desert of indifference.

"You killed a living piece of my history for a mistress who thinks 'aesthetics' is a personality trait," I said softly. "And you think I'm freezing your assets as a negotiation tactic?"

He laughed, a short, dismissive bark. "Oh, come on. It's a turtle. Stop acting like I murdered a relative. You're trying to scare me, but we both know you'll fold. You always do. You need the Edwards name to soften your image."

I reached for the intercom button on my desk, holding his gaze. "Security to the CEO's office. There is an unauthorized visitor disturbing the peace. Remove Mr. Edwards from the building."

Lorenzo’s smirk faltered. "You're joking."

"If he resists," I spoke into the receiver, never breaking eye contact with him, "call the NYPD for trespassing."

Two uniformed guards appeared in the doorway seconds later. Lorenzo straightened, his face flushing a mottled red as the reality of the humiliation began to sink in. He snatched his useless card from the desk. "You'll regret this, Iris. When you come crawling back, don't expect me to be gracious."

"I don't expect anything from you, Lorenzo," I replied, turning my chair back to the window. "Goodbye."

As the door clicked shut behind him, my phone buzzed against the glass surface of the desk. A notification from Instagram.

My stomach gave a violent lurch before I could steel myself. It was Bonnie. Of course it was.

The photo was high-definition, filtered to perfection. Bonnie was posing in what looked like her living room, wearing a silk slip dress, her hand resting possessively on the high-gloss, varnished shell of Atlas. The gold filigree Lorenzo had inlaid into the scutes caught the light, mocking me.

The caption read: *"When he turns your enemies into art. Some things are just better as decoration. #TrueLove #FosterSister #Upgrade"*

My enemy. She called my three-hundred-year-old companion an enemy.

The grief tried to claw its way up my throat, hot and choking, but I swallowed it down. I took a screenshot, my fingers moving with lethal precision.

"Victoria," I said, patching my legal counsel through on the secure line. "Did you see the post?"

"I'm looking at it now," Victoria’s voice was sharp, clipped. "She's practically doing our job for us."

"Send the screenshot to the Ethics Committee of the Stock Exchange," I ordered, my voice devoid of mercy. "And forward it to the environmental auditors. The Edwards Corporation just publicly endorsed the trophy killing of a protected species for 'art.' Let’s see how their ESG rating handles that."

I watched the stock ticker on my third monitor. Edwards Corporation (EDW) was already wobbling from the contract rumors. As I watched, the numbers flashed red, ticking down, down, down.

This wasn't just business anymore. It was an autopsy.