You Cannot Afford Your Divorced Wife Now

The first thing Adeline registered was pain. A sharp, tearing sensation deep in her abdomen that pulsed with every shallow breath she took. The antiseptic smell of the room burned her nostrils. Her eyes fluttered open. The ceiling was a familiar, sterile white. The medical wing of the Castillo estate. Then came the second thought, an instinct so powerful it eclipsed the pain. Isabell. She turned her head, a wave of dizziness washing over her. The bassinet beside her bed was empty. The soft pink blanket was folded neatly, untouched. A cold dread, colder than the sweat on her skin, seeped into her bones. "Isabell?" Her voice was a dry rasp. She tried to push herself up, but the fire in her core erupted. A strangled cry escaped her lips as she fell back against the pillows, her muscles screaming in protest. The stitches felt like they were ripping apart. "Don't waste your energy, Adeline." The voice was Jeremey's. It came from the foot of the bed, flat and devoid of warmth. It was the voice he used in boardrooms, not in the room where his wife had just given birth to their daughter. Adeline's vision cleared. He stood there, immaculate in a dark suit, his face a mask of indifference. Behind him, clutching his arm, was Hayden Figueroa. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her expression a perfect portrait of fragile sorrow. "Jeremey? Where's Isabell? Is she okay?" Panic clawed at her throat. He didn't answer. Instead, he tossed a sheaf of papers onto the bed beside her. They slid across the silk duvet and stopped against her leg. Divorce Agreement. Petition for Sole Custody. The words swam before her eyes, nonsensical. This had to be a nightmare. A postpartum hallucination. "I don't understand," she whispered, her gaze flicking from the papers to his cold, unreadable eyes. "It's simple," he said. "You're leaving. And she's staying." Hayden let out a soft sob, burying her face in Jeremey's shoulder. "Jeremey, please, don't be so harsh. Maybe she didn't mean to do it." "Do what?" Adeline's voice trembled. She looked at Hayden, then back at her husband. "What did I do?" A cruel smile touched Jeremey's lips. "You know what you did. You couldn't stand the thought of me caring for anyone else. So you took away Hayden's future." He gestured to Hayden. "Because of the 'herbal supplements' you put in her tea, she can never have children. The doctors confirmed it. Permanent damage." The accusation was so absurd, so monstrous, that Adeline could only stare. "No. I would never... I didn't do that." "Your jealousy has destroyed her life," Jeremey continued, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone. He leaned forward, his hands braced on the mattress on either side of her. "So now, her life will be dedicated to protecting your daughter. A daughter you don't deserve. It's what you owe her." Adeline shook her head, tears finally breaking free, hot against her cold skin. "It's a lie. Jeremey, you have to believe me. It's a lie!" He ignored her, straightening up. He flipped open a leather-bound folder. It was their prenuptial agreement. He tapped a specific clause. "Article seven, section B. 'Should either party be convicted of a felony, or cause grievous, verifiable bodily harm to a family member or their designated associate'-in this case, Hayden-'they shall forfeit all claims to marital assets and waive all parental rights to any children of the marriage.'" A trap. It had always been a trap. Every smile, every shared meal, every moment had been leading to this. "I'm not signing it," she said, a spark of defiance flickering in the abyss of her despair. Jeremey didn't even blink. He nodded to his assistant, Miles, who stood silently by the door. Miles stepped forward and held up a tablet. He pressed play. The screen showed security footage from the conservatory, dated two weeks ago. It showed Adeline, her back mostly to the camera, pouring tea for Hayden. The angle was poor, the quality grainy, but it clearly showed her tipping a small vial into Hayden's cup before serving it. It was edited, manipulated, a perfect lie constructed to look like the truth. "If you don't sign," Jeremey said, his voice like ice, "this video and Hayden's official medical report go to the District Attorney. I'll press charges for aggravated assault. I'll drag your name through the mud until everyone in this country believes you are a monster. I will make sure you never see your daughter again, and she will grow up knowing her mother is a convicted felon." The fight drained out of her. Not for her own reputation. For Isabell. She couldn't let her daughter live with that shadow. Her last ounce of strength evaporated, leaving a hollow, aching void. Jeremey produced a cold, heavy Montblanc pen and pressed it into her trembling hand. The metal was frigid against her skin. A single tear fell from her eye and landed on the signature line, blurring the ink. Her hand moved, clumsy and weak. She wrote her name. Adeline Garrett. Each letter was a cut, severing a piece of her soul. The moment the signature was complete, she felt a profound emptiness, as if her life force had been siphoned out of her. Jeremey plucked the documents from the bed. He didn't give her a second glance. He turned, wrapped a protective arm around Hayden, and walked out of the room. As they reached the door, Hayden looked back over her shoulder. Her face, hidden from Jeremey, was no longer tear-streaked and sorrowful. It was a mask of pure, triumphant malice. A victor's smile. Then they were gone. Two large bodyguards stepped into the room. "You have ten minutes to gather your personal belongings, ma'am," one of them said, his voice impersonal. They watched as she slid weakly from the bed, each movement sending a fresh wave of agony through her abdomen. She gritted her teeth, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the mattress for support. The pain was a dull, constant throb. She was forbidden from taking anything that belonged to the Castillo family. That included the hospital gown she was wearing. She pulled on the simple dress and worn flats she had arrived in what felt like a lifetime ago. They felt like a costume from a different person's life. She was escorted out of the house, past the family photos on the walls, past the rooms filled with five years of memories that now felt like poison. A black car drove her to JFK International Airport. Miles Proctor got out of the driver's seat and handed her a thin envelope. Inside was a one-way, economy class ticket to a small, insignificant town in the Midwest. "Mr. Castillo has had all your joint assets frozen, per the prenuptial agreement," Miles said, his tone flat. "This is his final act of mercy." He got back in the car and drove away, leaving her on the curb of the bustling commercial terminal. Adeline stood there, the noise of the airport a distant hum. The tears were gone. Her face was a blank, emotionless mask. She looked at the ticket in her hand, then let it slip from her fingers. It fluttered to the grimy pavement. She did not walk into the terminal. Instead, she turned and walked, her steps measured and deliberate, a stark contrast to the fire screaming in her core. She kept one hand pressed against her side, a futile attempt to hold herself together as she made her way not toward a distant service road, but to a discreet private car park near the medical wing's service exit. A black Maybach purred to a stop beside her. The driver got out, bowed his head respectfully, and held the door open. Once inside the sanctuary of the leather interior, he handed her a small, encrypted satellite phone. She dialed a number from memory. The call connected on the first ring. "It's ready," she said, her voice steady and cold. The car didn't head for the commercial terminals. It drove her not to a gate, but to a private hangar on the far side of the airfield. Inside, gleaming under the hangar lights, a Gulfstream G650 sat waiting. Its engines were already whining, ready for departure. Ready to take its owner home.