The night his untouchable first love called, Logan hung up right in front of me. My heart skipped a beat. For one foolish, fragile second, I let myself believe I was actually loved.

Then, without missing a beat, he slid a divorce agreement across the polished marble table. I didn't scream. I didn't cry.

I simply slipped the diamond band off my finger, setting it down with deliberate grace. "All right. I'll leave.

Don't feel guilty, Logan—I'll be fine on my own." Logan’s hand hovered in the air, caught off guard by my quiet surrender.

Ten minutes later, his executive assistant sent over a proposed settlement: the Westside estate and thirty million dollars in cash.

I looked up, my eyes rimmed with red, and shook my head softly. "I never married you for your money." A heavy silence settled over the room.

Logan stared at me for a long time before instructing his assistant to raise the figure to one hundred million.

Only then did I let a single, trembling tear fall as I signed my name on the dotted line.

The moment I stepped out the heavy iron gates of the Drake estate, I wiped my tears dry and sent a text to the next contact on my list: "I’m free." The reply came back within seconds: "Private jet is fueled and on the tarmac.

Coming to get you tonight." Logan would never understand the golden rule of highsociety survival: never hang all your hopes on a single branch.

When you’ve shaken every dollar loose from one tree, the next one is always taller. And far more expensive. ... The car sent to collect me was a midnightblack Bentley.

The chauffeur stepped out into the pouring rain, holding a massive umbrella overhead. "Miss Lockwood, Mr. King was pulled into an unexpected crossborder board meeting.

His flight won't touch down until midnight. He instructed me to take you straight to the hotel penthouse." I glanced back over my shoulder at the grand facade of the Drake mansion.

Up on the third floor, the lights in the study were still burning bright. Logan was standing by the floortoceiling glass, watching me through the gray curtain of rain.

I gave a delicate, shivering cough.

The chauffeur immediately angled the umbrella to shield me from the wind and smoothed out the plush cashmere throw waiting on the leather backseat.

It was a pictureperfect vignette. One Logan saw with absolute clarity.

Sure enough, before the Bentley had even cleared the private gated community, my phone lit up with his incoming call. "Who was the man picking you up?" I waited two beats before answering, letting the static breathe between us. "Just a private driver." "Kristin, do you take me for an idiot?" His voice was low, thick with irritation.

I dropped my tone, softening it into something fragile and worn. "Logan, we're divorced. I don't think I owe you an itinerary of whose car I get into." The line went dead silent.

After a few moments, realizing he had lost his composure, he softened his tone. "It's pouring tonight. Don't wander off. The Westside villa has already been cleaned and staffed.

Go stay there." I looked at my own reflection in the tinted window—at the artfully reddened rims of my eyes—and offered a quiet, bitter smile. "No, thank you.

It’s too close to your world. If Celeste finds out, she’ll be upset." Logan’s breath hitched. "The property is in your name.

It has nothing to do with her." "You two are going to get married," I said, pitching my voice to catch just the right note of choked heartbreak. "I won't stay stuck between you two, letting everyone in this city treat me like a punchline." Without waiting for his response, I ended the call.

Five minutes later, a ping came from his assistant, Dean. On top of the Westside estate, Logan had just transferred two luxury penthouses in Midtown directly into my portfolio.

Men are remarkably predictable. Ask for what you want, and they call you greedy.

Turn your back and walk away emptyhanded, and they panic, terrified they haven't compensated you enough. That is lesson one of the trade.

When I reached the hotel, I didn't check in right away. Instead, I ducked into a 24hour corner deli across the street and ordered a modest bowl of hot broth and radish.

Three years ago, when Logan was hospitalized with severe gastric bleeding, I had stayed by his bedside for seven days and seven nights.

He had been unable to keep anything down—except for the simple radish broth I bought him from a small shop down the block.

Afterward, whenever we had a major fallout, he would buy that exact same soup as a peace offering. I took a photo and posted it to my private social feed. No caption.

Just the damp hem of my silk dress and the utilitarian plastic chair of a latenight bodega.

Less than ten minutes later, Logan’s name flashed across my screen again. "You didn't go to the Westside?" "No." "Why are you sitting in a cheap deli in the middle of the night?" I took a slow bite, keeping my voice faint. "The hotel is too expensive.

I’m divorced now, Logan.

I need to learn how to live within my means." A harsh, disbelieving laugh escaped him. "A hundred million dollars isn't enough for you to book a suite?" "I won't touch that money," I said earnestly, hitting every emotional beat with surgical precision. "I didn't marry you for a payout, and I refuse to build my new life off your charity." The line fell into total, stunned silence.

For a moment, even I was almost moved by my own performance.

Half an hour later, Dean hurried into the deli, rain dripping from his trench coat, and placed a sleek, black titanium Centurion card on the laminate table before me. "Mr.

Drake said this card has no preset limit," Dean said, looking uneasy. "He asks that you stop punishing yourself." I stared at the black card, letting fresh tears well up along my lashes. "He always does this...

When he can’t give me what I actually need, he just throws money at me to keep me quiet." Dean shifted uncomfortably. "Miss Lockwood, Mr.

Drake is genuinely worried about you." I dabbed at my eyes with a napkin, tucked the card safely into my designer handbag, and zipped it shut. I had no respect left for Logan Drake.

But I had immense respect for an unlimited credit line. My phone vibrated in my palm.

The unassigned contact photo lit up with another message. "How much longer is he going to keep you?" I typed back: "Almost done.

Just settling a few outstanding accounts." He sent back an image: a private Gulfstream parked on a rainslicked runway, the boarding stairs already lowered into the dark.

Below it, a single line of text: "Kristin, my patience is thin." I smiled. "Three more days, darling.

Wait for me." The following morning, I returned to the Drake mansion to finish packing my things. The person who answered the front door was not the housekeeper.

Celeste stood in the foyer wearing my shearling slippers, fresh white gauze wrapped around her wrist, and Logan’s oversized white dress shirt draping past her knees.

The moment she saw me, her fingers tightened instinctively around the open collar. "Kristin... please don't misunderstand," she murmured, lowering her eyes. "Logan was terrified I might try to hurt myself again.

He insisted I stay here where he could watch me." I glanced up at the grandfather clock in the hall. It had been less than twelve hours since Logan and I signed the divorce papers.

To move in with that kind of turnaround time? If she channeled that speed into luxury auctions, she’d never miss a Birkin.

I offered her an effortless, polite smile. "The future Mrs.

Drake doesn't need to explain herself to the exwife." Celeste’s expression tightened. "Logan and I haven't officially gotten back together." "Just a matter of time," I replied smoothly.

The more poised and gracious I remained, the more suffocated she looked. I headed upstairs.

Just as I unzipped my suitcase in the master dressing room, the violent crash of shattering porcelain echoed from the floor below.

A second later, Celeste let out a piercing shriek. "Where is it?

Logan's ring... the ring he gave me is gone!" She came barging into the dressing room, throwing her hands directly onto my luggage. "You're the only outsider in this house today!

Did you take it?" I looked at her tearstreaked face and suppress a weary sigh. The playbook of the fragile martyr hasn't evolved in decades.

It’s always either a dramatic fainting spell or a convenient theft. Right on cue, heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway. Logan had just returned from headquarters.

Celeste instantly threw herself into his chest, her shoulders trembling with theatrical despair. "It was the very first gift you ever gave me, Logan...

I kept it locked in the vanity.

But the moment Kristin arrived, it vanished!" Logan’s gaze shifted toward me, his brow furrowing. "Kristin, open the suitcase." I didn't move. "You think I stole it?" "It’s just a routine check," he said, that familiar executive dominance creeping into his tone. "If it isn't in there, I will apologize to you personally." A wave of dry amusement washed over me.

Three years of marriage. He knew I was ambitious, knew I was calculated, but he should have known better than anyone that petty theft was beneath me.

I took what I wanted from men in broad daylight. Why would I ever resort to picking pockets? Still, I didn't argue.

I knelt down and unbuckled the leather straps in front of everyone. Sitting right on top of my neatly folded silk blouses was a vintage sapphire ring.

Celeste covered her mouth, gasping as tears spilled over her cheeks. "Kristin... if you liked it that much, you could have just asked me.

Why would you steal it?" The surrounding house staff quickly averted their eyes, casting uncomfortable glances at the floor.

Logan’s jaw clenched, his expression darkening with disappointment. "Kristin.

Apologize." I picked up the ring, twirled it between my fingers for two seconds, and let out a soft laugh. "All right." I turned directly to Celeste. "I'm sorry." Logan’s eyebrows shot up.

He clearly hadn't expected me to yield so easily. In the past, if I were ever falsely accused, I would have torn the house apart brick by brick to clear my name.

Now, I couldn't even be bothered to offer an explanation. I snapped the suitcase shut, extended the handle, and began walking toward the door.

As I passed Logan, his hand shot out, wrapping tightly around my wrist. "Where are you going?" I stared down at his grip. "To a place where my luggage won't be subject to random searches." His throat moved as he swallowed hard. "We’ll leave the ring matter here.

Celeste won't press charges." I nodded serenely. "Please thank her on my behalf for her extraordinary generosity." Before I reached the grand entryway, the estate butler came sprinting down the marble staircase, out of breath. "Mr.

Drake! The ring was found! It slipped into the inner pocket of the evening coat Miss Celeste wore last night!" The foyer fell into absolute, deafening silence.

The color drained instantly from Celeste’s face. Logan’s head snapped toward me, his eyes widening in shock. I didn't break my stride.

Behind me, Celeste’s frantic sobs erupted through the hall. "Logan, I swear I didn't mean to...

I just misremembered..." An hour later, Dean delivered an official equity transfer agreement to my hotel.

Logan had signed over fifteen percent of the shares in a highend luxury jewelry brand to my name. He said it was an apology.

I inked my signature across the document, snapped a crisp photo, and forwarded it directly to the next man on my roster. The reply came back with brutal brevity: "Pitiful.

That’s all you’re worth to him?" A second later, a PDF hit my inbox: an acquisition term sheet from a multinational luxury conglomerate.

The target company was the exact jewelry brand Logan had just given me a stake in. The purchase offer at the bottom was followed by nine neat zeros.

I leaned back against the plush pillows, a slow smirk spreading across my lips. Indeed. If you're going to lean on a tree, pick the tallest oak in the forest.

And if you're going to cash out, make sure you take the entire bank. Day three of the divorce fell on my birthday.

Logan had bought out the entire dining room of a Michelinstarred riverfront restaurant, insisting on celebrating my birthday one last time. I had planned to decline.

Until Dean discreetly mentioned that Logan intended to transfer full ownership of a contemporary art gallery we had coinvested in during our marriage.

The gallery cleared roughly three million a year in pure dividends. So, I slipped into the ivory silk dress Logan loved best and arrived precisely on time.

When he saw me walk into the private dining room, his gaze locked onto me, visibly stunned for a few seconds. "You look tired." I touched my cheek lightly. "I didn't sleep well." "Why?" "Different bed.

I’m not used to it yet." Logan’s eyes darkened. "Move into the Westside estate." I smiled and shook my head. "Don't be too kind to me, Logan.

If Celeste finds out, she might do something drastic again." He set his wine glass down, a flash of irritation crossing his features. "Stop bringing her up.

The night she cut her wrist, the doctor confirmed severe clinical depression.

I only agreed to the divorce to keep her stable." I looked up from my plate. "And?" Logan looked at me as if the solution were obvious. "Once she’s emotionally grounded, I will handle everything.

Kristin, this isn't the real end for us." I nearly laughed out loud.

He truly believed I would stand on the sidelines, waiting like an obedient dog until he was ready to call me back.

It seemed my threeyear performance had been even more convincing than I thought.

I cast my eyes downward, keeping my voice gentle. "And how long am I supposed to wait?" Logan reached across the table, taking my hand in his. "Six months at most.

I'll make things right." At that exact moment, the heavy oak doors of the restaurant were shoved open. Celeste stumbled in, wearing hospital scrubs and bare feet.

Her face was paperwhite, and fresh red stains were bleeding through the gauze around her wrists. "Logan... I couldn't reach your phone...

I thought you abandoned me..." Every head in the restaurant turned toward the commotion. She threw herself into Logan’s arms, weeping so hard she could barely draw breath.

Logan instinctively caught her, pulling her close against his chest.

I looked down at my hand—the one he had instantly dropped the second she walked in—and calmly picked up my glass of Pinot Noir.

Only then did Celeste seem to notice me sitting across the table. "Kristin...

I'm so sorry..." she stammered, trembling. "Is it your birthday today?" She hurriedly fumbled with her wrist, unclasping a delicate diamond tennis bracelet. "I didn't know...

I didn't prepare a gift. Please, take this for now." It was a custom piece Logan had commissioned in Paris last winter.

Engraved on the inner clasp were the intertwined initials of his and Celeste’s names. I didn't reach for it.

Tears spilled instantly down Celeste’s cheeks. "Are you... are you still angry with me?" Logan glanced at the nearby patrons who were already pulling out their phones to record, impatience hardening his features. "Kristin, she's trying to be kind." The corners of my mouth curled upward. "All right.

I’ll take it." I took the bracelet and fastened it around my wrist on the spot. "Thank you, Celeste.

May the two of you stay locked together for the next hundred years—please, for the love of God, don't ever break up and unleash yourselves onto the rest of the dating pool." A diner two tables over muffled a sudden burst of laughter.

Celeste’s face flushed an ugly shade of crimson.

Logan caught my forearm as I pushed my chair back. "Did you really have to say it like that tonight?" I pulled the gallery transfer agreement from my clutch and cleanly signed my name on the dotted line. "The asset is secured.

I won't overstay my welcome." I took my bag and walked out into the pouring rain. Logan didn't follow.

No prizes for guessing why—Celeste’s wrist was undoubtedly throbbing with manufactured agony again. I walked two wet blocks before hailing a yellow cab.

The moment the door shut behind me, my banking app pinged with a wire transfer notification: fifty million dollars.

Logan sent a text: "I'm sorry for what happened tonight." I stared at the six words, and whatever lingering desire I had to keep up the charade evaporated completely.

I forwarded the deed to the gallery, the equity contracts, and the deeds to all the transferred properties directly to my attorney. "Liquidate everything.

Bundle them together—I don't mind letting them go slightly below market." My attorney was stunned. "Miss Lockwood, are you truly cutting all ties and leaving New York?" I watched the glowing lights of the riverfront restaurant shrink into the rearview mirror. "Yes.

Clear out every last asset within three days." My phone buzzed again. A tensecond voice note landed from the unassigned contact.

A deep, smooth baritone cut through the speaker, laced with quiet, dangerous authority. "Kristin, my jet just touched down at JFK.

Tomorrow night at the Drake Charity Gala, I'm coming to claim you myself." The annual gala was held at the Grand Plaza Convention Center.

The second I stepped onto the red carpet, a swarm of society reporters surged forward with flashing lenses. "Miss Lockwood, is the divorce between you and Mr.

Drake official?" "We hear Mr. Drake is planning to announce his rekindled relationship with Celeste tonight. Are you here to win him back?" Before I could answer, the crowd parted.

Celeste entered, her arm hooked possessively through Logan’s. Dressed in an ethereal white couture gown, she looked every bit the incoming matriarch of the Drake dynasty.

Logan’s gaze caught mine, pausing on my face for a long, heavy moment.

Celeste tightened her grip on his bicep instantly. "Logan, you promised you would stay by my side all evening." Logan pulled his eyes away. "She’s only here to sign the closing paperwork." With one dismissive sentence, he downgraded me from his wife of three years to a common outsider here to collect a settlement.

I didn't care. I walked straight past them toward Dean. "Where is the final power of attorney?" Just as Dean reached into his briefcase, Celeste stepped in front of me.

Her eyes drifted down to my collarbone, and her smile vanished. "Kristin... why haven't you returned that necklace to the Drake family?" The entire ballroom seemed to drop into silence.

I looked down. Resting against my skin was an antique emerald pendant, gleaming with a deep, liquid green. It had been placed around my neck by Logan’s grandmother on her deathbed.

The old woman had held my hands with her fragile fingers, whispering that in her eyes, I was the only granddaughterinlaw she would ever recognize.

I had spent the last six months of her life sleeping in hospital armchairs, caring for her when her own family was too busy managing portfolios.

This necklace wasn't a gift from Logan.

And Celeste had no right to demand it. "This was left to me by Grandmother," I said coolly. "It has nothing to do with you." Celeste’s eyes glistened with tears on command. "Grandmother only gave it to you because she assumed you would stay Logan’s wife forever.

Now that we’re getting married, shouldn't a family heirloom be passed to the next lady of the house?" She paused, turning a wounded look toward Logan. "Forget it...

I won't ask for it.

Kristin has already taken a hundred million; what’s one more heirloom?" Muffled whispers instantly broke out among the surrounding guests. "A hundred million wasn't enough?

She’s hoarding their family heirlooms now?" "Talk about stripping a house down to the studs on the way out." "Guess the rumors were true.

A total opportunist." I held Celeste’s gaze. "If you want it, just say so.

Don't pretend you're taking the high road while your eyes are glued to my chest." Her face went pale. "I just believe what belongs to the Drakes should stay with the Drakes." "I'm not giving it to you." I turned to leave, but Celeste lunged forward, her manicured fingers wrapping around the emerald pendant. "Kristin, you're not a Drake anymore!" "Let go." "No!

This belongs to Logan's grandmother!" She gave a violent yank. The delicate platinum chain dug viciously into the soft skin of my neck.

A sharp jolt of pain shot through me, and I shoved her backward.

Celeste took the opportunity to collapse dramatically to the floor, her palm landing on a shattered champagne flute, slicing a shallow red line across her skin. "Celeste!" Logan lunged forward, gathering her into his arms.

Celeste looked up, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. "I only wanted to protect your family’s legacy...

If Kristin didn't want to part with it, she didn't have to get physical..." Logan looked up at me, his eyes colder than I had ever seen them. "Kristin.

Apologize." I pressed a hand against the stinging, bleeding scratch on my throat. "She grabbed the chain first." "You pushed her.

Everyone saw it." "Then everyone should have seen her attack me first." Logan went quiet for two agonizing seconds. "Take off the necklace and give it to Celeste.

We’ll end this here." I stared at him, wondering if I had misheard. "Grandmother gave this to me." "You're no longer Mrs.

Drake," he snapped, his voice edged with cruel impatience. "You walked away with a hundred million dollars.

Don't turn this into a cheap circus over a piece of jewelry." So that was it.

In his mind, once he threw enough money at me, every memory of the past three years was bought and paid for. The sleepless nights I spent monitoring his grandmother’s vitals.

The silent prayers I whispered in chapel pews, begging for her peace. The warmth of the old woman’s frail hands clasping mine before she drew her last breath. None of it mattered.

It was all just line items on an invoice. Celeste leaned weakly against his chest, murmuring, "Logan, don't push her... Kristin grew up without a family of her own.

Maybe she just wants something to remember your family by." That single sentence struck the rawest, most guarded wound of my childhood. I didn't hesitate.

I stepped forward and slapped her across the face. The sharp crack echoed off the high ceilings of the ballroom. Celeste gasped, clutching her reddened cheek in utter disbelief.

Logan’s face twisted in fury. "Kristin, have you lost your mind?" He seized my wrist, his grip so brutally tight I thought the bone might snap. "Apologize to Celeste.

Now." "Never." "Then leave the necklace behind and get the hell out." He turned to the security guards flanking the room. "Remove the necklace from Miss Lockwood." Two burly guards immediately stepped forward, pinning my arms behind my back.

I fought wildly, twisting to protect the emerald. "Don't touch me!" In the chaos, someone’s rough hand caught the chain and ripped it from my throat.

The antique emerald dropped to the polished floor, skittering across the marble until it rested against Celeste’s silver heels.

She bent down, picked it up, and fastened it around her own neck right before my eyes. "Thank you, Kristin, for returning what belongs to this family." Logan didn't utter a single word of protest.

Blood was trickling down my collarbone, my arms trapped in the crushing grip of two hired guards.

And in that humiliating, violent moment, I realized how profoundly pathetic I had been. I had actually loved Logan Drake once.

I had actually, for a brief, delusional heartbeat, believed he might stand by my side.

Just as the guards began dragging me toward the double doors, the heavy mahogany entrance burst open.

A voice like cracking ice sliced through the grand hall. "Who gave you permission to lay a hand on her?"