1 After I divorced Dominic Ashford, I took the only job I could find to keep a roof over my head: a trashy, lowbudget digital soap opera called The Billionaire’s Secret Septuplets.

I didn't expect much. But on the first day of filming, Dominic’s sixyearold brother, Benny, snuck onto the set.

He spent the entire day huddled behind a prop crate, watching me with wide, unblinking eyes.

When Dominic finally called, his voice booming through Benny’s smartwatch and demanding to know where the hell he’d disappeared to, the little guy covered the speaker with a chubby hand and whispered with deadly seriousness: "I can't leave yet, Dom!

Sloane just had her babies. All seven of them!" On the other end of the line, the silence was absolute. The day I received the divorce papers, Dominic didn’t even bother to show up.

His Chief of Staff pushed the folder across the mahogany desk, informing me with a practiced, neutral expression that "Mr.

Ashford has already executed his portion of the agreement." I flipped to the final page. Dominic’s signature was a sharp, aggressive scrawl that nearly tore through the paper.

He hadn't hesitated. He’d signed with the enthusiasm of a man finally shedding a heavy winter coat in the middle of July. As I uncapped my pen, the assistant hesitated. "Ma’am, Mr.

Ashford did mention... if you have any second thoughts, this document can be shredded immediately." I didn't look up.

I pressed the nib to the paper and signed my name—Sloane Beckett—for the last time as his wife. "The marriage is over. From now on, it’s Ms. Beckett." The assistant looked stunned.

He stammered a polite acknowledgment while I turned toward the grand staircase to pack my life into two suitcases.

I was halfway through folding a silk blouse when a small, messy head of hair popped around the doorframe. Benny.

His bangs were a disaster, and his eyes were swimming with a terror that broke my heart. "Where are you going?" he whispered. "When are you coming home?" A lump formed in my throat.

I forced a smile that felt more like a fracture. "Your brother and I are living in different houses now, Benny. I won’t be staying here anymore." He was six.

To him, divorce was a word in a movie, not a wrecking ball to his world. He stepped into the room and gripped the hem of my sweater. "Are you leaving me too?

Not just Dom?" In his simple world, a family was a singular unit that breathed under one roof.

I couldn't bring myself to explain the nuances of a broken marriage, so I gave him the only truth a kid could understand. "I have to go back to work, honey.

I need to earn my own way." He stamped his foot, his face flushing red. "Don't go! Dom has so much money in his accounts. He’ll give you all of it!

Just stay!" Seeing his tearstreaked face, my resolve crumbled. I knelt, pulling him into a tight hug and kissing his forehead. "Be a good boy, Benny.

You’re going to have to grow up a little bit while I’m gone. Eat your vegetables. Don't kick the covers off at night." My own eyes were burning. I had raised this boy.

When I married Dominic three years ago, Benny was barely out of pullups.

Dominic’s parents were always tied up in international business ventures, leaving Dominic to play both father and brother. Once I moved in, Benny became my shadow.

A soft, rambling little soul who couldn't sleep without a bedtime story and a kiss on the nose.

So many nights, after I’d finally tucked him in, I’d turn around to find Dominic leaning against the doorframe.

He’d usually be fresh from a gala or a board meeting—tie loosened, top buttons undone, his dark eyes fixed on me with a quiet, possessive intensity.

He’d wait for me to step into the hall, then he’d pull me into his arms, kissing me all the way back to our master suite.

The memory vanished as the wheels of my Uber hit the gravel. I watched the Ashford estate shrink in the rearview mirror until it disappeared behind the iron gates.

I merged onto the freeway, lost in the river of traffic.

It was time to stop living in someone else’s shadow. 2 I practically had to beg my old agent, Marcus, to take a meeting with me.

He had a roster of hot new talent now, but he was loyal enough to put out feelers for my "comeback." For a week, there was nothing but dead silence. "The major studios won't even look at you for a walkon role, Sloane," Marcus said, his voice blunt but sympathetic. "They think your name is too tied to the Ashford brand, and honestly?

They think you're a hasbeen." "What about indie stuff? Streaming? I’m not picky," I countered. Marcus sighed, the sound of a man who hated giving bad news. "The market is brutal.

Investors want a sure thing.

Who’s going to gamble on an actress who hasn't worked in three years and never quite clinched the 'Alist' before she vanished into a trophy marriage?" I sat there, speechless.

It hurt, even though I’d expected it. The truth was, I had some savings—enough to maybe buy my way into a small production—but I’d been out of the game too long.

If I tried to selffund now, the sharks in this town would eat me alive. "I’ll audition for anything," I insisted. "I'll start from the bottom if I have to." Marcus rubbed his temples and pulled a stack of stapled A4 sheets from his briefcase. "Look, there's this new trend—vertical minidramas for mobile apps.

They’re cheap, they’re fast, and they’re desperate for anyone who can actually act. But the scripts..." He flipped open the top page.

The title was printed in a garish, bold font: The Billionaire’s Secret Septuplets: Please, Daddy, Not So Hard.

Marcus read the title aloud, and the air in the office seemed to freeze. After a long beat, he looked up. "Sloane, have you ever even met a person who had seven babies at once?

Do you know the physical limits of the human body?" I burst out laughing. It was so absurd, so profoundly stupid, that it broke the tension. Marcus glared at me. "You’re losing it.

You’re actually thinking about taking this? Sloane, three years ago, you were one step away from a Silver Screen Award for Best Actress.

If you do this... this circus... your reputation will be in the trash." He stopped, his eyes softening. He felt sorry for me.

But three years of being a "corporate wife" had sanded down my pride. I could even manage a selfdeprecating shrug. "My reputation is already in the trash, Marcus.

I might as well get paid to roll around in it." Before I announced my retirement to marry Dominic, the internet had already turned on me. That year, my career had been whitehot.

I was the frontrunner for the Silver Screen Award. Every tabloid was predicting I’d be the youngest woman in history to take the trophy.

My team even got a "leak" from a committee member saying my name was already being engraved on the base.

The night of the ceremony, every luxury brand in the city was clawing at my door to dress me in their finest haute couture.

But when the presenter opened the envelope, they read a different name: Isabella Rossi. That night, I became a national punchline.

The trending hashtags shifted from #SloaneWins to #SloaneTheLoser.

The brand that lent me the dress even posted a catty statement about "deserving candidates" vs. "hype." I disappeared. I let the public spit on my name.

And when I resurfaced months later to announce my marriage to Dominic Ashford, the narrative flipped again. The public loved the "Heroic Billionaire rescues Fallen Starlet" story.

They didn't care that I’d quit acting; they just wanted to see me in Dior on Dominic’s arm. But the internet has a short memory.

Now that the marriage was dead, I was just a woman with no job and a tainted history. 3 After leaving Marcus’s office, I wandered the streets, my mind looping over whether to take the septuplet script.

I stopped in front of a massive digital billboard in Times Square. Isabella Rossi’s face was glowing down at me.

She was the face of a new luxury beauty campaign, radiant and untouchable. She was the woman who had "stolen" my award three years ago.

And only two weeks ago, I had learned the sickening truth. I’d overheard Dominic on a private call.

Three years ago, the night before the awards, Dominic had used his massive financial leverage to pressure the committee.

He hadn't just influenced them—he had demanded they swap my name for Isabella’s. When I first heard it, I refused to believe it.

Why would my husband, the man who claimed to love me, sabotage my soul’s work? I did my own digging. I hired a private investigator to look into Isabella’s past.

It turned out that when she was sixteen, a driver for the Ashford family had struck her with a car. It had shattered her leg bones, ending her promising career as a prima ballerina.

To bury the scandal and "compensate" her, the Ashfords had paid her way into the best acting conservatories. They’d bought her roles. They’d bought her career.

And my Silver Screen Award? That was just another "repayment" Dominic made using my life as the currency. When the realization finally hit me, looking at him made me want to vomit.

I spent a week kicking him out of bed, refusing his touch, until he finally snapped. "What is wrong with you lately?" he’d demanded, standing at the foot of the bed.

I sat with my back to him, my heart feeling like a block of dry ice. "Maybe you should tell me what you’re hiding, Dominic." "What are you talking about?" "The award. Isabella.

You stole my life’s work and handed it to her like a party favor. You let me be the laughingstock of the industry for three years while you watched me across the dinner table.

How did you do that?" The room went silent. Dominic didn't deny it. He didn't even look guilty. He just let out a sharp, dismissive breath. "It was a piece of cheap gold, Sloane.

You’re really going to hold a grudge over a trophy?" I whipped around to face him. "If it was so cheap, why did you work so hard to steal it from me and give it to her?" He clicked on the bedside lamp.

The warm light hit the cold, hard planes of his face. He looked like a stranger. "Isabella didn't have your foundation. She needed that win to secure her career.

She can’t dance anymore, Sloane. Acting is all she has left. The Ashford family owed her.

We pay our debts." "The Ashfords owed her!" I screamed, tears finally breaking through. "So why did you pay that debt with my blood?

With my hard work?" Dominic frowned, genuinely annoyed by my "irrationality." "Your hard work? Was your name on the trophy when they opened the envelope? No.

You’re being hysterical." I felt like I’d been plunged into a freezing lake. "The committee told me I’d won, Dominic.

They told me." "And you were naive enough to believe a 'maybe'?" he snapped. "Grow up." He saw the look on my face and softened his voice, trying to "manage" me. "Sloane, let it go.

It’s ancient history. Haven't I taken care of you? The jewelry, the penthouse, the Ashford name? I gave you the best of everything." Money. That was his answer for everything.

He’d paid a twohundredmilliondollar "dowry" when we married—basically buying out my future. A horrifying thought struck me. "You married me because you felt guilty, didn't you?

This whole marriage was just another way to 'fix' the mess you made of my career." Dominic’s expression froze. He didn't say a word.

That silence told me everything I needed to know. I started laughing, the sound jagged and ugly. "You’re so noble, Dominic.

You sacrificed your own bachelorhood to play hero to the woman you ruined. Truly, a saint." I wiped my face, my voice going flat and dead. "Stop the act, Dominic. I’m done.

I want a divorce. You’re free."