Chapter 1

The thermometer read 104°F. My head felt like it was splitting open, and every muscle ached. I clutched my phone, my fingers trembling as I tried to dial my husband, Matthew.

I just needed to call in sick.

But my call went straight to voicemail. Again.

I tried the office line instead. Stella, Matthew' s executive assistant, picked up on the first ring. Her voice was sickly sweet.

"Gabrielle, darling. What can I do for you?"

"Stella, I can' t come in today. I have a fever, a really high one."

A theatrical sigh came through the phone. "Oh, you poor thing. But Matthew' s on his ski trip in Aspen, you know, with Tiffany. He left me in charge. And he specifically said that the Henderson project mock-ups need to be sorted. It' s just sorting files, Gabrielle. Even with a little fever, you can handle that."

Her words were laced with condescension. The Henderson project was a multi-million dollar deal I had single-handedly saved with a brilliant last-minute design, working myself into the ER for exhaustion. Now, Stella wanted me to sort the paperwork for it.

"I can' t, Stella. I' m really sick."

"Don' t be so dramatic," she snapped, her sweet tone gone. "Matthew hates drama. Get in here, or I' ll tell him you' re refusing to work."

The line went dead.

Desperate, I tried Matthew' s cell one last time. He answered, his voice distant and annoyed, the sound of laughter and splashing water in the background.

"What is it, Gabrielle?"

"Matthew, I' m sick. I have a 104-degree fever. I told Stella I can' t come in, but she' s forcing me."

He scoffed. The sound was like a physical blow. "Stella' s in charge. It' s just a little work. Stop being so dramatic."

That was it. Eight years of this. Eight years of being treated like dirt, of being isolated and humiliated. The fever, the exhaustion, his casual cruelty-it all crashed down on me.

"Matthew," I said, my voice eerily calm. "I want a divorce."

He laughed, a cold, ugly sound. "A divorce? And who' s going to pay for your father' s medical bills? That fancy treatment isn' t cheap. Don' t forget who holds the purse strings, Gabrielle."

He hung up.

A moment later, my phone buzzed with a notification from the company' s Slack channel. It was a new poll, created by Stella Ross.

"Is Gabrielle' s divorce threat for real this time?"

The options were "Fake" and "Real."

I watched as the votes for "Fake" poured in. One after another. Matthew' s name popped up, voting "Fake." Then came the comments, a torrent of mockery from my colleagues.

"She says this every year, lol."

"Drama queen needs attention."

"Matthew should just cut her off already."

Stella added a comment: "Don' t worry, everyone. I' ll make sure she gets to work. The Henderson files won' t sort themselves!"

I stared at the screen, a bitter smile touching my lips. They thought this was a game. They thought I was the same broken woman I' d been for years.

They were wrong.

My finger hovered over the screen, then decisively tapped "Real."

Then, I typed a message into the channel for everyone to see.

"It' s real. I' ve hired a lawyer. And I quit."

I didn' t wait for the fallout. I left the channel and blocked every single number from the Scott Development company. My escape plan was already in motion. For years, Matthew had controlled me with my father' s medical bills. He paid for the expensive neurological treatment but gave me no salary. He forced me to live in the unfinished, unfurnished basement of our lavish home while he paraded a string of mistresses through the master bedroom upstairs.

My hope, my entire plan, rested on a $50,000 bonus Matthew had promised me. The bonus for saving the Henderson deal. It was the exact amount I needed for my father' s upcoming critical procedure. He had promised it would be in my account today.

With that money, I could be free.