The Freedom Chapter2 Facebook ad: “Click to read more chapters”

About this ad

Meta Ad Library ID

1180572737504004

Platforms

Facebook and Instagram

Relaunches

0

How we count

Ad text

"Your sister is pregnant," my husband said, fixing his cufflinks. "I need you to plan the baby shower." He didn't stammer. He didn't apologize. He said it the way you'd order a coffee — flat, certain, already moving on to the next task. I stood in the doorway of our penthouse bedroom, holding the quarterly earnings report I had stayed up until 3 AM rewriting — the one that would save his company from a hostile takeover. Rowan Blackwell. CEO of Blackwell Industries. Forbes' youngest tech billionaire. The man every magazine called a genius. My husband of eight years. And the father of my younger sister's child. "Ivy?" My voice came out strange. Thin. Like a wire about to snap. "You're telling me Ivy is pregnant. With your baby." Rowan glanced at me in the mirror. His expression held the mild irritation of a man interrupted during something important. "Don't be dramatic, Nora. It happened. These things happen. What matters is how we handle it publicly." *These things happen.* Like a fender bender. Like a spilled drink at a gala. "How long?" I asked. "Does it matter?" "How. Long." He sighed, turning to face me fully. He looked handsome. He always looked handsome. That was part of the trap. "Six months. Maybe seven." Seven months. My sister had been sleeping with my husband for at least seven months, probably longer, and I had been sitting across from both of them at Sunday dinners, pouring wine, passing bread, blind and obedient. I thought about last Thanksgiving. Ivy had worn a white dress. She'd laughed at Rowan's jokes. She'd touched his arm while I was in the kitchen, carving the turkey I'd spent six hours preparing. I thought about the company retreat in Aspen. Rowan had insisted Ivy come along. *She needs a break*, he'd said. *She's been stressed.* I thought about the nights he "worked late." The locked phone. The new cologne. Every clue I had dismissed. Every instinct I had smothered because I trusted him. "The board meeting is Thursday," Rowan continued, oblivious — or indifferent — to the detonation happening inside me. "I need the Meridian presentation finalized. Can you handle that?" He was asking me to save his company while he carried my sister's baby announcement like a scheduling conflict. Let me explain something. Rowan Blackwell was not a genius. I was. The algorithm that built Blackwell Industries? I wrote it. On our kitchen table, eight years ago, while Rowan slept off a hangover from a frat party. The patent was in his name because we were married, and he said it would be "simpler" for investor optics. A tech CEO with a brilliant mind — not a tech CEO with a brilliant wife. I believed him. I wrote every major pitch deck. I ghostwrote his TED Talk. I redesigned the entire product architecture during the Series C funding round while he took credit on stage, sweating under the lights, reading my words off a teleprompter. For eight years, I was the ghost in the machine. The invisible engine behind a billion-dollar empire. And now he wanted me to plan his mistress's baby shower. "Nora?" Rowan snapped his fingers. "The Meridian presentation. Focus." I looked at the earnings report in my hand. Two hundred pages of my blood, sweat, and sleepless nights. I set it down on the dresser. "Plan your own baby shower, Rowan," I said. His eyebrows rose. In eight years, I had never refused him. "Excuse me?" "And finish your own presentation." I pulled my wedding ring off my finger. The diamond was enormous — four carats, flawless — chosen to impress investors, not to love me. "I quit." I placed the ring on top of the earnings report. "You're being hysterical," Rowan said, his voice hardening. "You'll regret this in the morning." "The only thing I regret," I said, "is that it took me eight years to read my own name off the patent." I walked out of the bedroom. I didn't pack a bag. I didn't cry. I didn't look back. Behind me, I heard Rowan pick up his phone. "Ivy? She knows. It's fine. She'll calm down. She always does." *She always does.* That was the sentence that killed the old Nora. Because this time, she wouldn't.

Where the ad sends people

novelplus.info

💖😍 Click to read more chapters👉