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The day his mistress went into labor, he posted TWELVE bodyguards outside the delivery room. "Paige shows up? Block her. Don't let her through." I didn't show. I was thirty thousand feet up, first class, watching his company's stock crater. Core clients—gone. My shares—liquidated. That paternity test—delivered. He'd locked the door. Too bad I'd already bu//rned the house down. Oops~ The hospital corridor stank of disinfectant. Holden stood outside the OR. Suit jacket hanging loose. Tie pulled crooked. Twelve bodyguards in black positioned along both walls. Standing like statues. "Mr. Ashford, we're set. Three at each elevator—east and west. Two at the stairwell. Two at the garage entrance. Two at the VIP corridor." The speaker was Jim—head of security. Mid-forties. Scar across his throat. Holden gave a slight nod. Voice low. "She shows up, don't be nice. Block her. Don't let her within ten feet of this room." Jim hesitated. "Mr. Ashford, Mrs. Ashford—" Holden turned. Eyes cold. He reached for the cigars in his pocket. Thought better of it. Shoved them back. Can't sm0ke near delivery rooms. "You know her temper." Holden pinched the bridge of his nose. "Last time—company gala. Three hundred people watching. She slapped Sophia across the face. Nearly tore the whole place apart. Today Sophia's having the baby. If she storms in—" He didn't finish. The OR door cracked open. A nurse poked her head out. "Family?" "That's me." Holden stepped forward. The hardness in his face softened. "Mother's doing fine. About an hour left." One hour. In one hour, he'd be a father. He sat down in a chair at the end of the corridor. Crossed his legs. Mentally ran through the next steps—where Sophia would live after discharge. How many nannies to hire. The baby's name he'd already picked out. As for Paige... His lawyer had drafted the divorce papers last week. She'd walk away with nothing. Not a dime. Five years as an Ashford. Five years living in luxury she never earned. She was a bank//rupt merchant's daughter. Without him, she'd still be in some cramped rental. Not a penthouse overlooking the river. His phone buzzed. Caller ID: Carter. VP of the company. Holden frowned. He'd given explicit orders this morning—don't call unless the sky was falling. "What." Silence on the other end. Those two seconds sent ice down Holden's spine. "Mr. Ashford." Carter's voice was tight. Every word shaking. "Mrs. Ashford... she dumped all her shares." Holden shot to his feet. The chair legs scraped tile. Harsh screech. "WHAT did you say?" "She dumped everything! Before market open this morning. Through a broker. Block trade. Not a single share left. Stock's already down nine percent. Institutions are panic-selling—Mr. Ashford, I can't stop it!" Holden's fingers clenched the phone. Knuckles white. Paige held eighteen percent of Ashford Holdings. Those shares had been registered under her name years ago for tax purposes. Ownership distribution. He'd never thought it would be a problem. "Is she OUT OF HER MIND?" "That's not all." Carter took a breath. Bracing himself. "Mrs. Ashford... she's already left the country. Early morning flight. Destination was London. Her phone's off. I've called twenty-three times." Holden's temple throbbed. "What else?" His voice sounded foreign. "There's more..." Carter paused. "Marcus Kane sent over a termination notice this morning. Polite wording. Said they're adjusting business direction. Won't renew the contract. I had the sales team reach out. Mr. Kane's secretary said—Mrs. Ashford met with him privately last month." Marcus Kane. Ashford Holdings' biggest client. Thirty-five percent of annual revenue. The phone nearly slipped from Holden's hand. He tightened his grip. Veins bulging. "Not just him." Carter's voice shook. "Reed sent a termination notice too. Sullivan hasn't made a move yet, but I had someone dig around—Mrs. Ashford went to Napa with Mrs. Sullivan three weeks ago. Said it was a spa trip." Three core clients. Controlling over seventy percent of Ashford Holdings' core business. Holden stood there in the delivery room corridor. Phone pressed to his ear. Bodyguards lined up on both sides. The disinfectant smell churning his stomach. "What else did she take?" "..." "SAY IT!" "The core client list. The copy in your safe. The one in your home office—both gone. Digital backup wiped too. IT checked. Deletion timestamp was three days ago. 2 AM." Three days ago. 2 AM. Three nights ago when he got home, Paige was in the living room in her pajamas. Watching TV. When he passed by, she even looked up. Smiled at him. Said, "You're home." He hadn't stopped walking. Went straight upstairs. Texted Sophia: [Just hang on a few more days. Once the baby's born, I'll tell her everything.] Now sweat slicked Holden's forehead. "I'm coming back now." He hung up and turned toward the elevator. Two steps—stopped. The OR door behind him—still closed. Faint sounds leaked through. Metal on metal. A low, muffled cry. "Jim. Leave two men here." "Mr. Ashford, you're not waiting for—" Holden didn't answer. His shoes hit tile hard. Fast. He was almost running. Hospital to home—forty minutes normally. His driver did it in nineteen. Three red lights. Two lanes of oncoming traffic. The whole way, his phone kept screaming. "Legal! Pull up the stock transfer agreement under Paige's name—What? She used her own account? What about securities authorization?" "HR! How many times did Paige come to the office last month? Who did she meet? Pull all the surveillance. I don't care how." "IT! Client database backup—where? Cloud? How did she get admin access? Who gave her the password?!" Every call, his face went paler. ... He unlocked the door. Entryway dark. Hallway dark. Afternoon sun cut through the windows. Split the living room—half light, half shadow. Everything looked normal. Couch. Coffee table. Half-empty glass of water. But the air was wrong. It didn't smell like her anymore. She wore this niche perfume—bergamot, cedar. Not strong. But after five years, it was everywhere. In the curtains. The couch. The air itself. Now—gone. Clean. Empty. Just the air purifier humming. ... He went straight to the study. Safe door—wide open. Inside—empty. Files gone. Contracts, supplier agreements, data reports. All of it. At the bottom, one piece of paper. He froze. Reached for it. "Holden, You blocked me. Forgot to block my game. Safe password—five years. Still your mother's birthday. —Paige" He crumpled the note. He stormed upstairs. Shoved the bedroom door open. Walk-in closet—open. Her side, every hanger empty. Jewelry cabinet—empty. Vanity—clean. No hair. No lipstick smudge. Nothing. He yanked open the nightstand. Marriage certificate—gone. His phone buzzed. Caller ID: Mom. He took a breath. Answered. "Holden!" Victoria's voice was shrill. "That little BITCH Paige took the paintings! My Monet—worth eight million! I had the driver check the house. There's nothing left but a nail on the wall!" Holden closed his eyes. "Mom, forget the paintings." "How can I forget? Eight million! My entire—" "MOM!" He shouted. Silence. "The company's in trouble." His voice was hoarse. "Paige... dumped all the shares. Took all the core clients." He'd known Paige eight years. Married five. Never once thought of her as someone who needed guarding against. She was gentle. Graceful. Accommodating. When his mother gave her he11, she smiled and took it. When he worked late and didn't come home, she never asked. He thought she knew nothing. He was wrong. His phone screen lit up. New message. Unknown number. He opened it. A photo—delivery receipt. Recipient: Holden Ashford. Sender: DNA Testing Center. Below it, one line: "The paternity test for the kid in that delivery room—I already arranged it for you. Arrives tomorrow. See for yourself." No signature. But he knew who sent it. That tone. That calm. Like she was watching him drown from the shore. Wait. Paternity test. His breath stopped. The room tilted. ... Thirty thousand feet. First-class cabin. Paige reclined in her seat, champagne flute in hand. Bubbles rose in lazy spirals, catching the light. Her phone lay face-up on the tray table. Notifications kept buzzing. Ashford Holdings down 12% - trading halted Major brokerage downgrades Ashford Rumor: Ashford losing core clients She took a sip. The bubbles burst cold on her tongue. Maya laughed beside her. Sprawled in the next seat, legs kicked up, phone glowing with Ashford's stock chart. A vertical drop of green. "Girl, this is better than any drama I've ever watched." Maya grinned, eyes bright. "He's probably losing it right now. Face greener than that chart." Paige didn't respond. She looked out the window. Clouds rolled beneath them, vast and white. Washed clean. "He'll trace the flight records," Paige said quietly. "Forty-eight hours, maybe less." "So what?" Maya scoffed. "You sold shares that were legally yours. Took your own stuff. Left the country with your own passport. What's he gonna do—sue you for being smarter than him?" Paige's mouth curved slightly. "What did our lawyer say?" "Julian says we're golden. Divorce docs ready. Evidence locked—hotel records, wire transfers, screenshots, the whole nine yards. Plus that apartment he bought Sophia? Seven hundred eighty thousand. Marital assets. He's not getting that back." Maya counted on her fingers, grinning. Paige glanced at her phone. Thirty-seven missed calls from Holden. Twenty-nine voicemails. She didn't open a single one. "You're really not gonna listen to them?" Maya leaned over. "Come on. At least hear him beg. He might be sobbing by now." "No need." Paige flipped the phone over, screen down. "He won't cry. He'll be angry first. Then scared. Then he'll try everything to fix it." She paused. "But he can't." Paige lifted the champagne flute. Her reflection shimmered in the glass—makeup perfect, lips red, eyes clear and dry. Five years as Holden's wife. Three months to take it all back. She drained the last of the champagne. The cold slid down her throat and settled in her ch//est. Outside, the plane broke through the clouds. Sunlight poured in, sharp and blinding. She squinted. "Maya. Pass me the eye mask." "Why?" "I need to sleep." Paige reclined her seat and pulled the blanket to her shoulders. "Got a lot to do when we land." Maya handed over the mask, muttering, "His whole world's collapsing and you can still sleep." Paige slipped on the mask. Before darkness fell, she said one last thing. "Let it collapse." "Mine's already rebuilt." Three months ago. That day, it rained hard. Paige remembered it clearly because she hadn't planned on going out. Outside the living room's floor-to-ceiling windows, a gray mist hung over the river. Rain hammered the glass—tap, tap, tap—like fists on a drum. Holden had left his trench coat by the door when he went out. She thought about bringing it to him. Gray Burberry. Left pocket held half a pack of gum and a parking stub. Right pocket— Her fingers touched something hard. She pulled it out. An earring. Small. Silver base. Teardrop diamond. Paige held the earring in her palm for a long time. She didn't wear silver earrings. All her jewelry was gold or rose gold. Holden knew that—he'd given her countless pieces over the years, never once got the tone wrong. So this wasn't for her. And it wasn't hers. Her first reaction wasn't anger. It was a strange, delayed dull ache—like when paper cuts your finger. At first it doesn't hurt. A few seconds later blood seeps out, and the pain creeps up slowly. She set the earring on the coffee table and texted Holden. "You left your coat at home. Want me to bring it over?" Two minutes later, a reply. "No need. Meetings all day. Not going out." She stared at the message for twenty seconds. Then she picked up her phone and opened Holden's credit card statement. His supplementary card had been linked to her phone since they got married. "So you can spend easily," he'd said with a smile back then. The transaction history filled the screen. Rows and rows of charges. She scrolled down past business travel expenses, gas, client dinners. Then stopped. Two weeks ago— Elite Women's Clinic. Charge: $12,000. Note: Prenatal checkup. Her finger hovered above the screen. Her fingertip went cold. She scrolled back further. .One month ago. Same clinic. Amount: $8,500. Note: File setup and NT scan. Further back. Two months ago. $3,200. Note: Early pregnancy exam and ultrasound. Paige put the phone down. The living room was quiet. Rain sounds filtered through the glass, muffled, like cotton stuffed in her ears. She looked down at her hands resting on her knees. Fingers pale, nails trimmed neatly, coated with a thin layer of clear polish. For five years she'd kept her hands like this—clean, proper, suitable for wearing a wedding ring. That three-carat Cartier ring sat on her left ring finger now, the diamond flashing dully in the overcast light. Suddenly the ring felt tight. Tight enough to make her finger numb. She stood and walked to the sink. Shoved both hands under the tap. Cold water rushed over her knuckles, through her fingers, over the diamond ring. Icy streams that made her skin bu//rn. She stood there. Water ran for over three minutes. Not until her fingers turned red from the cold did she shut off the tap. Then she picked up her phone and dialed another number. Three rings. Someone answered. "Julian." The man on the other end was eating something. He mumbled a muffled sound. "I need you to look into someone." "Who?" "Sophia Grant. Holden's secretary." Julian went quiet for a second. The chewing stopped. "You sure about this?" Paige looked at herself in the mirror. Hair half-dry, a strand stuck to her cheek, eyes slightly red but no tears. She looked like someone just pulled from the water—disheveled, but awake. "I'm sure. One more thing." "Go ahead." "Find out what happens if I dump all eighteen percent of my Ashford Holdings shares." Julian went silent for a full five seconds. "Paige, have you really thought this through?" "I thought about it for three minutes." The corner of her mouth moved. "That's enough." She hung up. She folded Holden's trench coat and put it back in the closet. Left the earring on the coffee table. Didn't touch it. When Holden came home that evening, she'd already made soup in the kitchen. Butternut squash soup. His favorite. "You cooked today?" Holden came in, changed his slippers, unbuttoning his cuffs. "Rainy day, nothing else to do. May as well." Paige brought out the soup and smiled. He sat down at the dining table, took a sip, and nodded. "Good." "Mm." Paige sat across from him with her hands folded on the table, watching him drink. His Adam's apple bobbed. The spoon clinked against the bowl—a soft sound. He drank soup the exact same way he did eight years ago on their first dinner. Head down, shoulders slightly hunched, like a cat lapping water. She used to think that posture was cute. "Holden." "Mm?" "Your coat. Left pocket had a pack of gum. Wrigley's Spearmint. You never chewed Spearmint before." Holden's spoon paused. "Grabbed it from the office break room." He didn't look up. "Oh." Paige picked up her water glass and took a sip. She didn't mention the earring. That teardrop diamond earring—she'd already wrapped it in tissue and locked it in the third drawer of her vanity. Not to remember. To use. Over the next week, Paige's schedule changed. Before, her life looked like this: yoga in the morning, afternoon tea with friends at noon, beauty salon in the afternoon, waiting at home in the evening for Holden to come back or not come back. Now her time was carved into precise blocks— 9 to 10 AM: At Julian's law office, reviewing divorce case files. Julian was her college classmate. Top of his class in law school, absurdly high win rate in matrimonial cases. Paige rarely asked people for favors, but she knew when to call in professionals. 10 AM to noon: Auditing accounts. Combing through five years of Holden's asset transfers, spending records, real estate holdings. Julian assigned an assistant to help her organize it all. A thick stack of printouts piled on the table. The assistant was a woman in her early twenties. When she got to the deed for the apartment under Sophia's name, she gasped. "Ms. Paige, this property was purchased with marital assets. Seven hundred eighty thousand. Title only has Sophia Grant's name on it." Paige's expression didn't change. "Note the date and amount." "And these—" The girl flipped a page. "Chanel, Dior, Van Cleef. From March last year till now, thirty-four pieces of jewelry. Twelve bags. All shipped to Sophia Grant's apartment. Total: one point one seven million." Paige picked up her coffee cup. The coffee had gone cold. She drank it anyway. Bitter. "Ms. Paige, are you okay?" The assistant's eyes held a careful kind of sympathy. "I'm fine." Paige set the cup down. The base clinked sharply against the table. "Keep going." Afternoons were reserved for something else. Clients. Ashford Holdings had only three major clients: Marcus Kane's Heron Real Estate, Reed Calloway's Zenith Capital, and Sullivan's Apex Logistics. Holden wined and dined these men almost every week—dinners, golf, saunas. But the person who actually maintained relationships with their wives—that was Paige. For five years, Paige remembered every one of Mrs. Kane's birthdays, every milestone in her children's schooling, every hospital room number when she was admitted. Reed's wife loved flower arranging—Paige got certified in ikebana just to keep her company. Last year Mrs. Sullivan was diagnosed with bre//ast nodules. Paige booked the specialist appointment and went with her to the hospital. These relationships never appeared on any business report. But they were stronger than any contract. Three months was enough time to do a lot of things. Julian's office was in the Financial District. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows: rows of high-rises and winding highways cutting through the city. The third time Paige came, Julian finally placed the investigation results in front of her. A thin report. Three words printed on the cover: Sophia Grant. "Go ahead." Paige sat on the couch, back straight. Julian took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Sophia Grant. Twenty-six. Hometown: Upstate. Resume for Ashford Holdings said bachelor's degree. Actually an associate's. Whether Holden knew about the credential fraud is unclear, but someone in HR definitely let it slide." "Get to the point." "Here's the point." Julian flipped to the third page, pointed at a line highlighted in red. "Before Sophia joined Ashford Holdings, she lived with a man named Derek Shaw for two years. This Derek—currently works sales at a small trading company, pulls in about ten thousand a month. Their relationship... hasn't completely ended." Paige's gaze fixed on that line. "What do you mean 'hasn't completely ended'?" "After Sophia moved into the apartment Holden bought her, Derek visited at least two or three times a week. Building logs and elevator footage confirm it. Most recent visit: the fifteenth of last month. Derek spent the night in that apartment." Paige leaned back into the couch. The overhead lights were blindingly white. "Which means—" "Which means the baby in Sophia's belly," Julian put his glasses back on, eyes meeting hers through the lenses, "might not be Holden's." The office went quiet for a few seconds. Paige lowered her head and laughed. Actually laughed. Her shoulders shook. A short, breathy sound escaped her throat. Julian waited. "Do something for me." Paige looked up. The trace of laughter hadn't fully left her eyes. "What?" "Arrange a paternity test." "He won't agree to it." "I don't need his agreement." Paige stood up, picked up the report from the table. "His hair, used toothbrush, razor—I've got all that at home. Once the baby's born, just find a way to get the kid's sample." Julian looked at her. Wanted to say something. Swallowed it back. "Don't you hate her?" He meant Sophia. Paige folded the report and put it in her bag. "Why would I hate her?" She zipped the bag shut. Clean, efficient movement. "I don't want some woman bowing her head and apologizing." "I want Holden to watch everything he invested in collapse. Every last bit of it." She walked to the door. Pulled it open. Turned back and said one last thing. "Then I want him to know—that the woman who shielded him from the storm for five years was the biggest loss of his life." The door closed. Julian sat alone in his office, staring at the shut door for a while. He'd known Paige for twelve years. In college she was that kind of person—quiet, restrained, always kept her emotions neatly tucked away. When you saw her smile you thought she was gentle, but only people who knew her understood—beneath that gentleness was a taut string. And once that string snapped— She wouldn't scream. She'd smile. And bu//rn it all down. Julian picked up the phone and dialed. "Sam, tomorrow walk me through the DNA testing process. Yeah, the kind for civil use." Paige spent three weeks doing one thing— She started taking clients' wives out to lunch. Not those ten-person business lunches. Private meals. Two or three people. Every location carefully chosen: Aman's private dining room, The Ivy Room, or her own dining table. First up: Mrs. Kane. Vivian was early fifties, skin maintained like she was forty, dressed better than most fashion editors. She was the first real friend Paige made after marrying into the Ashford family— if "friend" was even the right word for the relationship between two businessmen's wives. Lunch was at Aman's private dining room. Outside the window: oak trees lining the street, leaves not quite fallen yet, hanging sparse on the branches. When Vivian arrived, Paige had already been sitting there ten minutes. Two cups of tea on the table—one Earl Grey, one Darjeeling. "Darjeeling's yours." Paige slid it over. Vivian sat down, took the cup, and glanced at her. That glance lingered on Paige's face for about three seconds—swept from forehead to chin, then back to her eyes. "You've lost weight." Vivian said. "Been watching what I eat lately." "Bullsh!t." Vivian sipped her tea. "You can't even cover the dark circles under your eyes anymore. What happened?" Paige lowered her gaze. Her finger traced the rim of the cup. This was the first time she was saying it out loud. Before this, she'd kept every emotion locked in her ch//est, sealed tight. Even Maya only knew half of it. But she knew—to move the plan forward, she had to open this door. "Vivian." "Mm." "Holden's having an affair." Her tone was flat, like she was commenting on bad weather. Vivian's hand froze mid-air. "His secretary's pregnant. Over five months." Paige's voice didn't waver. Every word crisp and clear. "He bought her an apartment with marital assets. Seven hundred eighty thousand. Plus jewelry, bags, prenatal care expenses." Vivian set the teacup down. The cup clinked sharply against the marble table. "Paige, you—" "I'm fine." "You don't look fine." Paige gave a bitter smile. "I didn't ask you here to vent." She looked Vivian straight in the eye. "I'm getting divorced. And I'm taking everything I can with me." Vivian's eyebrow lifted. "Including clients?" Paige didn't dodge her gaze. "Vivian, let me be honest with you. Your husband's company, Pinnacle Realty—the contract with Ashford Holdings expires in eight months. Holden's been pushing for renewal since last month, but Marcus hasn't budged. Am I right?" Vivian didn't deny it. "Because Ashford's service quality has been declining for two years straight. Delayed deliveries, dragging after-sales support—Marcus has mentioned these issues to me more than once." "He mentioned them to you?" "Every time he calls Holden and gets nowhere, he calls me to vent." The corner of Paige's mouth curved. "Vivian, let's be real. Half the reason your husband's worked with Ashford all these years—was because of me." Vivian went silent. Not because she was offended. Because what Paige said was true. Years ago, when Pinnacle Realty had a quality dispute on a major project, Paige coordinated suppliers overnight and got the problem fixed before inspection. Afterward, Marcus told Vivian one thing: "Holden's unreliable. But Paige is solid." "What do you want me to do?" Vivian asked. "Simple." Paige pulled an envelope from her bag and slid it across. "This is my business plan moving forward. After I leave Holden, I'm starting my own company. I'll take over Ashford's core services. Same work, and I'm already building the team." Vivian opened the envelope and pulled out the business plan. A few thin pages, but the data was solid—cost breakdowns, service proposals, team structure. Every detail laid out clearly. She flipped through it for five minutes. "How long have you been preparing this?" "A month." Vivian closed the plan and looked up at her. Ten-some seconds of silence. Wind blew outside. Oak leaves spiraled down. One stuck to the window glass. "Paige." "Yeah." "I'll talk to Marcus." Vivian tucked the envelope into her bag and stood up. When she reached Paige's side, she stopped and placed a hand on her shoulder. Not much force, but heavy weight. "Marrying the wrong man isn't your fault. But a woman who can climb out of a pit of fire—" She didn't finish. Paige understood anyway. Next was Catherine Reed, wife of Reed Capital's CEO. Then Elena Sullivan, whose husband ran Sullivan Logistics. Different approaches, same core logic—Paige didn't beg them. She just laid the facts on the table: I was betrayed. I'm leaving. But I have the ability to take the business with me. Will you come along or not? Three wives. Three lunches. Three nods. And Holden knew nothing. Because during those three weeks, Paige still showed up at home every evening right on time. Cooked meals, washed clothes. When Holden came home past midnight after working late, he'd check his phone and see her message: "Soup's warming on the stove. Help yourself when you get back." Holden even started thinking Paige had gotten gentler lately. Once, he came home at 1 AM. When he pushed open the bedroom door, Paige was already asleep. Lying on her side, blanket slipped down to her waist. He stood by the bed for a few seconds. Then pulled the blanket up, turned, and went to the study. Sent Sophia a voice message: "How'd the checkup go today? How big's the baby now?" What he didn't know— Paige wasn't asleep. Eyes closed, she heard his footsteps come in and leave. Heard the study door shut. Heard his voice drop low as he spoke. Her hand gripped the sheet under the pillow. Gripped until her knuckles turned white. But her breathing stayed even. She was waiting. Waiting for every piece to fall into place. Then she'd flip the whole board.

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The day his mistress went into labor, he posted TWELVE bodyguards outside the delivery room.