I Was Her Replacement, I Left With His Cash

Seeing my indifferent expression, Elijah's face darkened with anger. He walked over and grabbed my wrist. "Freya, are you really that happy to divorce me?" His grip hurt. I looked up at him and put on a wounded expression. "Elijah, do you want me to beg you to stay? I haven't forgotten what you said back then. I've always known my place." Hearing that seemed to remind him of how he had trapped me by his side all those years ago. His expression stiffened, and he slowly let go. "These years, I've kept you from having a real life. I'll give you some shares as compensation." I almost couldn't suppress the smile tugging at my lips. I forced myself to think of the saddest moments in my life and managed to squeeze out a single tear. It landed perfectly on the back of Elijah's hand. "Thank you. I have work tomorrow. I'm going to bed." The next morning, I got ready as usual for the TV station. I walked down the villa steps in my 4-inch heels and glanced instinctively at the driveway. But the familiar parking spot was empty. No car. No driver. The butler hesitated before speaking. "Ma'am, all the drivers were sent to the airport this morning to pick up Miss Swift. Mr. Vance said you should take a cab to the station." I froze. The Vance villa sat halfway up a mountain. There wasn't a bus stop for miles. No ride-share would ever come up here. Elijah had lived here for 10 years. He knew that. Fine, play favorites. But don't mess with my work. A late arrival meant docked pay. I had no choice but to walk down the winding mountain road in my heels. The road was rough and uneven. Within minutes, my heels were raw and bleeding. I gave up, took off my shoes, and walked barefoot, cursing Elijah under my breath for torturing me even after the divorce. After what felt like forever, a green cab finally came up from below. The driver rolled down his window and recognized me. Everyone in Kingsport knew my face. His expression shifted awkwardly. "Mrs. Vance? What are you—" "To the TV station. Please hurry. I'm in a rush." I opened the door and got in. By the time the cab pulled up to the station, I had only 40 minutes before the morning news went live. Thinking about how much I'd lose for skipping a day, I ignored the pain in my feet and ran into the studio. As I pushed open the studio door, I saw my script—the one I'd stayed up all night to write—tossed carelessly on the floor. The station director looked at me smugly. "Freya..." "What is this?" I cut him off. "Starting today, you're off the morning news. You're moving to the graveyard shift." The graveyard shift ran from 2 to 4 a.m.—zero viewership, the station's dumping ground. I had held the prime-time slot since my first day here. Eight years. And now I was being thrown into the trash with one sentence? I was the station's advertising queen. Moving to the graveyard shift would cost me a fortune in ad revenue. "Why?" I asked. The room went tense. Just then, the door swung open. Serena stood at the entrance in a sharp red suit, her lips painted a vivid crimson. She loved red. That was why Elijah always made me wear it too. Freya and Serena had similar features—about 50 percent alike. But my face was cold and distant, while Serena's was naturally radiant. Elijah had once said it was my blessing to look even a little like Serena, and I should be grateful. Serena barely glanced at me. She walked straight to the anchor desk and sat down, perfectly at ease, making me look foolish just by standing there. The director immediately put on a fawning smile. "Welcome back, Miss Swift. Mr. Vance called personally this morning. He said the morning slot is best for you..." When I first married Elijah, I was a reporter at the Kingsport Daily. He had forced me to quit, made me learn broadcasting, and turned me into the most recognizable face on television. I thought he was making me more presentable. It wasn't until later, overhearing him on the phone with a friend, that I learned the truth. "I'm just holding the morning slot for Serena. Better Freya than someone else." From start to finish, I had been a stand-in—there to hold the fort for the real owner. Now that Serena was back, my job was done. I looked down at my bleeding heels. The blood had already soaked through the fabric of my shoes. I bit back the pain, crouched down, and gathered my things. "Help me move these to the graveyard studio," I told my assistant. It was fine. The more miserable I looked, the guiltier Elijah would feel. And the guiltier he felt, the more I could take from him.