Chapter 2
1479 Words
Lauren didn't sound surprised by the call, but Kirsten's demand clearly threw her. A long pause stretched across the line before Lauren's voice returned, cool and measured.
"Five hundred million? Kirsten, don't you think you're overestimating your worth?"
Barefoot on the icy marble floor, Kirsten felt the cold seeping up through her bones, but it didn't weaken her. It cleared her head, like a blade honed by frost.
"Marion's worth that much," she said, her voice calm and firm. "After all, I'm the woman he planned to trick with a fake marriage certificate for life.
"That's the price for the years I gave him. For the reputation I sacrificed. For the inheritance rights our unborn child might have claimed... and for the silence I'll carry moving forward. Tell me, Lauren—does that still sound too expensive to you?"
There was no child. But in a game built on lies, Kirsten wasn't above using one to level the field.
She was the only one who hadn't played dirty—until now. And she wasn't walking away empty-handed.
Lauren fell silent again, this time for longer.
When she spoke, her cold tone carried a trace of admiration. "Fine. The agreement will be delivered tomorrow. Once you leave him, the money will be transferred to your offshore account in installments."
"Deal."
Kirsten ended the call without a flicker of hesitation.
First, she contacted her immigration lawyer to begin the process for Canada. The paperwork would take time, but that didn't matter. She wasn't running, she was rewriting her life.
Then, she opened her laptop and typed her resignation letter.
She'd once worn her title—chief secretary to Marion Ballard—like a badge of love. Now it felt like chains.
Dawn broke as she hit send.
She returned to the wedding suite. Once, it had felt like a dream. Now, it was a nightmare in silk.
Without a word, she ripped the crimson sheets from the bed, the same ones that had once symbolized passion. Now they reeked of betrayal. She shoved them into a trash bag along with the duvet and pillowcases.
Next was the walk-in closet. Every dress, handbag, and piece of jewelry Marion had ever given her—some rare, some priceless—was dumped into boxes without a second glance.
She scheduled a luxury reseller pickup and directed every penny to a foundation for women and children's rights.
She moved like clockwork—face blank, heart numb.
On the wall hung a massive portrait of her and Marion. In the photo, she was glowing, leaning into him, love shining in her eyes.
She climbed a stool, took it down, and pulled a utility knife from the drawer.
The rasp of the blade filled the silence as she cut straight down the seam between their bodies.
Marion's smile remained in the picture—but Kirsten's was gone.
She kept her half. The rest, including the frame, went into the garbage.
By the time she finished, every trace of her had been erased from the house. What was left behind was just cold marble and luxury furniture—a tomb waiting for its next ghost.
That evening, Marion returned. His suit still carried a faint trace of women's perfume that wasn't hers. He looked tired, but content.
He found Kirsten in the kitchen, sipping water. Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around her.
"Hey, sweetheart. I'm back. About last night..."
His words trailed off as he sensed something off. The house felt hollow. The prominent portrait on the wall was gone. So was the vase she loved by the door.
"What happened in here?" he asked, frowning.
Kirsten slipped free of his arms.
Her voice was flat and casual, as if discussing the weather. "Oh, I got tired of that picture. Thought I'd swap it out. The vase broke by accident, so I had someone clean up. Figured the place needed a refresh."
It was believable, and Marion wasn't the type to care about interior details. He brushed it off as a minor tantrum, assuming she was just sulking after last night's interruption.
He chuckled and pinched her cheek. "Fine. Whatever you want. You can redecorate the whole place if it makes you happy. You must be tired today, huh? Let me shower, and I'll make it up to you properly."
That spark in his eyes—the one she used to love—made her stomach twist.
Kirsten sidestepped him smoothly. "Don't bother. I'm not feeling well today. Just want to sleep early."
Marion paused, a little disappointed, but didn't press.
Maybe it's just her time of the month.
He didn't see it—the way her gaze had changed. Once soft and adoring, now sharp and hollow.
The next morning, Kirsten walked into the top-floor office of Ballard Group in a crisp white suit. Her makeup was flawless, her expression unreadable.
Marion was mid-video call, charming as ever, switching between languages like a pro. He smiled when he saw her and gestured for her to wait.
She sat quietly on the leather sofa, a manila envelope in her hands.
When his call ended, he crossed the room and slid an arm around her waist, pressing a kiss to her temple.
"You look incredible today. Miss me already?"
"I need you to sign something," she said, stepping away and handing him the envelope. "It's for our post-marriage assets. I had a lawyer draft it up. You know, your family might relax if they see I'm not after your money."
Marion grinned and tapped her nose. "What are you talking about? What's mine is yours, remember?"
Still, he took the file, satisfied by her "consideration". He glanced at the title—Prenuptial Property and Gift Agreement—and flipped to the last page, signing without reading it.
He didn't notice the small clause buried in the fine print:
[Both parties voluntarily terminate all emotional and cohabitational relationships. Party B (Kirsten) relinquishes all claims to Party A (Marion) and associated assets. Party A shall pay Party B a one-time compensation of five hundred million dollars.
Upon execution, the marriage shall be deemed void, and both parties will sever all ties.]
What he signed wasn't protection. It was goodbye. A "breakup contract" drafted by Lauren Ballard's legal team.
Kirsten tucked the envelope away, her expression calm. She glanced at the clock. "It's almost lunch."
"What do you feel like eating? I'm all yours," Marion said, slinging an arm around her as they stepped into the elevator. "Consider it my apology."
Kirsten didn't resist.
This was the final scene. Her exit performance.
The midday sun was blinding as they walked out of Ballard Group's doors.
Marion instinctively raised his hand to shield her eyes, a gesture so tender it made nearby employees swoon.
"There's this new restaurant I booked," he began. "I think you'll love..."
Before he could finish, a woman's scream tore through the air, followed by crude male voices.
"Come on, sweetheart, have a drink with us!"
"Let go of me! What are you doing?!"
"Playing hard to get? Heard you're marrying some old creep, why not have some fun with us first?"
"Back off, or I'll call the cops!"
The voice, choked with fear, was achingly familiar.
Marion's face darkened. He turned toward the alley.
A group of thuggish men were crowding a woman in white.
Verena Sanderson.
"Hey!" Marion's voice thundered. "Get away from her!"
Without a second thought, he shoved Kirsten aside and charged into the alley like a lion defending its territory.
Kirsten stumbled back, her heel twisting as she slammed into the stone wall beside her. Her forehead hit hard.
Pain exploded. Her vision blurred. Warm blood trickled down her cheek.
She struggled to lift her head. She blinked through the haze and saw Marion—shielding Verena like she was made of glass.
"Rena, I'm here," he whispered, voice shaking. "Don't be scared. Are you okay?"
Kirsten was just less than twenty feet away, bleeding, barely conscious, and invisible.
But he didn't even glance back.
Kirsten braced herself against the wall, slowly pushing upright.
She didn't cry. Didn't even register the pain.
Everything in front of her was painfully clear—and almost laughably pathetic.
So this is it.
This is his answer.
When her life was on the line, he didn't hesitate. He chose someone else.
Worse—he was the one who pushed her into harm's way.
Kirsten reached for the back of her head, her hand trembling as it touched something warm and wet.
She held her fingers up to the light. They were streaked in crimson.
The same red as the silk sheets they once tangled in.
The same red as her heart—torn open, drained dry, left hollow.
That was the last straw.
From this moment on, Marion Ballard no longer had a place in her story.
- Writer
