Chapter 2---What Trick Are You Playing?
885 Words
Mr. Cook remained silent, the tension in the office palpable.
After a long pause, Madeline Cook shrugged lightly. "Fine. I won't disturb you, Mr. Cook. Monday at nine a.m., courthouse—we'll see who shows up."
She finished, flicking a strand of hair behind her ear. Before leaving, she couldn't resist one last jab: "Congratulations, Mr. Cook. You're finally free—rid of me, that shameless woman."
She looked at him, her smile tinged with self-mockery.
"What trick are you pulling now?"
For the first time, Mr. Cook spoke—his voice sharp as a blade.
Madeline gave him a cold glance. "Relax. This time it's real. But let me make one thing clear—this is your only chance to get rid of me. Don't waste it."
Her eyes stung with unshed tears. She refused to let him see her cry, to give him that victory. Turning on her heel, she strode away in her heels.
Mr. Cook watched until she disappeared around the corner. Only then did he reach for the divorce agreement.
It had been drafted by her side. Not a single asset claimed—she was walking away with nothing.
That Madeline wanted a divorce didn't surprise him. For three years, he'd never treated her as a wife.
But that she wanted nothing? He didn't believe it.
This woman had always been ambitious. When she saved Heather Cook, the family offered her anything—she demanded to marry him.
Too bad she miscalculated. The prenup had been signed before the wedding—meant precisely for this moment, when he'd finally had enough.
So this? Just another one of her acts.
Mr. Cook sneered, then tossed the papers aside, dismissing them.
Madeline stepped out of the building. Wendy Taylor's sports car gleamed under the sun.
As she approached, Wendy popped the passenger door. "Well? Did he sign?"
Madeline slid into the seat. "No."
"That's strange. Now that Elena Peterson's back, you'd think Mr. Cook would be scrambling."
Buckling her seatbelt, Madeline shot her a look. "Bighead, are you doing this on purpose?"
With comments like that—cutting so deep—only their decade-long friendship kept her from causing a scene.
Caught, Wendy rubbed her nose sheepishly. "I've never seen someone getting divorced looking so defiant. I just wanted to see if you were truly done or just furious."
"Have some decency, Wendy."
Madeline refused to engage with her smirking friend. She closed her eyes, shutting out the world.
Half an hour later, the car stopped. Madeline opened her eyes, unbuckled. "Thanks."
She stepped out, grabbed her suitcase from the trunk.
Wendy stayed in the car, blowing two air kisses. "Don't cry alone, Maddie. Love you~ Mwah!"
The red sports car roared away.
Madeline laughed bitterly. What kind of terrible friends had she made?
The villa had been cleaned. The smart lock—voice, fingerprint, facial recognition—responded to her command. "Iry, open the door." The sandalwood door slid open. "Welcome home, Master."
"Iry, boil water."
She dragged her suitcase up to the master bedroom. Everything from her three years at the Cook family home—exactly as she'd left it.
Water boiled. She mixed in cool water, leaned against the kitchen island, drank half.
When the tears fell, Madeline froze.
Wendy's words echoed. She felt a pang of self-loathing.
Turns out, her bravado lasted less than three seconds.
But perhaps that was for the best—only in solitude could she finally break.
She'd held it together all morning. Now, she couldn't anymore. She set the cup down and collapsed onto the island, sobbing.
Ten years of love—reduced to three years of humiliation. Nothing more.
Resentful? Of course.
But what good did it do? He didn't love her, Madeline.
After leaving the Cook family, Madeline spent two days in a daze.
Sleep, and more sleep—yet never restful.
She had strange, chaotic dreams.
She dreamed of being fifteen—naive, believing an old woman needed help, only to realize she was prey.
Dragged into a car, terrified, desperate. In that narrow, dark alley, such tragedies happened too often.
No one would save her. No one dared.
But just as she gave up, a teenage boy kicked down the man holding her, grabbed her hand, and pulled her out.
She didn't know how long they ran—only stopped when he did.
In that frantic escape, she hadn't seen his face. When they paused, she saw a boy with a face of pure clarity—like moonlight on still water.
His eyes were deep, dark pools—she looked once and was lost.
"What's your name?"
Safe, her voice trembled with hope.
"Mason Cook."
His voice, like his eyes, mesmerized her. Her heart raced like never before. "Thank you."
"You're safe. I'm leaving."
He let go, turned.
She reached after him. "Mason Cook, can I—"
But the boy morphed into the man—Mr. Cook, staring at her with cold disdain. "Madeline, what trick are you pulling now?"
Madeline jolted awake. The alarm blared. Frowning, she touched her damp cheek. "Iry, turn off the alarm."
Silence.
She picked up her phone. Half an hour ago, Wendy had texted: *Stay strong.*
Right. Today was Monday. She had an appointment with Mr. Cook—to finalize the divorce.
- Writer
