Chloe POV:
That evening, I hid in a small study, tapping away at my laptop, using the templates Sloane had given me to draft several fake documents.
The next day was Saturday. I came downstairs late.
Caleb's excited shouts drifted from the study.
I walked in and saw him tossing a picture frame into the air like a toy. Chandler sat on the nearby sofa, sipping her tea and watching him lazily. A few books lay scattered on the floor, clearly the work of the mischievous boy as well.
My eyes widened. That frame held my only photograph with my birth parents.
"Caleb, put the frame down," I said, my voice low and dangerous.
Startled by my tone, his small hand jerked. The frame crashed onto the hardwood floor.
The sound of shattering glass cut through the air. The photo slid out from the debris, a shard of glass scratching its surface. I rushed over, staring at the photo, my fists clenched tight.
Chandler finally stood up, positioning herself in front of Caleb, her expression one of feigned concern. "Chloe, I am so sorry. I should have watched him more closely..."
I glared at her, then at her son. Startled by my expression, Caleb burst into tears.
"Caleb, apologize to Auntie Chloe right now," Chandler said, putting on her pitiful act again. "Or she might throw you out."
Just then, Bradly walked in, returning from his morning run. He saw the scene: Chandler's anxious expression, Caleb's tear-streaked face, and me standing beside the broken frame.
His brows immediately furrowed, clearly having caught Chandler's words.
"Throw him out? It's just a frame, Chloe. Do you have to be so harsh on a child?" he demanded.
I didn't look at him. I bent down, slow and deliberate, and carefully picked up the scratched photo.
My silence seemed to provoke him. "Chloe, I'm talking to you!"
I slowly straightened up and held up the photo for him to see. He froze. He had always known how much this photo meant to me.
"I wasn't going to throw Caleb out," I said coldly. "Because even if I did, it wouldn't restore this photo."
Bradly's mouth twitched. He knew he was in the wrong. Whether it was tactics on the ice or strategies for running the company's sports brands, none of that worked here.
"Alright, alright. I'll apologize on Caleb's behalf. I'll make it up to you, okay? Name what you want."
Even through my grief and anger, my mind worked quickly. This was the perfect opportunity to set my plan in motion.
"...I'll think about it."
Both Bradly and Chandler breathed a sigh of relief. Caleb, once soothed, resumed his usual mischief around the house.
That evening, I walked into the study with a thin folder in my hand.
Bradly was sitting at his desk, hunched over his computer. He looked up, his expression softened by lingering guilt from the day's events. "Have you decided what you want?"
I placed the folder in front of him. "Yes. I want the little villa on the outskirts of town. There are also some company documents here that need your signature. I brought them along."
"That's it?" He looked surprised, as if expecting me to demand something far more extravagant. "It's not worth much. Consider it yours."
On top was a property transfer agreement, followed by some innocuous foundation authorization forms.
He flipped through two or three pages, recognized the familiar corporate letterhead, and picked up his pen without a second thought.
My heart was pounding like a wild drum against my ribs, but I forced my hand to stay steady. I quietly slid the divorce papers underneath the authorization forms, aligning them so that only the last signature page was visible.
He scrawled his name on the first document. The moment he finished, I smoothly pulled it away, revealing the signature line beneath.
"And this one," I said softly.
He didn't even glance at it. The pen flew across the page, and in the blank space next to "Bradly Gordon," his signature appeared as effortlessly as if he were signing a jersey for a fan.
It was done.
I clutched the signed divorce papers tightly, my fingers trembling.
Freedom. It felt like holding a ticket to a new life.
I quickly tucked the folder away before he could suspect anything.
He tossed the pen aside and turned back to his screen, already forgetting I existed.
I walked out of the study, a rush of adrenaline and a hollow emptiness washing over me. Three years of my life, erased by a single, deceptive stroke of a pen.
But I knew this wasn't enough. Divorce was only the beginning. The beginning of my revenge.
