Carleen Johnson POV:
Armani's smile vanished. Disbelief flashed across his face, quickly replaced by anger. "What did you say? Half my net worth? Carleen, are you insane?"
I stared at him, my voice colder than the concrete floor beneath my feet. I clutched the portfolio tightly against my chest, my knuckles turning white. "I'm not insane. I'm just awake."
He stepped forward abruptly, reaching for my arm, as if he could force me to retreat through intimidation. "Who do you think you are?" His voice lowered into a threatening whisper. "Without me, you're nothing. Every penny you've ever spent belongs to me!"
I dodged his hand, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "Is that so? Then we'll see each other in court. Let's find out what a judge has to say about our marital assets."
The word "court" made him freeze for a moment. For someone like Armani, whose reputation was built on public image and business credibility, a messy divorce scandal could cost him far more than money.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to regain control. The hostility on his face faded, replaced by his usual calculated calm. "Carleen, let's not fight, okay? I know you're angry. Let's go home first. We can talk about this there."
I didn't answer.
That night, he didn't dare push the matter any further. Instead, he sent me to a hotel, trying to keep the situation from escalating while he figured out his next move.
When I opened my eyes again, sunlight was already spilling through the curtains.
For a few seconds, I stared at the unfamiliar ceiling, unable to remember where I was. Then the coldness of the room brought everything back.
I sat up slowly and looked around at the strange hotel room. The expensive but unfamiliar decorations felt strangely empty, just like the marriage I had spent years trying to hold together.
I walked to the window.
Outside, Chicago was already awake. Cars flowed through the streets, skyscrapers reflected the morning light, and the city continued moving as if nothing had happened.
My phone showed dozens of missed calls from my best friend, Kimber — the fiercely loyal, outspoken girl who was the closest thing to family I had left in this city.
The doorbell rang.
I opened it to find Armani's lawyer, a man in a suit as slick as his smile. He handed me a folder. "Ms. Johnson. This is the divorce agreement Mr. Tillman has prepared."
I took the cold document and shut the door in his face.
The terms were brutal in their simplicity: I would waive all rights to marital property in exchange for a one-time payment of one hundred thousand dollars.A "severance package."
The last page contained a non-disclosure clause. I was to remain silent about our marriage and, especially, his "public relationship" with Sloane Richmond.
A wave of anger surged through me, my hands shaking as the papers rattled. I slammed the documents onto the desk. This wasn't just an insult. It was his way of saying that three years of my life, of our marriage, were worth nothing.
Just then, my personal cell phone, the one with a number only a handful of people knew, buzzed. The caller ID showed a Los Angeles area code.
I hesitated, then answered. "Hello, is this Westwind?" a vibrant male voice asked.
My heart skipped a beat. Westwind. It was my pen name, the name of the gothic comic artist with millions of online followers.
"My name is Harvey Slate," the man continued. "I'm a producer in Hollywood. I am a massive, massive fan of The Enforcer's Apprentice, and we'd love to talk to you about the film and television rights!"
Harvey Slate. Of course I knew him. He was one of the hottest producers in the industry.
A wave of overwhelming disbelief and joy washed over me. The career I thought I had sacrificed for my marriage was calling me back, more powerfully than I ever imagined.
But the excitement faded quickly. I knew I couldn't reveal who I really was. Not yet. The name Westwind had protected me for years, hiding me from the world. Now, it was the only advantage I had left.
"I'm sorry, you must have the wrong number," I said, my voice as steady as I could make it, and hung up.
I immediately powered down the phone and pulled out the SIM card.
My body felt weak, as if I'd just run a marathon.
My eyes fell back on the humiliating divorce agreement on the desk.
I walked to the door, took a deep breath, and pulled it open. Armani's lawyer was still waiting in the hall, as instructed.
In front of him, I grasped the thick stack of papers and ripped the agreement in half. The sound of tearing paper was loud in the quiet hallway.
He stared at me, his mouth agape.
I dropped the two halves at his feet. "Go back and tell your boss," I said, my voice low and even, "that my terms will be delivered to him by my lawyer."
Without another glance at his shocked face, I slammed the door.
Leaning against the wood, I felt a surge of power for the first time.
I grabbed my other phone and dialed Kimber's number. "Kimber, I need you," I said, my voice trembling.
Her anxious voice was immediate. "Carleen! You finally answered! Are you okay?"
I laughed, a real laugh for the first time in twenty-four hours. "I'm not okay. But I'm going to be."
I looked out the window. The sun was bright, but it no longer made me feel alone.
"I'm getting a divorce, Kimber. And I'm taking back everything that belongs to me."
