Aryana Mason POV:
The next morning, the tears didn't come.
Tears are for people who still harbor hope. I had none left.
I sat across the desk from Sarah Vance, the city's most ruthless divorce attorney, and the only one who didn't flinch at the mention of the O'Neill name.
Sarah was older, her hair a striking silver bob that cut a sharp line against her jaw, her eyes as hard as flint.
"You want to leave Cameron O'Neill," she stated flatly, making it an accusation rather than a question. "Do you have a death wish, Aryana?"
"I have a life wish," I corrected her. "I want a divorce."
Sarah tapped her pen rhythmically on the mahogany desk.
"He won't let you go. You are his trophy, Aryana. You're the face of his clean money."
"I know," I said, my voice steady. "That is why I am not asking for alimony. I am simply taking back what I bought."
I slid a folder across the polished surface of the desk.
"Cameron thinks he built the legitimate side of the business from scratch. He is arrogant. He believes his own myth."
Sarah flipped the folder open. Her eyebrows shot up.
"This is an Intellectual Property transfer."
"Disguised as a standard asset reallocation for tax purposes," I explained. "He signs everything I put in front of him regarding the 'clean' businesses. He thinks the details are beneath him."
"If he signs this," Sarah said slowly, a shark-like smile spreading across her face, "he is signing over the rights to the Aether Group. The holding company that funnels all the gallery profits."
"It cuts the power cord to his laundry machine," I said.
"It is dangerous," Sarah warned, though her eyes gleamed. "If he finds out..."
"He is too busy playing at the Ritz to read the fine print," I said, my tone dropping to absolute zero.
Sarah looked at me with a newfound respect.
"I will draft the papers. We will bury the divorce petition inside the transfer documents like a landmine."
"Do it."
Three days later, I drove to the private stables on the edge of the estate.
I needed the silence. I needed to clear my head.
I didn't expect to find them there.
Cameron was leaning against the paddock fence, his posture relaxed in a way he never allowed himself to be with me.
Kacie was beside him, holding a slice of apple.
She was feeding it to him.
My husband, the man who refused to even hold my hand in public, was eating fruit from his mistress's fingers.
I parked the car and slammed the door hard.
The sound cracked through the air, making them turn.
Cameron's face went blank instantly. The mask was back in place.
Kacie's eyes, however, lit up with pure malice.
She whispered something to him, then started walking toward the barn entrance where I was heading.
As our paths crossed, she stumbled.
It was a terrible performance. A soap opera faint, executed with zero grace.
She threw herself sideways, landing in the dirt with a calculated thud.
"Ow!" she cried out, clutching her ankle.
She looked up at me, her eyes wide and brimming with instant, fake tears.
"Aryana, why did you push me?"
I stared down at her. I hadn't been within three feet of her.
I felt sick. A physical wave of nausea rolled through me.
I stepped around her, refusing to engage in this kindergarten drama.
"Help!" Kacie screamed, pitching her voice louder this time. "She hurt me!"
Two Capos ran over from the stables.
"Mrs. O'Neill pushed her," Kacie sobbed, pointing a shaking finger at me.
The Capos looked at me. Their eyes were heavy with accusation.
"Not cool, Mrs. O'Neill," one of them muttered, shaking his head.
They knelt beside Kacie, asking if she was okay, treating her like she was made of spun glass.
They didn't ask me for my side. They didn't care.
Then Cameron was there.
He pushed past me without so much as a glance.
He knelt in the dirt, ruining his suit pants without a second thought.
"Where does it hurt?" he asked Kacie, his voice tender.
"My ankle," Kacie whimpered. "I think she broke it."
Cameron looked up at me.
His eyes were shards of ice.
"Go home, Aryana," he said.
"I didn't touch her," I stated.
"I said go home."
He scooped Kacie up into his arms, carrying her bridal style toward the main house.
She buried her face in his neck, but I saw her peek out.
She smirked at me again-a victory lap in silence.
I stood alone in the dust, watching my husband carry another woman away.
I didn't argue. I didn't scream.
I just turned around and walked back to my car.
Days later, I went to my scheduled art appreciation class at the community center. It was a PR stunt Cameron had insisted on to maintain our image.
I walked into the studio and froze.
Kacie was there.
She was sitting at an easel right next to Cameron's reserved spot.
"Cameron thought I should cultivate some culture," she announced loudly as I entered.
Cameron walked in a moment later.
He sat down next to her.
Throughout the class, he ignored me completely.
He fetched Kacie's water. He gently wiped a smudge of charcoal off her cheek.
He leaned in, guiding her hand on the paper, his chest pressed intimately against her back.
The instructor was fawning over them. The other students were whispering.
I sat three rows back, painting a black void on my canvas.
I remembered when we first married. He used to do that for me.
He used to guide my hand.
I thought it was intimacy.
Now I saw it for what it truly was. Control.
He was marking his territory.
My grandmother's voice echoed in my head.
'A man who cannot protect your dignity in public does not deserve your love in private.'
I looked at Cameron doting on Kacie, humiliating me in front of a room full of strangers.
My dignity wasn't just unprotected.
It was being trampled into the floorboards.
