Hailey's POV:
Forty thousand feet in the air, the cabin of my newly chartered private jet was a capsule of silence, broken only by the low, steady hum of the engines.
A flight attendant silently placed a crystal flute of vintage champagne on the mahogany table in front of me. I picked it up and took a slow sip.
The dry, icy liquid tasted exactly like victory.
The encrypted phone on the table lit up, the screen glaring with thirty-two missed calls. Ten from Jackson, five from Cornelia, and the rest undoubtedly from panicked Dorsey capos watching their operational funds vanish into thin air.
I ignored every single one.
Instead, I opened my contacts and dialed the High Commission's legal counsel.
The phone rang twice before a deep voice answered. "Consigliere Thomas speaking."
"This is Hailey Hogan," I said. "I am officially filing to dissolve my marriage to Jackson Dorsey."
There was a brief, tense silence on the other end of the line. "On what grounds, Donna Hailey?"
"I am invoking the Betrayal Clause," I stated. "I cite adultery, gross financial mismanagement, and irredeemable incompetence. I demand an immediate and total liquidation of assets."
"Understood," the Consigliere replied, his tone laced with professional gravity. "The Commission will review the evidence and summon both parties."
I ended the call, and for a split second, a familiar ache flared in my chest.
Dissolving a mafia marriage vow wasn't just a cold legal procedure; it was severing a deeply entangled root.
I had given five years of my life to a man who treated me like his personal ATM.
But the pain faded as quickly as it came, replaced by a profound, overwhelming sense of relief—like a clean tide washing away the lingering grief.
My phone buzzed again, jarring in the quiet cabin.
A text from Jackson popped up on the screen.
It read: "My black cards are declining everywhere, even at the cheapest rest stops. We had to scrape together the last of our cash just to get a room at a rundown motel off the highway. Fix this right now, or I swear I'll make you pay."
I set my champagne flute down, picked up the phone, and typed a concise reply.
"I am currently en route to St. Barts. My financial obligations to you terminated the second you gave my seat to your escort. I have marked all your recent transactions as fraudulent. Enjoy the motel."
I hit send, a wave of visceral satisfaction washing over me as the delivery confirmation appeared.
Finally, with a decisive tap, I opened the contact settings and blocked his number permanently.
I blocked Cornelia. I blocked Jordan. I took a scalpel to my life and surgically removed them.
I looked down at my left hand.
The heavy diamond engagement ring squeezed my finger like a cold shackle, suffocating me.
Jackson hadn't even bought this ring. I had quietly transferred the money into his account so he wouldn't lose face at the jeweler.
I slid the ring off my finger.
Standing up from my seat, I flipped open the metal flap of the trash chute and held the multi-million-dollar diamond over the black hole.
"See you never, trash."
I let go.
The ring rattled down the metal tube, making a hollow sound before vanishing entirely.
I walked back to my seat, feeling lighter than I had in years.
I opened the secure banking app on my phone and tapped the screen to view the Dorsey family's primary operational account.
The balance loaded onto the screen.
Jackson's account balance read: 0.
