The Unwanted Wife's Spectacular Comeback

Corinna lifted the hem of her heavy silk gown and stepped into the grand ballroom of the Manhattan Plaza Hotel.

The air was thick with the smell of expensive perfume and roasted meats.

A wall of photographers stood near the entrance. As she walked past, the blinding flashes of their cameras suddenly shifted. The lenses bypassed her completely, aiming at a group of socialites walking in behind her.

Corinna let the polite smile drop from her face. Her facial muscles ached from holding it.

She walked toward a waiter holding a silver tray of champagne. She reached out, desperate for something to hold to hide her shaking hands.

Before her fingers could touch the crystal stem, the waiter abruptly turned. He walked right past her.

Corinna froze. She looked up and saw her mother-in-law, Carolee, standing a few feet away. Carolee lowered her chin, giving the waiter a subtle nod of approval.

"It is a shame," Carolee said, her voice intentionally loud enough to cut through the string quartet playing in the corner. "Some people only survive by sucking the life out of a trust fund. A terrible return on investment for any family."

Corinna's nails dug so hard into her palms that the skin nearly broke. Her lungs felt tight, like someone was sitting on her chest.

A woman in a green dress, someone Corinna barely knew, stepped into her path. She wore a fake, sympathetic smile.

"Corinna, darling," the woman said. "Where is Holland tonight? It is so rare to see you without him."

"He is tied up with work," Corinna forced the words past the lump in her throat. "Back-to-back meetings."

The woman covered her mouth and let out a soft giggle. She reached into her clutch and pulled out her phone.

"Work?" The woman tapped the screen and held it up. "Are you sure?"

Corinna looked at the bright screen. Her pupils shrank.

It was a high-definition photo on a gossip site. Holland was walking into a luxury Manhattan penthouse. His arm was wrapped tightly around Daphne Wise's waist.

The headline read: WARNER HEIR SECURES $50 MILLION LOVE NEST FOR CHILDHOOD SWEETHEART.

The words felt like physical blows to her stomach.

Low whispers and suppressed laughter started to ripple through the people standing around her. The invisible walls of the ballroom began to close in. The air turned thin.

Corinna shoved past the woman in the green dress. She practically ran down the hallway and pushed through the heavy doors of the women's restroom.

She gripped the edges of the marble sink. She turned on the cold water and splashed it onto her face, ruining her makeup.

She looked up at the mirror. The woman staring back at her looked pale, hollow, and entirely defeated.

A hot tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it away aggressively.

Her hands shook as she pulled her phone from her clutch. She dialed Holland's number.

It rang twice before going straight to his cold, automated voicemail.

Before she could put the phone away, a second phone vibrated deep inside her bag.

It was her backup phone. The special ringtone made her heart slam against her ribs.

She answered it instantly.

"Corinna," Marta, the private nurse, said. Her voice was thick with panic and crying. "Jaycob collapsed. They are trying to resuscitate him right now."

The bathroom floor seemed to drop out from under Corinna. A wave of severe dizziness hit her.

She did not say a word. She dropped the phone back into her bag and ran.

She sprinted out of the hotel lobby in her high heels. She did not stop at the coat check. The brutal New York winter wind slammed into her bare shoulders the second she hit the pavement.

The cold sliced through her thin dress like tiny blades.

She waved frantically at the doorman to hail a cab. He looked at her, then looked away, deliberately ignoring her because she had not tipped him on arrival.

Corinna gritted her teeth. She ran to the street corner and threw herself in front of a yellow taxi.

The driver slammed on the brakes. He rolled down the window and yelled, looking at her ruined makeup and shivering frame with a wary, tired expression. "Look, lady, my shift is over. I'm heading back to the Bronx, and you look like you're carrying a whole lot of trouble I don't want to deal with tonight. I'm not taking passengers."

Corinna reached up to her earlobe. She grabbed the heavy diamond earring Holland had given her for their anniversary.

She yanked it down.

The metal backing scraped against her flesh. A sharp pain shot through her ear as a drop of blood welled up.

She threw the diamond through the open window. It landed on the passenger seat.

"Drive me to Mount Sinai Hospital," she said, her voice dead. "Now."

The driver looked at the diamond, swallowed hard, and unlocked the doors.

Corinna sat in the back seat. The neon lights of the city blurred past the window. She stared at the empty space on her earlobe in the rearview mirror.

A thin line of blood trickled down her neck, staining the white silk collar of her dress.

When the cab stopped, she ran into the emergency room. The harsh smell of bleach and rubbing alcohol hit her nose, making her stomach churn violently.

Her legs felt like lead.

Marta ran up to her in the waiting area. She shoved a piece of paper into Corinna's hands.

It was a medical bill. The number at the bottom for the experimental therapy deposit made Corinna stop breathing.

The attending doctor walked out of the double doors. His face was completely blank.

"If the funds are not in the hospital's account by tonight, we have to move him out of the intensive care unit," the doctor said.

Corinna walked to the glass window of the ICU. She looked at her younger brother.

Jaycob was surrounded by machines. Tubes ran down his throat and into his pale arms.

She pressed both hands over her mouth to trap the sob trying to rip its way out of her throat.

She pulled out her phone and opened the browser. The gossip article was still there.

Fifty million dollars for a penthouse. That was exactly ten times the amount she needed to keep her brother alive tonight.

The sheer absurdity of it made her chest ache.

She opened her banking app. The balance was pathetic. It mocked the three years she had spent swallowing her pride and serving the Warner family.

She dialed the trust fund manager's direct line.

"I need an advance on next month's allowance," she pleaded.

"I am sorry, Mrs. Warner," the manager said in a bored tone. "That violates the terms of the prenuptial agreement."

The line went dead.

A cold draft swept through the hospital corridor. Corinna wrapped her arms around herself. She finally understood that in Holland's world, she was worth less than a stray dog.

Her phone screen lit up. A text from Carolee.

Your behavior tonight was an embarrassment. Do not come back to the estate until you learn how to act like a Warner.

Corinna stared at the words. She did not type a reply. She pressed delete.

She walked over to the vending machine in the corner. She slid a crumpled dollar bill in and pressed the button for black coffee.

The machine spat out a paper cup filled with dark, foul-smelling liquid.

She drank it in one gulp. The bitter, acidic taste burned its way down her throat, but it cleared the fog in her brain.

She tossed the empty cup perfectly into the trash can. The weakness in her eyes vanished, replaced by a layer of absolute, freezing ice.

She walked back to the ICU door. She looked at Marta.

"I will get the money tonight," Corinna said. Her voice was steady and hard.

She turned and walked into the empty stairwell.

She pulled out her phone and scrolled to a private number she kept pinned at the top of her contacts. A number she swore she would never use to beg.

She pressed call and held the phone to her ear.

She listened to the long, hollow ringing sound. She made a silent promise to herself. This would be the absolute last time she ever lowered her head to Holland Warner.