The Unwanted Wife's Spectacular Revenge Comeback

"Why isn't your gold-digging wife here suffocating you tonight?"

Carter Finch's voice bled through the crack of the heavy mahogany doors, accompanied by a chorus of harsh laughter and the thick scent of premium cigars.

Alyson stopped dead in her tracks on the thick Persian carpet of the Waldorf Astoria hallway.

The dark blue velvet box in her hands suddenly felt like a block of lead.

She had been walking with a nervous, light rhythm, her heart beating fast against her ribs at the thought of seeing her husband.

Now, her hand hovered in the air, inches from the brass handle of the VIP lounge.

She shifted her weight slightly, peering through the narrow gap between the double doors.

Kenton Whitaker sat in the center of a tufted leather sofa, a crystal glass of whiskey resting in his hand.

The light from the chandelier caught the sharp, cold lines of his jaw.

He looked devastatingly handsome, and completely untouchable.

"She knows she doesn't belong here."

Kenton's voice was flat, devoid of any emotion, carrying easily into the quiet hallway.

The words hit Alyson's chest like a physical blow, knocking the air from her lungs.

Carter let out another loud, grating laugh.

"If she hadn't drugged your champagne that night, Chelsea would be the one sitting in the Whitaker estate right now."

Alyson's teeth dug into her lower lip so hard she tasted the sharp metallic tang of blood.

The memory of that burning champagne sliding down her throat clawed at her throat.

She had been tricked into drinking it, yet she was the one wearing the permanent stain of a predator.

Another man in the room chimed in, his tone dripping with disgust.

"Women from the slums will do anything for a payout."

Alyson stared at Kenton's mouth through the crack in the door.

Her stomach twisted into tight, painful knots.

She waited for him to say something, anything, to defend her after three years of marriage.

Kenton slammed his whiskey glass down on the glass coffee table.

"Why are we talking about that disgusting woman? It ruins the mood."

The air in the hallway vanished.

Alyson's vision blurred at the edges as a freezing numbness spread from her chest down to her fingertips.

She took a blind step backward, her body acting on pure survival instinct.

The heel of her shoe struck a tall brass decorative vase against the wall.

A dull, hollow thud echoed through the corridor.

The laughter inside the room died instantly.

Kenton's sharp, predatory gaze snapped toward the crack in the door.

Alyson did not run.

She pushed her hand against the heavy mahogany wood and shoved the door wide open.

The noisy lounge fell into a suffocating silence.

Carter and the other men shifted in their seats, brief flashes of guilt crossing their faces before settling into defensive sneers.

Kenton stared at the woman standing in the doorway.

He adjusted his cuffs, his brow furrowing deep with irritation and unfiltered disgust.

Alyson ignored the heavy stares of the other men.

She walked straight toward the center of the room, her spine rigid, her heels clicking against the marble floor with a steady, unhurried rhythm.

The pathetic, eager wife who had walked down the hallway was gone.

She stopped in front of the glass coffee table and placed the velvet box right next to Kenton's hand.

Inside was the antique Patek Philippe watch she had spent months tracking down.

"Happy birthday, Kenton."

Her voice was completely steady, lacking even a tremor of the panic tearing her apart inside.

Kenton did not spare a single glance at the box.

"Who gave you permission to come here?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous chill.

Alyson looked directly into his eyes.

A small, self-deprecating smile pulled at the corner of her mouth, and the last flicker of warmth in her eyes died out completely.

"This is the last time," she said softly.

The absolute finality in her tone made the air in the room feel heavy.

Kenton let out a short, dismissive scoff, clearly thinking this was just another one of her desperate ploys for attention.

Alyson did not waste another second looking at him.

She turned on her heel and walked toward the open door, keeping her shoulders pulled back.