When Lucas slid the divorce papers across the table for the 108th time, I was already living my second life.
"We've been over for a long time, Serena," he said, his tone dripping with corporate sterility. "Let's keep this dignified and stop dragging it out."
In my past life, I had clung to the title of Mrs. Sterling like a drowning woman. I refused to let go until his illegitimate child was born, pushing me into a hysterical, ugly breakdown.
His solution? He used his high-priced lawyers and corrupt doctors to forcibly commit me to a private psychiatric facility.
He only visited me once, right as I was dying.
Looking down at my wasted body, he had sneered, "If I had known you'd become this paranoid, I never would have married you out of some ridiculous sense of duty."
But this time around, nothing matters more than my own survival.
"Ivy's pregnant. Name your price. Anything you want, except the title of Mrs. Sterling."
Lucas glanced down at his Patek Philippe watch, clearly impatient. "If we can't settle this today, we table it. But I'll keep putting these papers in front of you until you finally—"
"You won't need a hundred and nine," I cut him off, my voice dead calm. "I'm signing."
~~~~~
Lucas’s eyelashes gave a microscopic twitch.
He sat across from me, wearing his usual mask of long-suffering exhaustion. For three years, he had played the role of the brilliant Wall Street CEO enduring his unreasonable, erratic wife.
Now, he finally had what he wanted.
"You've finally thought it through. This is better for everyone," he said, a heavy sigh of relief slipping through his composed facade.
He pulled a thick stack of documents from his briefcase and slid them toward me.
"Three penthouses—Manhattan and the Hamptons. Twelve percent voting shares in Sterling Group. The Aston Martin. And a forty-million-dollar offshore trust fund." He recited the terms flawlessly, clearly rehearsed by his legal team. "Take a look. If you want to add anything, just say the word."
He sounded so earnest, almost compassionate, as if he genuinely cared about my future.
I stared at the papers, a cold smile touching my lips. I knew perfectly well that what he had already handed my adopted sister, Ivy, far exceeded this little severance package.
Without a word, I uncapped my fountain pen and slashed my signature across the dotted line.
Lucas watched the ink dry. A flicker of something unreadable flashed in his sapphire-blue eyes.
The news spread like wildfire. By that afternoon, the private WhatsApp groups of Manhattan’s elite were exploding.
"She finally caved."
"Lucas is free. Sterling Group's PR nightmare is over."
"About time. Why hold the CEO hostage?"
Someone even sent a voice memo: "Lucas, drinks tonight. We're celebrating at Soho House."
His business partners were practically popping champagne, relieved they no longer had to deal with the "emotionally unstable crazy woman."
I leaned back on the sofa in my design studio, scrolling through the messages one by one. I felt no anger. Not even sadness. Seven years of marriage, and to these Wall Street sharks, it was nothing more than a hostage situation he had finally escaped.
Not a single person asked if I was hurting.
My phone buzzed. It was Samantha, my best friend and a ruthless PR executive.
"Serena," she started, her voice unusually cautious. "Are you really just... handing her the crown?"
I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at the endless stream of traffic on Fifth Avenue. "When the man is dead to me, Sam, why would I keep his corpse around?"
A brief silence on the other end. Then, a sigh. "I guess this is it, then."
"Yeah. This is it."
I hung up, opened my phone's photo gallery, and selected every picture of Lucas.
Our engagement shoot in the Hamptons—him offering a faint smile while I beamed like an idiot. Our honeymoon on his private island in the Maldives—his arm around my waist, my hair whipping in the ocean breeze. Our fifth-anniversary dinner at a Michelin-starred restaurant—a candid shot of him cutting my steak.
And the last one: our wedding day at Trinity Church. He was adjusting my veil. The sunlight filtered through the stained glass, casting a golden halo over his sharp features.
My finger hovered over the screen for a fraction of a second. Then, I hit Delete All.
Seven years of memories. Wiped clean in three seconds.
I closed my eyes, but the memories of my past life surged forward, uninvited.
The day I found out Ivy had given birth. I remembered gripping the cold metal railing of that elite Manhattan private hospital, screaming until my throat bled, demanding to know why she had stolen my husband. Security guards had slammed me face-first into the freezing marble floor.
Then came Lucas’s voice, cold as ice from above me.
"Call the psych ward staff. Have her taken away. I'm done with this circus."
He hadn't even bothered to look at me. I had cried, thrashed, and begged while the doctors and nurses stared at me like a rabid animal.
He only reappeared when I was on my deathbed. Looking down at my skeletal frame, he delivered his final verdict: I was emotionally unstable. Paranoid. Crazy.
I snapped my eyes open. Outside, the New York skyline was already glittering with evening lights.
This time, I would never hand my life over to anyone. And for every ounce of pain they inflicted on me, I would make them pay it back in blood.
