My CEO husband was famously known as “Mr. Always Right.” Whatever his wife says is right; whatever she does is right. If something is wrong, it must be his fault. Everyone envied me for marrying the perfect man—until our anniversary party when I smashed a bottle over the head of his mistress-secretary. “Mr. Always Right” finally showed his true colors in public. “Apologize, or we’re getting divorced. Pick one!” I laughed calmly. “Well, here’s to the three of you living happily ever after!” Content As everyone looked at me in confusion, Ivy Snow, Declan Hawthorne’s secretary, collapsed to her knees before me. “Mrs. Chase, please don’t misunderstand! I would never try to seduce Mr. Hawthorne!” Her tear-streaked face wore an expression of grievance, but her eyes carried a bold and unmistakable challenge. Just like before—every time she deliberately ensured I “accidentally” saw her and Declan entangled in their sordid affairs. The onlookers quickly snapped out of their stupor, coming forward with forced smiles to mediate. “Mrs. Chase, everyone knows how deeply Mr. Hawthorne loves you! Why hold a grudge against his secretary over something so trivial? Isn’t that right, everyone?” Echoes of agreement surrounded me, accompanied by smug, condescending grins. To them, I was the trophy wife who had it all. A single word from me, and Declan would fly across the country just to deliver grapes he’d picked to satisfy my cravings. If I frowned, he’d buy out the entire city’s fireworks supply and light up the night sky, shouting his thunderous apologies. They envied me, but behind my back, they whispered I was nothing more than an ornamental vase—how did someone like me deserve a man as perfect as him? I don’t blame them for being naive. I blame Declan Hawthorne for playing the role of a devoted husband so convincingly for eight years. Little did they know, their “Mr. Always Right” had a single exception: Ivy Snow, his indispensable “right hand.” He’d said it himself—anyone could be sacrificed, but not her. Tonight, I confirmed that with my own eyes. I turned to the angry man, whose face was dark, and spoke softly. “Mr. Hawthorne, is that what you think too?” His lips pressed into a tight line, his eyes cold and distant, as if I were a stranger. He didn’t answer my question. Instead, he scooped Ivy into his arms and strode away. The guests, who had been laughing at my expense, froze in stunned disbelief as they watched him coo over the woman in his arms. “Ivy, don’t be afraid. As long as I’m here, no one will hurt you!” The tender reassurance echoed like a warning—directed at me. But after playing the “perfect wife” for eight long years, I was done with this charade. I stepped onto the stage, ripped off the banner covering, and revealed the bold words underneath the Divorce Celebration Party. Raising my glass to the crowd, I declared, “Thank you all for attending my divorce party. Cheers!” At that moment, I felt no sadness about being abandoned by my husband—only a profound sense of liberation. I had waited eight years for this day. Finally, finally, I was free. It felt so good. As I toasted to my newfound freedom, someone screamed, “Mr. Hawthorne! Mr. Hawthorne jumped into the ocean!”
By the next day, the news of Declan Hawthorne’s dramatic leap into the sea had spread like wildfire across Bayshore, California. The uninformed public marveled at his devotion and condemned the “trophy wife” as a heartless villain. Meanwhile, the guests who had witnessed him leave the Sunset Bay Cruise with Ivy now scrambled to send me consolation messages. “See? Deep down, Mr. Hawthorne still loves you. Otherwise, why would he jump into the ocean? He knows he was wrong—forgive him this once, okay?” If not for Ivy’s sentimental video, I might have been swayed by their words and believed Declan’s leap was a momentary lapse in judgment. In the video, the trembling and drenched Declan clung tightly to Ivy, tenderly stroking her hair. “It’s okay. Everything will be fine. I won’t let anyone call you a homewrecker.” There he was—a man terrified of water—willing to leap into the sea to protect his precious Ivy from public scorn. He loved her. I truly, deeply loved her. That’s his kind of fiery, icy love. After a night of drinking, I stumbled upon entering the room. The sharp pain stole my breath away. A cold voice shattered the silence. “Savannah Chase, I’ve given you the title of Mrs. Hawthorne. What more do you want?” Oh, right. I remembered the public proposal when he knelt before me, vowing I would always be the one and only Mrs. Hawthorne. At the time, I’d been blinded by love, ignoring how his affectionate gaze wasn’t directed at me but at a weeping Ivy nearby. Through his actions, he showed her that my title was empty. Ivy Snow was his true love. I had fought, yelled, and begged him to answer whether I had a place in his heart. Each time, he’d reply with the same icy detachment, devoid of warmth. “As long as you don’t touch her, you’ll always be the one I love most.” How cruel. His words wounded me deeply, but they also opened my eyes. He never loved me. Not even a little. Before I could answer, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me close, tending to the cut on my face with steady, practiced hands. When I tried to turn away, he held me in place with an iron grip. “Mrs. Hawthorne, your face belongs to the Hawthorne Corporation, too. You can’t afford to damage it.” Ah, yes. There was a gala tomorrow, and the hosts had explicitly requested my attendance. How could Mrs. Hawthorne show up with a flaw? I bit down hard, breaking his skin. My resentment and despair tasted of iron as I swallowed the blood that bound us together yet tore us apart. His fingers trembled slightly but didn’t withdraw. Only when my jaw ached and I let go did he grasp my chin and force me to look up. “Savannah, this is your final warning. Don’t push me too far.” Clutching his hand, he turned to leave. On the staircase, he stopped and looked back at me. “Tomorrow, make sure your makeup covers the cut. I don’t want any news of trouble in the Hawthorne marriage spreading again.” As his words cut through me, I could no longer hold back. “Mr. Hawthorne, did you forget what you said yesterday? Weren’t we getting a divorce?” Wasn’t he letting me go? He didn’t answer; he just kept walking. I stepped forward, waving a blood-stained photo in his direction, and smiled coldly. “Your beloved Ivy is in my hands. Aren’t you afraid I’ll do something to her?” In an instant, he lunged at me, gripping my throat with a terrifying intensity. “Savannah Chase, tell me—what did you do to Ivy?” I smirked at the frantic man before me, curving my lips without saying a word. His grip tightened, his rage boiling over as he growled. “If anything happens to Ivy, I’ll make sure you pay with your life.” Pay with my life? That sounded like a relief. At least in death, I’d escape this farce of a world. Closing my eyes, I waited for the end. But instead, my phone rang. He answered it with one hand, and Ivy’s mocking voice filled the room. “Savannah, how are you enjoying the gift I sent? Declan held me all night, again and again. Meanwhile, you spent the night alone, didn’t you? Want me to ask him to keep you company tonight?” The pressure on my neck disappeared instantly, and I collapsed to the floor. My reopened wounds bled freely, staining the cold tiles. In the icy silence, his warmth rushed over me like fire. “Savannah Chase, you don’t get to die without my permission!” How ironic. He didn’t know I’d rather die than endure this hell. But not this time, Declan Hawthorne. You’re not keeping me here anymore.
When I woke up in Seaside Medical Center, the first thing I saw was Declan Hawthorne slumped over by my bedside, his face pale with exhaustion and worry etched into his furrowed brow. Yesterday, in the haze of semi-consciousness, I vaguely remembered his frantic voice. “Savannah Chase, didn’t you say you loved me? Then you need to stay alive and keep loving me!” Once, I had believed that, too. I thought love was enough. But time, like a butcher’s blade, had sliced away my patience and affection, forcing me to see the truth. Wasting years on a man who didn’t love me back? Not worth it. A gust of wind brushed against my neck, and Declan woke with a start. Seeing my open eyes, he looked oddly relieved. “You—you’re awake?!” When I didn’t respond, he awkwardly reached for the water on the nightstand, trying to fill the silence. “I talked to Ivy about what happened yesterday. Don’t worry; she won’t bother you anymore.” Then, with an almost playful tone, “Savannah, you’ve got to stop using random photos from the internet to scare me. I thought—” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Never mind. Let’s just put it behind us. Can we stop fighting and return to how we used to be?” He held the cup to my lips, but as I raised my arm, my sleeve slipped back, exposing the scars on my wrist. His hand trembled, spilling water everywhere. “Who did this to you, Savannah? Tell me! Who hurt you?!” For once, there was genuine panic in his eyes. Was it pity? Compassion? Where was that concern when my depression had driven me to self-harm? When I’d cried myself to sleep, covering those scars with layers of foundation? Oh, right. He’d been laughing with Ivy, debating steak or seafood for dinner or deciding between a trip to Scandinavia or South America. Every business trip and every meeting had been their excuse for a romantic getaway. Meanwhile, the “Mrs. Hawthorne” they left behind was drowning in her despair, unseen and unheard of. I pulled my arm away from his grip and met his gaze, speaking slowly and clearly. “I did it to myself. But if you don’t let me go next time, I might aim here.” I dragged my finger across my neck. His dark eyes quivered, and he grabbed my hand, forcing it down. “S-Savannah, I’m sorry. Anything but divorce—whatever you want, I’ll give it to you.” “Then end things with Ivy Snow.” The sound of the glass shattering as he dropped it was deafening. I looked at him and let out a mocking laugh. “See? Even that—you can’t do it.” His expression darkened, his hands clamped down on my shoulders, fingers digging into my skin. “SAVANNAH CHASE, why? Why do you keep pushing me? You’ve been the CEO’s wife for years. What have you learned besides manipulation and blackmail?” “I learned how to let go,” I said, meeting his glare. “Let go of loving you. Declan Hawthorne, I don’t love you anymore. Let me go.” The grip on my shoulders loosened as his face crumbled, his gaze clouded with disbelief and despair. His lips parted as if to argue, but his assistant rushed in before he could, looking frantic. “Mr. Hawthorne, something’s happened to Ivy!” Declan broke from his stupor and darted toward the door, but I grabbed his wrist, stopping him. “Maybe this time, I can help.” His response was a sneer. “Savannah Chase, you’re good for one thing—being a pretty vase. What else could you possibly do?” He left, slamming the door behind him and taking the cold air. Unbothered, I reached for my phone and made a call. “Elias? I’ll be there soon.” Let’s see how his indispensable Ivy handles this mess.
Outside the VIP suite at Eclipse Lounge, the door hung ajar. Inside, chaos reigned—a bloodied Declan sat slumped on the floor amid broken glass and overturned furniture. It wasn’t hard to piece together what had happened: the knight rushing to save his damsel, a dramatic display of heroics for his secretary. But this time, he’d crossed paths with Elias Monroe, the one man in Bayshore who didn’t forgive or forget. “Declan Hawthorne,” Elias growled from his perch on the leather armchair, radiating authority. “Your secretary screwed up the paperwork, cost me millions in a deal. That’s nothing compared to the reputation blow Monroe Industries took because of her. This isn’t over.” Declan’s attempts to plead were brushed aside as Elias’s two hulking bodyguards loomed closer, their shadows stretching across the room. Before Declan could answer, Ivy scrambled onto the windowsill, sobbing hysterically. “I’ll jump! Don’t come closer!” Declan bolted forward, but Elias stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder. Elias scoffed, signaling the bodyguards to approach. “You were going to jump, right? I’m just helping you out. Go ahead. Next life, try being a better person.” “Elias, don’t touch her!” Declan yelled, desperation edging his voice. “Name your price. Anything you want!” Elias leaned back, smirking. “Fine. I want Hawthorne Corporation. All of it.” Declan fell silent, not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t. Hawthorne Corporation wasn’t solely his to give away. With a snap of Elias’s fingers, the bodyguards moved to grab Ivy. She crumbled to the floor, clutching Declan’s legs, begging incoherently. Disgusted, Declan kicked her away. “Pathetic. A grown woman groveling like this? Disgusting.” I cleared my throat, stepping into the room. Elias’s face lit up when he saw me, and he sprang to his feet, pulling out a chair for me. “Savannah, you’ve finally agreed to my terms?” Ignoring him, I turned to Declan, my voice steady. “That depends on whether Mr. Hawthorne agrees to mine.” Declan’s bloodied face paled as he glanced at Ivy, then back at me. After a long, agonizing pause, he clenched his jaw and nodded. “Fine. I’ll agree to anything if you can get Elias off my back.” I pulled the divorce papers from my bag and handed them to him. His expression hardened as he stared at the document. “You planned this all along, didn’t you?” “Yes,” I said simply. He snatched the pen and scribbled his name without hesitation. Then, lifting Ivy into his arms, he walked out, pausing only to throw me a parting remark. “Savannah Chase, don’t let me regret this. You know the consequences.” Oh, I knew. But after surviving this hell, I wouldn’t make the same mistakes again. As the door clicked shut, I whispered to the empty room, “Declan Hawthorne, I’m not a vase. I never was.”
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