1 The day I finally decided to divorce Tom Sinclair, I brought him a home-cooked meal in his executive suite, just like I always did. He took a bite, and his eyes immediately lit up. “This broth is incredible. Make it again tomorrow.” I nodded slowly. “Sure. I’ll write down the recipe for the housekeeper.” Tom looked up, his brow furrowing slightly. “Do you have somewhere to be tomorrow?” “Tom, I want a divorce.” My voice was completely flat. It was so terrifyingly calm that everyone, Tom included, assumed I was just throwing another one of my pathetic tantrums. But they had no idea. In exactly twelve hours, I would be boarding a military-grade transport plane with an elite polar expedition team, leaving the civilized world behind for good. Hearing my words, Tom didn’t even bother to blink. “If you don’t have anywhere to be tomorrow, you cook. I can’t stomach the garbage the new chef makes.” “Then hire someone whose food you can actually swallow.” As I spoke, I reached into my designer tote, pulled out the pristine divorce papers, and slid them across his mahogany desk. “I’ve already signed. I just need your signature.” Tom didn’t reach for the pen. Instead, he leaned back in his leather chair, his dark, calculating eyes locking onto mine for a long, suffocating moment. Then, a low chuckle escaped his lips. “Attempt number eighteen. I have to admit, you’re really selling it this time.” I knew exactly what he meant. Before today, whenever his filthy hotel rendezvous with whatever A-list actress or Instagram model hit the tabloids, I would lose my mind. I would scream, cry, and threaten divorce. He would call me hysterical, pack a bag, and move into his penthouse suite at the company. And a few days later, terrified of losing him, I would swallow every ounce of my pride and beg him to come home. A toxic, degrading cycle. Seventeen times. But what he didn’t know was that yesterday, while hiding in a bathroom stall at my research institute, I overheard my colleagues tearing me apart. “Did you see the Daily Mail? Dr. Hazel’s billionaire husband got caught sneaking out of the Plaza with that new pop star.” “Hard to miss it when it’s trending everywhere. I honestly don’t get why Hazel stays with a guy who humiliates her like that.” “Are you kidding? Look at his bank account. She’s staying for the lifestyle. Plus, let’s be real… she’s got zero self-respect.” Their laughter had echoed off the tiles, fading down the hallway. Inside the stall, I had bitten my lower lip so hard I tasted copper. With trembling fingers, I had dialed Tom’s private number. He answered just as it was about to go to voicemail. “What now?” “You promised me you wouldn’t make the headlines again. Do you have any idea how people look at me at work?” “Is that it?” His voice dripped with raw impatience. “If you can’t handle a few whispers, quit your little science job and stay home. Hazel, there is a line of women begging to be Mrs. Sinclair out the door. If you’re tired of the title, step aside.” Before I could even breathe, a sickeningly sweet female voice drifted through the receiver. “Tom, baby, I wouldn’t mind being Mrs. Sinclair for a while.” “Done. Soon as Hazel packs her bags, the ring is yours.” The call ended to the sound of heavy, breathless panting. Staring at the black screen of my phone, I realized my colleagues were right. I really had zero self-respect. Pulling myself back to the present, I looked at the man across the desk. “Don’t worry. Even though you’re the one who couldn’t keep his pants zipped, I’m not touching a single cent of the Sinclair fortune. I left all the jewelry and black cards on the vanity.” “Enough!” Tom slammed his silver spoon down, splashing broth onto the polished wood. “We are at the office. If you want to pitch a fit, do it at home. I don’t have time for your high school drama.” I pressed my lips together, offering no response. I just stared at him, my eyes devoid of the adoration that used to fuel his ego. After a heavy silence, he sighed, running a hand through his hair like he was dealing with a stubborn toddler. “Fine. I’ll have my assistant send that diamond collar you were looking at to the estate tonight. As for Montanna…” “Mr. Sinclair.” My voice was ice. “I don’t need the diamonds. And I couldn’t care less about whatever new plaything you’re entertaining. I’m here for a divorce.” If my father hadn’t dragged Tom’s grandfather from a burning car wreckage decades ago, a woman with my modest background would never have been allowed anywhere near the Sinclair empire. The Manhattan elite knew I didn’t belong. They looked down on me. Even though my doctoral thesis had once sent shockwaves through the global biological community, I still felt unworthy. So, I clipped my own wings, hid my brilliance, and bent over backwards to become the perfect, submissive wife. Now, the spell was broken. Five years of swallowing glass, all for a joke of a marriage. It was time to reclaim my throne. “Hazel…” Tom barely got my name out before the heavy oak doors swung open without a single knock. 2 Montanna fluttered into the room like a moth dressed in couture, making a direct beeline for Tom. “Tom, honey, I came to drag you to lunch. Oh, you’re already eating? It smells divine. Did your little maid make it?” Tom despised people barging into his sanctuary. He once fired an intern on the spot for forgetting to knock during an emergency. Even I, his legal wife, had to pass through three layers of security to bring him lunch. But clearly, Montanna was the golden exception. Instead of kicking her out, the rigid lines of his face softened, and he beckoned her over. “Yeah, the maid made it.” He shot a mocking glance in my direction. “Looks edible, but honestly, it tastes like garbage.” The corner of my mouth twitched upward. I calmly reached over, picked up the designer thermos, and dropped it straight into his executive trash can. Tom’s face instantly darkened. Before he could snap at me, Montanna had already draped herself across his lap, tracing his lapel with manicured nails. “If it’s garbage, don’t eat it. A new Michelin-star French place just opened down the block. Let’s go there.” “Alright. We’ll go.” As he stood up, adjusting his custom suit, he shot me a freezing glare. “I’ll have PR handle the tabloid mess. It won’t happen again. But listen to me very carefully, Hazel. This is the last time I’m entertaining this divorce game. Pull this stunt again, and I will happily give you exactly what you’re asking for.” A bitter chill swept through my chest. I took a step sideways, blocking their path to the door. “Tom, our marriage has been an ugly, public disaster. Let’s at least end it with a shred of dignity. There’s no need to wait for a next time. Sign it today.” Montanna wasn’t stupid. She instantly clocked what was happening, her eyes lighting up with poorly concealed greed. French food was suddenly the last thing on her mind. “Oh my god, Tom, I am so sorry. Am I interrupting something serious?” She batted her lashes innocently. “Maybe I should wait in the lobby?” She made a fake move to leave, but Tom’s hand clamped down on her wrist. “You aren’t going anywhere.” He turned his glacial stare onto me, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He was standing on the absolute edge of a volcanic eruption. In the past, this look alone would have had me shaking in my heels, scrambling for ways to appease him. But today, I held my ground, meeting his lethal gaze without a flinch. “Sign the paper. I’ll walk out of this building, and you will never have to look at me again.” The temperature in the room plummeted. Montanna’s eyes darted between the two of us. Then, in a theatrical display that belonged on a soap opera, she dropped to her knees right on the Persian rug. “Mrs. Sinclair, you can take your anger out on me, but please, please don’t torture Tom! This is all my fault!” “If slapping me makes you feel better, do it! I’ll take it all!” Before I could even process the absolute absurdity of her performance, she raised her own hand and raked her nails violently across her own cheek, leaving a bright red welt. Tom let out a furious shout. He hauled her off the floor, cradling her face like it was made of spun glass, before turning on me like a rabid dog. “Hazel, you psychotic bitch! She is a public figure! How could you be so vile?” He didn’t even give me a second to speak. With a few crocodile tears and a self-inflicted scratch, the verdict was delivered. I was the villain. “Montanna, I am so sorry you had to endure this,” he murmured, his voice dripping with sickening sweetness. “I promise you, the lead role in that new studio blockbuster is yours.” Over his shoulder, where he couldn’t see, Montanna flashed me a smug, venomous smirk. She mouthed the words slowly so I wouldn’t miss them. The ring is mine. Watching her, I felt absolutely nothing. Not a single ripple of jealousy. I was throwing the whole man into the garbage. Why would I care who scavenged him? I ignored her completely, standing firm in the doorway. “Tom Sinclair. Sign the damn paper.” 3 The silence in the room was deafening. Suddenly, the heavy oak doors were violently shoved open. My mother stormed into the office, her eyes skipping right over me to lock onto the divorce papers on the desk. She snatched them up, ripped them in half, and then grabbed me harshly by the shoulders, shaking me with manic energy. “Have you lost your goddamn mind? You have a perfect life, and you’re throwing it away!” She planted her hands on her hips, her voice piercing enough to shatter glass. She wanted to make absolutely sure the billionaire standing behind me heard every word of her loyalty. “Look at Tom! The looks, the pedigree, the wealth! You leave him, and what do you think you’re going to get?” “A divorced woman in her thirties is damaged goods! Who is going to want you?” “If it weren’t for the Sinclair family, do you think you could afford your little designer clothes on a researcher’s pathetic salary? Over a tiny little disagreement, you’re throwing a nuclear tantrum!” “Listen to me, Hazel. Only pathetic, weak-willed men stay tied to one woman. It’s not that they don’t want mistresses, it’s just that they can’t afford them! A man of Tom’s status is allowed a few flaws!” I pressed my tongue against the inside of my cheek, a suffocating wave of exhaustion washing over me. To the outside world, my marriage was a fairytale. But the rotting core of it was something only my mother and I truly understood. Yet, her solution was always to swallow the poison and smile. She was publicly humiliating me in front of my husband and his mistress, all to protect her VIP country club membership. A hollow, self-deprecating smile touched my lips. Misreading my silence as submission, my mother softened her tone slightly, though the words remained dripping with venom. “Hazel, sweetie, every marriage has hiccups. Your father and I fought like cats and dogs.” “Be a good girl. Go apologize to Tom. Bow your head, and from now on…” I slowly raised my eyes, my voice quiet but forged from steel. “I am not bowing to anyone.” “This marriage is over.” “My entire life, I played by your rules. I studied what you wanted, took the safe job, married the golden boy. I lived to fulfill everyone else’s expectations, letting myself bleed dry in the process.” “Not anymore. For the rest of my life, I belong to me.” “You ungrateful little brat!” My mother shrieked, raising her hand as if she wanted to strike me down. But when she met my dead, unflinching stare, her hand froze in mid-air. She dropped her arm, her face twisting in disgust. “Fine! Ruin your life! But when you’re crying in the gutter, don’t you dare come crawling back to my doorstep!” She spun on her heels and marched out, slamming the door so hard the framed degrees on the wall rattled. The office plunged back into a suffocating quiet. Without missing a beat, I reached into my bag and pulled out a backup copy of the divorce agreement. “Sign it.” “You are going to regret this, Hazel!” Tom was officially unhinged. He snatched a gold-plated Montblanc pen from his desk and violently slashed his signature across the bottom of the page. “You want out? Fine. But you walk away with nothing. Not a single red cent of my money.” I carefully picked up the paper, checking the signature before sliding it safely into a manila folder. There was no heartbreak. Only a profound, dizzying sense of relief. A massive, crushing weight lifted off my chest. When I first met Tom Sinclair, I fell stupidly, blindly in love. I knew he was Manhattan’s most notorious playboy. I never in a million years expected him to honor his grandfather’s dying wish and actually marry me. Surrounded by his glamorous exes, I was just a quiet, nerdy ugly duckling. When he slipped that diamond on my finger, I thought I had won the lottery. I was naive enough to believe that underneath his cold exterior, he actually cared for me. My reward for that delusion came on day three of our honeymoon, when TMZ leaked photos of him leaving a club with a Victoria’s Secret model. I cried. I screamed. But I didn’t leave. I foolishly believed my pure, unwavering love could fix him. Instead, I became a neurotic, shattered ghost of myself. I traded my title as a brilliant young scientist to become a miserable, paranoid socialite. If I could just turn a blind eye like the other billionaire wives, my life would be luxurious. Aside from his chronic infidelity, Tom was incredibly generous. On every anniversary and holiday, even if he was in another timezone with another woman, his team ensured massive floral arrangements and rare diamonds were delivered to my door. When I caught a nasty flu while he was partying in Ibiza, he flew a private medical team to the house to monitor me. That was why everyone, my own mother included, thought I was insane for leaving. But waking up every single day in a cavernous, empty mansion, feeling the pitiful stares of my friends and colleagues, it felt like I was drowning in a velvet ocean. I just wanted to breathe again. I looked up at Tom, my gaze completely devoid of the desperate affection that used to anchor him. “Keep your money. I don’t want it.” I was heading to the frozen wasteland of Antarctica. In the middle of absolute nowhere, a black card was just a useless piece of plastic. “You two have a lunch reservation to get to. I won’t keep you.” I turned on my heel, walking toward the door. Just before I crossed the threshold, I paused. “Since my cooking is garbage, I won’t bother leaving the recipes.” Tom glared daggers at my back. “Don’t flatter yourself. You think I’ll starve without you?” Fair enough. It was a stupid thing to say. “Enjoy your French food.” Without looking back, I walked out of the building and into the crisp city air.
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