Outside the hospital, the cold wind hit my face, finally tamping down some of the fury coiled in my chest.
I pulled out my phone and called my assistant, Evan Brooks.
"Dig into Virginia Matthews. I suspect she had something to do with my brake failure last time."
After that last maintenance appointment, my brakes had given out on the highway. I'd swerved into a median strip—the only thing that saved me from a catastrophic accident.
That evening, the regional manager of a high-end jewelry boutique arrived at my door on Leo's orders, presenting dozens of exquisite pieces for me to choose from.
"Mr. James is so good to you! To be cherished like this—it's truly enviable."
I swept my gaze over the glittering display, feeling nothing but bitter irony.
"Don't you know? The night a man cheats, he always comes home telling his wife 'I love you'—over and over—just to ease his own guilt."
Leo thought I was throwing a tantrum—like those socialite wives who discover their husband's affair and spiral into tears, threats, and dramatics before eventually being pacified with jewelry and designer bags.
But he forgot who he was dealing with.
I'm Gladys Harding.
The sole heir of the Harding family. I took over the family business at eighteen. By twenty-two, I'd carved my way through the cutthroat world of Wall Street, leaving a trail of blood behind me.
At twenty-five, I returned home and entered this marriage of convenience with him—not because I couldn't live without him, but because of the bond between our fathers.
Because he promised me forever. One life, one love, just the two of us.
The joke was on me.
In just five short years, he'd tossed those vows aside like yesterday's garbage.
The next day, I received a WhatsApp friend request from Virginia. Her message read:
"Gladys, I'd like to explain about your car's maintenance issue."
The day was impossibly hectic—back-to-back meetings from morning till dusk, then a rushed flight to Capitol City for my uncle's birthday banquet.
I didn't have a moment to accept her request until I landed.
Virginia immediately sent a voice message. The gist: the mechanic who serviced my car was a temp worker who'd since gone AWOL. Unreachable. Convenient.
I didn't respond. But as I swiped back, my finger slipped, landing me on her Moments feed.
The latest post was from thirty minutes ago.