Heart Contract

The Ghost Wife's Billion Dollar Tech Comeback

Huo Wuer

Today is October 14th, my birthday. I returned to New York after months away, dragging my suitcase through the biting wind, but the VIP pickup zone where my husband's Maybach usually idled was empty. When I finally let myself into our Upper East Side penthouse, I didn't find a cake or a "welcome home" banner. Instead, I found my husband, Caden, kneeling on the floor, helping our five-year-old daughter wrap a massive gift for my half-sister, Adalynn. Caden didn't even look up when I walked in; he was too busy laughing with the girl who had already stolen my father's legacy and was now moving in on my family. "Auntie Addie is a million times better than Mommy," my daughter Elara chirped, clutching a plush toy Caden had once forbidden me from buying for her. "Mommy is mean," she whispered loudly, while Caden just smirked, calling me a "drill sergeant" before whisking her off to Adalynn's party without a second glance. Later that night, I saw a video Adalynn posted online where my husband and child laughed while mocking my "sensitive" nature, treating me like an inconvenient ghost in my own home. I had spent five years researching nutrition for Elara's health and managing every detail of Caden's empire, only to be discarded the moment I wasn't in the room. How could the man who set his safe combination to my birthday completely forget I even existed? The realization didn't break me; it turned me into ice. I didn't scream or beg for an explanation. I simply walked into the study, pulled out the divorce papers I'd drafted months ago, and took a black marker to the terms. I crossed out the alimony, the mansion, and even the custody clause-if they wanted a life without me, I would give them exactly what they asked for. I left my four-carat diamond ring on the console table and walked out into the rain with nothing but a heavily encrypted hard drive. The submissive Mrs. Holloway was gone, and "Ghost," the most lethal architect in the tech world, was finally back online to take back everything they thought I'd forgotten.

Modern Divorce Ex-wife

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Mia:

“What is this?" said a baritone deep voice from behind, grabbing my attention. I turned to notice a stranger standing there.

"It's a painting," I responded, deciding to press on with my painting as I stared at his imposing, muscular form and beautiful emerald eyes. Mr. Knighton had entrusted me with this painting."

I don't even know why I'm explaining myself to this strange man.

Is this what you call a painting? Splattering paint on a board and calling it art? I heard him say back to me.

W-what!, what did you just say, I stammered, dumbfounded by that rude response. He didn't even wait for me to finish talking before he walked out on me.

Flashback 48 hrs ago:

I stood there, heart pounding like a drum, staring at the fancy entrance of this mansion that looked like it belonged in a fairytale. Who would've thought Mia Turner, a struggling artist, would end up here? I fidgeted with my bag strap, clutching onto my paintings like they were life rats in an ocean of elegance.

I took a deep breath, well, several deep breaths, and finally stepped onto that marble pathway. I made an effort to behave as though I did this every day even though my sneakers looked out of place on the reflective surface. I was split internally between a sense of joy and anxiety, "What on earth am I doing here?"

The inside hall resembled something from a dream. Art hung on the walls like stars in a night sky, and people floated around in fancy dresses, all elegance and grace. And then there was me, awkwardly standing there with my not-so-fancy dress and a weird feeling like I had just walked into the wrong party.

My heart did a little leap when I spotted my paintings in the corner. They looked good. Even though I was aware of their quality, it was nevertheless strange to see them in this posh location. I couldn't help but crack a silly grin.

"Mia Turner, isn't it?" a voice interrupted my thoughts. I turned to find this older gentleman with a warm smile coming my way.

Suddenly he extended his hand like a prince, and I shook it, hoping not to seem like a wet sponge.

"Yeap, that's me," I replied, probably slightly too happily for the occasion.

"Lawrence Knighton," he said like I should know that name. "I'm thrilled to finally meet the brilliant artist behind these stunning pieces."

"Thank you," I whispered, somewhat uneasy. "I mean, thank you very much." "I'm simply... I'm delighted to be here, this is a nice Charity Art event you’ve thrown."

Lawrence chuckled like I had just cracked some inside joke. No need to be nervous, "Isabella." Your work is truly captivating. Your paintings communicate volumes to the viewer, "as art tends to do."

Okay, now, "I'm blushing" - sorry, I appreciate that. I mean, really, thanks. "It's just... wow."

You know what, I would love for you to come to do a painting for me at my house, let's say in two days if that's okay with you?

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