The Unwanted Husband's Comeback

The Unwanted Husband's Comeback

Miss Demeanor

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Our startup, Veridian Capital, was supposed to be our shared dream-Sarah's and mine. I poured my life, my family's money, everything into it, even as a mysterious, chronic fatigue consumed me. Tonight, at the annual gala, Sarah, now CEO, was radiant. Then, on stage, she didn't just announce a new strategic business partner. Her voice, filled with sickening pride, declared they were expecting a child. With him. My blood ran cold as the room erupted in whispers. She looked at me, the man she' d called her husband, and spat, "This is your fault! Your debilitating negativity! Your lack of vitality!" After I demanded a divorce, her new "partner," a supposed Italian Count, brutally attacked me in our apartment, leaving me broken and bleeding. I lay there, ribs cracked, utterly bewildered. But the true horror hit harder than any fist: My sister, a tough US Attorney, later confirmed that my mysterious illness – the very fatigue Sarah used to justify her betrayal – wasn't natural. It was a slow-acting poison, meticulously administered over two years. By Sarah. The woman I loved, the partner I built everything with, had systematically poisoned me to take my company, my life, and replace me. And now, she was about to learn that Michael Holloway, once discarded and broken, was finally free. And I was coming for everything she held dear.

Introduction

Our startup, Veridian Capital, was supposed to be our shared dream-Sarah's and mine.

I poured my life, my family's money, everything into it, even as a mysterious, chronic fatigue consumed me.

Tonight, at the annual gala, Sarah, now CEO, was radiant.

Then, on stage, she didn't just announce a new strategic business partner.

Her voice, filled with sickening pride, declared they were expecting a child.

With him.

My blood ran cold as the room erupted in whispers.

She looked at me, the man she' d called her husband, and spat, "This is your fault! Your debilitating negativity! Your lack of vitality!"

After I demanded a divorce, her new "partner," a supposed Italian Count, brutally attacked me in our apartment, leaving me broken and bleeding.

I lay there, ribs cracked, utterly bewildered.

But the true horror hit harder than any fist: My sister, a tough US Attorney, later confirmed that my mysterious illness – the very fatigue Sarah used to justify her betrayal – wasn't natural.

It was a slow-acting poison, meticulously administered over two years.

By Sarah.

The woman I loved, the partner I built everything with, had systematically poisoned me to take my company, my life, and replace me.

And now, she was about to learn that Michael Holloway, once discarded and broken, was finally free.

And I was coming for everything she held dear.

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I was sitting in the Presidential Suite of The Pierre, wearing a Vera Wang gown worth more than most people earn in a decade. It was supposed to be the wedding of the century, the final move to merge two of Manhattan's most powerful empires. Then my phone buzzed. It was an Instagram Story from my fiancé, Jameson. He was at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris with a caption that read: "Fuck the chains. Chasing freedom." He hadn't just gotten cold feet; he had abandoned me at the altar to run across the world. My father didn't come in to comfort me. He burst through the door roaring about a lost acquisition deal, telling me the Holland Group would strip our family for parts if the ceremony didn't happen by noon. My stepmother wailed about us becoming the laughingstock of the Upper East Side. The Holland PR director even suggested I fake a "panic attack" to make myself look weak and sympathetic to save their stock price. Then Jameson’s sleazy cousin, Pierce, walked in with a lopsided grin, offering to "step in" and marry me just to get his hands on my assets. I looked at them and realized I wasn't a daughter or a bride to anyone in that room. I was a failed asset, a bouncing check, a girl whose own father told her to go to Paris and "beg" the man who had just publicly humiliated her. The girl who wanted to be loved died in that mirror. I realized that if I was going to be sold to save a merger, I was going to sell myself to the one who actually controlled the money. I marched past my parents and walked straight into the VIP holding room. I looked the most powerful man in the room—Jameson’s cold, ruthless uncle, Fletcher Holland—dead in the eye and threw the iPad on the table. "Jameson is gone," I said, my voice as hard as stone. "Marry me instead."

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