I Left My Mate After Car Accident

Marrying My Runaway Groom's Powerful Father

Temple Madison

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."

Billionaires Revenge Kickass Heroine Revenge Female-centered Ex-wife

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Naomi Reed signed the divorce papers with a steady hand.

The lawyer paused, watching her carefully, as if expecting her to hesitate. Most women did. Most cried, begged, or at least asked for time.

Naomi did none of that.

She placed the pen down neatly and pushed the documents forward.

"I'm finished," she said.

Across the desk, Victor Hale stiffened.

"What do you mean, you're finished?" he asked, his voice calm but edged with irritation.

Naomi lifted her eyes to him. Three years of marriage, and she could count on one hand the number of times he had looked at her with real attention.

"I mean I've signed," she replied. "There's nothing left to discuss."

Victor frowned. "You're leaving just like that?"

Just like that.

Naomi almost smiled.

If only he knew how long she had stayed.

That night, she packed alone.

She didn't take much - clothes, documents, a few books. The house echoed with silence, a silence she had grown used to while waiting for a husband who was rarely home.

She paused in the bedroom doorway, looking at the bed where she had slept alone more nights than not.

"I tried," she whispered softly, though no one was there to hear it.

When the door closed behind her, it did not slam.

It simply shut.

Victor noticed her absence three days later.

The house was clean. Too clean.

No lights left on.

No quiet footsteps behind him.

For the first time, unease crept into his chest.

He told himself it was temporary.

He would learn how wrong he was.

Victor Hale did not follow Naomi when she left the lawyer's office.

He remained seated long after the door closed behind her, his fingers tapping lightly against the polished table. The lawyer cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the silence.

"Mr. Hale," he said carefully, "if there's nothing else-"

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