Love And Lies by Marg

For ten years, I gave my husband, Desmond, everything. I worked three jobs so he could get his MBA and sold my grandmother' s locket to fund his startup. Now, on the verge of his company's IPO, he was forcing me to sign divorce papers for the seventeenth time, calling it a "temporary business move."

Then I saw him on TV, his arm wrapped around another woman-his lead investor, Aurora Quinn. He called her the love of his life, thanking her for "believing in him when no one else did," erasing my entire existence with a single sentence.

His cruelty didn't stop there. He denied knowing me after his bodyguards beat me unconscious at a mall. He locked me in a dark basement, fully aware of my crippling claustrophobia, leaving me to have a panic attack alone.

But the final blow came during a kidnapping. When the attacker told him he could only save one of us-me or Aurora-Desmond didn't hesitate.

He chose her. He left me tied to a chair to be tortured while he saved his precious deal. Lying in a hospital bed for the second time, broken and abandoned, I finally made a call I hadn't made in five years.

"Aunt Evelena," I choked out, "can I come stay with you?"

The reply from the most feared lawyer in New York was instant. "Of course, darling. My private jet is on standby. And Ariel? Whatever it is, we'll handle it."

Chapter 1

Ariel Payne POV:

For the seventeenth time, Desmond' s lawyer slid the divorce papers across our kitchen table. The polished oak felt cold under my forearms, a stark contrast to the simmering heat of my humiliation.

Seventeen times.

That' s how many times in the last six months I' d been asked to legally erase myself from Desmond Day' s life.

The first time, I had screamed until my throat was raw. The fifth time, I had methodically torn each page into confetti-sized pieces, my hands shaking with a rage that felt foreign and terrifying. The tenth time, I had held a shard of a broken plate to my own wrist, my voice a dead calm whisper as I told his lawyer that if he wanted my signature, he' d have to pry the pen from my cold, dead fingers.

His lawyer, a man named Mr. Harrison with eyes as gray and lifeless as a winter sky, had actually paled and backed out of the house that day.

He' d called Desmond, of course. Desmond had rushed home, his face a mask of concern, and held me for hours, whispering promises into my hair. Promises that this was all temporary, just a formality for the investors, that I would always be his wife, the only one.

I had believed him. I always believed him.

But now, staring at the seventeenth iteration of the same document, a profound and hollow exhaustion settled deep in my bones. I was tired. So tired of fighting, of screaming, of believing.

"Ariel," Mr. Harrison said, his voice a low, practiced murmur meant to soothe. "We' ve been over this. It' s a strategic move. A temporary dissolution to appease the board before the IPO. Nothing will actually change between you and Desmond."

I didn' t look at him. My gaze was fixed on the television mounted on the living room wall, visible just over his shoulder. The sound was on mute, but the images were crystal clear. Desmond, my Desmond, was on the screen, his smile as bright and blinding as the camera flashes erupting around him. He stood on a stage, his arm wrapped possessively around the waist of another woman.

Aurora Quinn.

The brilliant, pragmatic venture capitalist from the firm leading his company' s investment round. The woman the media had dubbed the other half of Silicon Valley' s new power couple. Her smile was poised, her posture perfect. She belonged there, under the glittering lights, beside the man the world was celebrating as a self-made genius.

"He' ll remarry you the second the company is stable," Mr. Harrison continued, his voice an annoying buzz in my ear. "This is just… business. Aurora' s family has immense influence. Their public association is a guarantee for the IPO' s success."

A guarantee. I was the risk. The secret wife from his impoverished past, a relic of a life he was desperate to forget.

I' d heard these lines so many times they' d lost all meaning. They were just sounds, empty air shaped into words that were supposed to manage me, to keep me quiet and compliant in the shadows of the life I had helped build.

I looked down at the papers. My name, Ariel Payne, was printed next to a blank line. His name, Desmond Day, was already signed, his familiar, ambitious scrawl a testament to his efficiency.

"Fine," I heard myself say. The word was so quiet, so devoid of emotion, that for a moment I wasn' t sure I' d spoken it aloud.