Rejected and Betrayed A Lunas Broken Heart by Mia Lynn

My ten-year contract marriage was over. I had saved my sister's life by playing wife to a billionaire and mother to his two sons. Today, I was finally free.

But at my stepson's birthday party, my public execution began when a manipulated video starring my face was broadcast to all of New York's elite.

Then, my husband's ex-wife, Carolina, orchestrated my downfall. She injured herself and blamed me. The boys I raised screamed that I was a monster. And my husband, Justin, believing her lies, unleashed a verbal tirade so brutal that the sheer stress of it shattered the last fragile hope I held for our future.

He chose her. He chose the lie. He let that hope fade away.

But his mother, the woman who orchestrated our marriage, saved me. Months later, my ex-husband and stepsons found me in LA, crying and begging me to come home. I looked at the men who destroyed me and smiled.

"No," I said calmly. "I don't need you anymore."

Chapter 1

Alex Bennett POV:

Ten years. Three thousand, six hundred and fifty-two days. That was the price of my sister' s life. Today, the bill is paid in full. The contract is over.

I place the signed divorce agreement on the marble island in the center of our cavernous kitchen. The paper looks small and insignificant in the vast, empty space, a stark white flag of surrender-or maybe, of victory.

"Justin," I say, my voice steady. It doesn't even echo. This house was designed to swallow sound, to swallow lives. "I'm leaving."

He doesn't look up from his phone. He' s scrolling through market reports, his thumb moving with a relentless, detached rhythm. The morning light from the floor-to-ceiling windows glints off his perfect, expensive haircut.

"Don't be dramatic, Alex," he mutters, his voice a low rumble of dismissal. "If this is about the Hamptons trip, I already told you, I have the fundraising dinner."

"It's not about the Hamptons." I push the papers an inch closer to his phone. "Our contract is up. It' s been ten years. I'm moving out."

He finally looks up, his blue eyes, the color of a frozen lake, narrowing in annoyance. He sees the document, but his expression doesn't change. It' s the same look he gives a subordinate who has delivered bad news. An inconvenience.

"Right. The 'contract'," he says, the word dripping with sarcasm. He leans back against his stool, crossing his arms over a chest clad in a bespoke shirt that costs more than my first car. "And where exactly do you plan on going?"

He' s not asking out of concern. He' s asking because my existence is a logistical item on his long list of assets and responsibilities. He' s calculating the disruption.

"That's no longer your concern," I reply, keeping my hands flat on the cool marble. I need the anchor.

He laughs, a short, humorless sound. "Alex, be serious. What is this, a play for a better deal? A new car? Another piece of jewelry?" He gestures vaguely around the kitchen. "The Amex is in your wallet. Go buy yourself something nice. We'll talk about this later."

He picks up a black credit card from the counter, the one with no limit, and slides it toward me. It' s his solution for everything. A transaction. Just like our marriage. Just like me.

"I don't want your money, Justin."

A loud, scornful snort comes from the doorway. Beckham, our seventeen-year-old, leans against the frame, a carton of orange juice in his hand. His hair is a styled mess, just like his father's. His eyes, however, are pure Carolina. Cruel.

"Sure you don't," he sneers, taking a long swig directly from the carton. "You're a gold digger, Alex. Everyone knows it. You've been leeching off my dad for a decade. Why stop now?"

My chest tightens, a familiar ache. I raised this boy. I held him when he had nightmares, I taught him how to tie his shoes, I cheered the loudest at his soccer games. Now, he looks at me like I' m something he scraped off his shoe.

"The sooner you get out, the better," Beckham continues, his lip curled. "Mom's coming back for good. We don't need a stand-in anymore."

I don't respond. Arguing is like throwing stones into a void. There's no impact, no echo. Only silence.

As if on cue, his younger brother, Bertram, who is fifteen, scurries past him and grabs his phone from the charging station. He doesn't even look at me. He ducks his head and rushes up the grand staircase, but not before I hear him whisper urgently into the receiver.

"Mom? You won't believe this. Alex is actually leaving. Yeah, she just told Dad."

There's a pause. I can almost hear Carolina Ortega's delighted, perfectly modulated voice on the other end.

"I don't know, she looks serious this time," Bertram says, his voice a conspiratorial hiss. "She's always so cold and boring. It's about time."

The words hang in the air long after he's gone. Cold and boring. The labels they' ve stuck to me, taught to them by their biological mother, the famous, free-spirited snowboarder who left them for a mountain and a sponsorship deal.

Even Maria, our housekeeper who has been here longer than I have, gives me a look of pity as she wipes down a spotless counter. "Ma'am," she says softly, her Spanish accent thick with concern. "Mr. Barlow is a good man. The boys… they are just boys. They don't mean it. This is your home."

Everyone thinks I should be grateful. The public, the staff, my own husband. Grateful for the penthouse, the private jets, the life of a real estate magnate's wife. They don't see the cage. They only see the gold plating.