THE ACCORM by Sparrow

No Longer Mrs. Cooley: The Architect's Return

Xiao Xiaosu

I went to the City Clerk's office for a routine copy of my marriage license to finalize a trust fund audit. I expected a simple piece of paper, but the clerk's pitying look told me my entire life was a lie. "The license was never finalized, Ms. Oliver. In the eyes of the state, you are single." The three-hundred-guest wedding at the Plaza and the Vogue features meant nothing. My husband, Gray Cooley, had intentionally filed the documents with a "procedural defect" so he could discard me without a legal divorce. Moments later, an iCloud invite titled "Our Little Secret" popped up on my screen. It was a photo of my best friend, Brylee, holding a positive pregnancy test at our Hamptons estate. Gray's text to her was the final blow: "Happy anniversary, babe. This baby is the best gift. Once the trust unlocks today, we're done with the charade." I soon discovered they were even stealing my career, reassigning my architectural masterpiece to Brylee while preparing my eviction notice. Gray's mother called me a "barren mule" in a leaked recording, mocking the infertility I suffered after saving Gray's life in a construction accident. I wasn't a wife; I was a three-year placeholder used to secure his inheritance. How could the man I bled for treat me like a disposable prop? How could my best friend carry his child while pretending to comfort me through my darkest moments? The betrayal burned until it turned into a cold, hard stone of fury. I didn't cry. Instead, I walked into the penthouse of the Barretts, the Cooleys' most powerful rivals. I signed a marriage contract with Kane Barrett, the man the tabloids called the "Beast of Wall Street." "I want a wedding," I told his father, my voice steady and lethal. "Bigger than the one I had with Gray." If they wanted me gone, they would have to watch me become the woman who owns their world.

Modern Revenge Divorce

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Vivian stood before the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the Mercer Capital executive office. Her fingers gripped two printed private jet confirmations for Martha's Vineyard so tightly that the edges of the paper cut into her skin.

Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

The heavy mahogany double doors swung open. Landon Mercer strode into the room. He wore a custom-tailored Tom Ford suit, his presence instantly sucking the oxygen out of the massive space.

Vivian took a step forward. She held out the flight confirmations.

Landon did not even look at her. He walked straight past her extended hand and headed for the crystal decanters on the wet bar.

Ice clinked against heavy glass. He poured a generous measure of bourbon. The sharp sound echoed in the suffocating silence of the room.

Vivian drew in a shallow, shaky breath.

"Landon," she said, her voice trembling. "About the itinerary for this weekend..."

Landon turned around. He took a sip of his drink. His cold, dark eyes scanned her from head to toe, assessing her like a piece of depreciating office furniture.

"I am going to the island with Whitney this weekend," he stated. His tone was flat, leaving no room for discussion.

Vivian's stomach dropped. A wave of nausea hit her so hard she had to lock her knees to stay standing. She bit down on her lower lip, tasting the metallic tang of blood, fighting the burn of tears in her eyes.

She walked over to the massive mahogany desk. She placed the tablet down.

"Then we need to end this," she said. Her voice was barely a whisper. "I want to break up."

Landon's finger paused on the rim of his crystal glass. A low, mocking laugh rumbled in his chest.

He set the glass down and closed the distance between them. His tall frame blocked out the sunlight from the windows, casting a dark shadow over her face.

He reached out. His fingers clamped around her jaw like a steel vise, forcing her head up. She had no choice but to look into his freezing eyes.

"Let me remind you of something, Vivian," he said softly. "You are a nobody from St. Agnes Orphanage."

Vivian grabbed his wrist. She tried to pull his hand away, but his grip was immovable. The physical dominance made her chest tighten with absolute helplessness.

"You will never cross the threshold into Boston society," Landon continued, his thumb digging into her cheek. "You are a convenient girlfriend. Nothing more."

A single tear broke free. It rolled down her cheek and dropped onto the polished toe of his handmade Italian leather shoe.

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