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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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Gabriel Moretti

Burnt leather, the smell of blood, black smoke rising into the night.

It hurts. A dull pain twists my shoulder, hot and sticky. I don't have to look down to know: the bullet has gone in. Too clean to be a simple settling of scores, too precise to be a warning. Someone wanted to kill me.

I place a hand against the wound and straighten up against the gutted carcass of my car. The metal is still warm, deformed by the impact of the explosion. It all happened too fast. One minute we were driving through the night, Matteo at the wheel, three of my men as backup. The next, a spray of fire, detonation, the screech of tires tearing the asphalt. An ambush. Millimetre. They were waiting.

My breath is short. My trembling fingers slide over the leather of my jacket, sticky with blood. I feel the warm liquid slowly trickling down my arm, seeping under the fabric. I grit my teeth. Not now. Not here.

Matteo crawls towards me, his gun pressed to his chest. His face is tense, a trail of blood across his temple.

- We've got to move, capo.

His voice is low, but I sense the urgency beneath the feigned calm. My men are scattered around us, some inert, others groaning in the darkness. I don't need to count. I already know that many won't get up again.

I nod, try to sit up, but a jolt of pain explodes in my shoulder. I grunt, clench my jaw. Every movement is torture, every breath an effort.

- The car?

Matteo glanced at the smoking carcass.

- Busted.

Of course it is. My gaze sweeps the dark alleys around us. I don't have the luxury of waiting for reinforcements. If my enemies have had the audacity to attack here, it's because they know what they're doing. This isn't a warning, it's a botched execution.

- Hospital?" asks Matteo.

- Out of the question.

No doctors. No records. No evidence. If I set foot in a hospital, it will take an army to get me out alive. I have to disappear before this attack becomes an official declaration of war.

But I need a doctor. And I have an option. One I don't like.

Matteo stares at me, waiting for a decision.

- I have someone.

His eyebrows furrow.

- Confidence?

I don't answer immediately. Trust? No. But she's the only one who can patch me up, no questions asked.

I spit out a trickle of blood, inhale slowly. My voice is hoarse, sharp.

- Take me to Alba Ricci.

Alba Ricci

The silence of the night is a lie.

In the darkness of my apartment, I put my ear to the ground. I've learned to listen beyond the apparent calm. An engine slowing down too close to my building. Footsteps stopping in front of my door. Breath held behind a wall. The warning signs of danger are often imperceptible. Until it's too late.

I close my hand over the scalpel handle on the table. I never really sleep, not deeply, not since I ran away from what was supposed to be my life. Fear is a habit, an old friend.

Then, three sharp knocks against my door.

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