The billionaire is a Vigilante

The paper in Giselle's hands wasn't just a document; it was a death sentence for the life she had painstakingly built. The DNA test results were heavy, the paper stock thick and expensive, mocking the cheap, trembling hands that held it. Outside, the storm battered the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Villarreal manor, the thunder rattling the glass in a rhythm that matched the frantic pounding of her heart.

0% match.

The test had been demanded by the Woods family the moment Clydie resurfaced, a final, brutal confirmation to sever the ties Giselle had desperately tried to knot. The red text at the bottom blurred as Giselle's eyes filled with tears she refused to shed. She stood in the center of the mahogany-paneled study, feeling small. Insignificant.

The heavy oak doors behind her swung open. The sharp click-clack of stilettos on marble echoed before the woman even entered. Buna Villarreal. Her mother-in-law.

She didn't walk; she marched. A phalanx of lawyers trailed behind her like carrion birds waiting for a carcass. She threw a folder onto the desk. It landed with a heavy thud that made Giselle flinch.

"You really are a piece of work, Giselle," Buna spat, her voice dripping with venomous satisfaction. "A fake heiress. A fraud. The Woods family has already issued a statement. They have cut you off. You are nothing. You are nobody."

"I didn't know," Giselle whispered. Her throat felt like it was stuffed with cotton. "Buna, please, I didn't know."

"Don't you dare call me that," she snapped. "You have humiliated this family for the last time. You're a discard, Giselle. A parasite we are finally removing."

One of the lawyers stepped forward, his face blank, professional. He uncapped a fountain pen and held it out to her. The gold nib glinted under the chandelier light. He pointed to the dotted line on the divorce papers spread out on the desk.

Giselle didn't take the pen. Her eyes were fixed on the doorway. She was waiting. She was praying.

Joseph.

He had to come. He had to listen. Three years. They had been married for three years. There had been moments-small, quiet moments-where she thought he saw her. Not the merger, not the business deal, but her.

The air in the room shifted. It grew colder, sharper.

Joseph Villarreal walked in.

He was wearing a black bespoke suit that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. He looked immaculate, untouched by the chaos of the storm outside or the destruction of Giselle's life inside. He didn't look at his mother. He didn't look at the lawyers.

His dark eyes landed on Giselle.

She searched them for anger. For sadness. For anything. But there was nothing. It was like looking into a void. He looked at her with the same indifference he showed a fluctuating stock graph.

Giselle took a step toward him, her hand reaching out instinctively. "Joseph..."

He side-stepped her. Smoothly. Effortlessly. As if she were contagious.

He walked around the massive desk and sat in his leather chair. He picked up a cigar cutter, the metallic snip loud in the silence. He lit the cigar, took a drag, and exhaled a plume of grey smoke that drifted between them like a wall.

"Sign it," he said.

His voice was low, baritone, and utterly devoid of emotion.