Rosé

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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"Let's end this marriage."

That single sentence was all it took to plunge Christina Jones into a woman unwanted by a wealthy family. Three years of loyalty to her husband, Brendon Dawson, had bought her nothing but heartbreak.

On the day that should have marked a joyful third anniversary, Christina had gone to Brendon's office, eager to invite him out to celebrate. Stepping inside, her eyes fell immediately on an ornate necklace gleaming atop his desk. She had believed the necklace was meant for her.

However, Brendon noticed her stare and snapped the jewelry box shut with a careless hand. "Yolanda's come back. This is her present," he explained, his words sharp and cool, making sure there was no room left for misunderstanding.

Everything became painfully clear in that instant. Christina dropped her gaze, thick-rimmed glasses doing little to mask the ache and disappointment swimming in her eyes.

Brendon's old flame, Yolanda Mitchell, had returned and reclaimed her place in his heart. Meanwhile, Christina realized that after three years at Brendon's side, she'd never really belonged there—never held his love, always on the outside, now set aside like something worn out and unnecessary.

Irritation creased Brendon's brow, his patience fraying as he watched Christina stand silently, shoulders slumped. "I'll make sure you're compensated. Let's get this over with and move on. Don't kid yourself into thinking you belong where you never did," he said, his voice cold and final.

Honestly, Brendon had never found fault with Christina's appearance, figure, or way of managing the household. The thing was, she simply bored him. In his eyes, she was flavorless—a meal that left him unsatisfied, easy to set aside. Efficiency in the home didn't make her the woman he longed for.

Christina's silence only deepened the lines in Brendon's forehead. His tone grew cold. "You've got three days to make up your mind. Don't test my patience—I won't wait forever."

Without a flicker of hesitation, Christina replied, "No need for more time. I'll sign right now." She calmly picked up the pen and wrote her name on the divorce papers.

Together, they went through the motions at court, and soon every legal formality was behind them.

Walking out, Christina felt a heavy ache in her chest, yet a strange sense of freedom crept in as well.

The hope of ever reaching Brendon's heart was gone—she would no longer waste her life in a one-sided relationship. From now on, there'd be no more oscillating between hope and heartbreak, no more self-inflicted wounds from loving a man who couldn't love her back. Lingering pain had felt like dying by a thousand tiny cuts; best to finish it all at once. Now, at last, it was done—irrevocably finished.

A sudden ring from Brendon's phone broke into Christina's reverie. He answered, worry quickly sharpening his features. "What? Yolanda's been hospitalized? I'm on my way!"

With no farewell, Brendon rushed to his car and sped away, never pausing to offer Christina a ride or even a second glance.

Whenever Yolanda was involved, Brendon would abandon everything, swept up in thoughts of her alone.

As soon as Brendon disappeared, a sleek black-and-red Bugatti rolled to a stop right in front of Christina.

Out hopped Davina Morris, Christina's closest friend, sporting a bold outfit and a wide, mischievous grin. "Freedom looks good on you, Christina. Congratulations on finally escaping that mess."

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