Discarded Wife Is A Hidden Billionaire Heiress

She glanced at the wall clock. Seven-thirty. The last dish was already placed on the table at exactly seven o'clock.

He was half an hour late.

Adah Beaumont nervously wiped her damp palms on her simple cotton dress. Her gaze fell to the center of the table, to the birthday cake she had spent the entire day baking from scratch.

A familiar tightness coiled in her stomach.

She unconsciously smoothed the fabric of her skirt. She never wore expensive clothes. Her husband, Atticus had made it clear she wasn't worthy of them.

The soft beep of the electronic lock at the front door sliced through the silence. Her heart leaped into her throat. She immediately stood, forcing a pleasing smile onto her face.

Atticus Sterling's tall frame filled the doorway. He wore a bespoke suit that probably cost more than her entire life before him. He radiated a cold, expensive aura.

His eyes swept over her, then the table laden with food. His handsome face remained a mask of indifference. He loosened his tie with an impatient tug, tossing his suit jacket onto the sofa.

Adah took a small step forward, her voice timid. "Atticus, you're home. Happy birthday. I made your favorites..."

"Enough."

His voice was a blade, cutting her off. His gaze landed on the cake, a flicker of disgust in his eyes. "Cayla's back."

The smile on Adah's face froze. The blood in her veins felt like it had turned to ice. Cayla Weaver, Atticus's mistress.The name had been lodged in her heart for three years.

Atticus watched her face pale, a cruel curve touching his lips. "She injured her leg saving me three years ago. Lost her dream of being a dancer forever. Now she's back. It's time I repaid what I owe."

Adah's lips trembled. "What about me?" she whispered. "We've been married for three years..."

"Married?" Atticus let out a laugh, as if it were the funniest joke he'd ever heard. "If it weren't for the despicable means you used back then, do you think you'd be standing here?"

He advanced on her, his shadow swallowing her whole. "You, a poor girl from the Rust Belt, should be grateful you got to marry into the Sterling family. Don't delude yourself into thinking you deserve more."

Tears welled in Adah's eyes. She pointed a shaking finger at the cake, a last, desperate plea. "But it's your birthday... this cake, I spent all day on it..."

Atticus's gaze fell on the cake, his revulsion deepening. He walked over, picked it up, and without a moment's hesitation, flipped it upside down into the nearby trash can.

Cream and fruit smeared against the bin's edge, a grotesque mess that mirrored her trampled heart.

A choked sob escaped Adah's throat. She lunged forward, trying to grab his arm. "How could you..."

"Don't touch me with your filthy hands!" he snarled, flinging her arm away.

He used too much force. Adah, caught completely off guard, stumbled backward, losing her balance.

Her head slammed into the sharp marble corner of the dining table.

There was a dull, sickening thud. Then, an explosion of pain from the back of her skull as darkness bloomed behind her eyes. It felt like something inside her mind had shattered.

Countless dusty, fragmented images flooded her consciousness like a tidal wave-a luxury yacht, the warm smiles of her parents, waterfalls of green code, the shadowless lamp over an operating table...

The trauma from the yacht explosion three years ago had given her PTSD and selective amnesia. A psychologist had implanted a false memory, a fabricated history of a "poor background."

Now, this violent physical impact was the key that unlocked the cage of her true memories.

Adah collapsed to the floor. But she didn't cry. She simply lifted her head, and the way she looked at Atticus had fundamentally changed.

The eyes that were once timid and full of adoration were now filled with nothing but icy clarity and a bone-deep chill.

Atticus, startled by her unfamiliar gaze, frowned. "What new trick are you playing now?"

She didn't answer him. Inside her head, a voice spoke with absolute certainty: I am Adah Beaumont, the sole heiress of the Beaumont family of New York.

She looked at the man who had humiliated her for three years as if he were a clown.

So this is the man she has "loved" for three whole years? A cowardly, stupid fool-a pathetic wretch who has been toyed with and manipulated like a puppet? And she wasted three full years on someone like that, enduring endless humiliation. What once was admiration has now turned into nothing but cold, biting scorn.

Slowly, she rose to her feet. She brushed the dust from her dress, her voice terrifyingly calm.

"Atticus Sterling," she said. "Let's get a divorce."