Twice Burned Twice Desired

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 Revenge Female-centered Divorce

Download the Book on the App

There's a kind of pain that doesn't scar your skin, it buries itself in your bones and teaches you how to smile while you bleed.

That's the pain Cosmas Moretti gave me.

And tonight, I get to return the favor.

---

It's been five years since I last stood in a Moretti ballroom, wearing a gown he paid for, smiling like I wasn't dying inside.

Now, I wear a gown I designed, built from threads of revenge and stitched with power. It glitters gold beneath the chandelier light, like it knows I've come to claim what was taken.

My heels click against the marble floors like war drums as I enter the Grand Sapphire Hotel, the stage of tonight's charity gala hosted by Cosmas Moretti.

His name sours my tongue even when unspoken.

The entire space smells like old money and newer lies. Champagne flows, laughter echoes in curated elegance, and cameras flash against gowns worth more than some people's homes.

I know the press will be here tonight.

Good.

Let them see the woman who once walked away shattered, now returned sculpted, sharper, untouchable.

Let him see it, too.

"Ms. Hale," a man in a black suit approaches with a nervous smile. "Your table is ready. Mr. Moretti is expecting all VIPs shortly."

I nod once and follow him through the maze of elites. I pass faces I once served coffee to when I was just his assistant. Now they whisper, nudge, and look twice.

Good.

I want them to look.

Because the girl they remember as the quiet little nobody who dared to marry the billionaire prince is gone. She died the day he signed the divorce papers without looking back.

Tonight, Rita Hale is reborn.

And I didn't come to play nice.

The moment I'm seated, I feel a shift in the room, an invisible current sparking against my skin.

I look up.

And there he is.

Cosmas Moretti.

Still devastating. Still dangerous.

His black tux hugs his tall frame like sin tailored into silk. Jet-black hair, meticulously styled. Strong jaw, slightly more hardened now. And those gray eyes cut from the same ice he used to freeze me out five years ago.

But tonight, he's the one who freezes.

He stops mid-step when he sees me, as if I've punched the breath from his lungs.

Good.

I smile a slow, poised thing and raise my champagne glass to him.

His jaw clenches.

He looks exactly how I hoped he would.

Stunned. Curious. Slightly afraid.

He recovers quickly. Of course he does. Billionaires don't get rattled for long.

He strides over to me, his confidence is a performance I've seen too many times. But I don't rise. I stayed seated, letting him come to me this time.

"Rita," he says, his voice a velvet blade.

"Cosmas," I replied coolly, swirling the gold liquid in my glass. "Lovely venue. You've outdone yourself."

"I could say the same about your entrance," he replies, his eyes scanning me too long to be polite. "You're glowing."