Ex Wife, Now Enemy

Ariana Vale-Thorne appeared to have it all on the outside.

A husband who created magazine covers with the same regularity he closed billion-dollar deals. A Manhattan penthouse with a private elevator and a starry view from the rooftop. A walk-in closet filled with bespoke couture, Milan-imported shoes, and jewels that sparkled under the flashbulb light. To the world, she was Mrs. Dominic Thorne-envied, loved, admired.

But no one ever observed the way in which he stopped looking at her.

She was in the master bathroom, overhead lights glinting too-brilliantly off the marble. Her silk robe slid off one shoulder as she looked at herself. Dark curls fell down her back, red lipstick impeccable, smoky eyes keen. She was beautiful. She was expensive.

She was a ghost in someone else's body.

Behind her, the bedroom lay quiet. Too quiet. Dominic hadn't come home the night before. Again.

Ariana held on to her phone on the vanity. No messages. No texts. Not even an empty "working late" text. The last one he'd sent three days ago. Three words.

**Board meeting. Don't wait.**

She hadn't, anymore.

She couldn't even remember the last time they'd eaten dinner together that wasn't in the presence of shareholders, reporters, or paparazzi. Or the last time he'd kissed her like he did.

She resented that she still required it.

She resented that even now, as she stood staring at the place he'd once held in their bed, her heart ached.

The news was already out when she walked into the kitchen twenty minutes later. She left the television on mute hanging on the wall, but the images spoke louder than words: Dominic at a gala last evening, alone-except for the woman on his arm.

A blonde.

Refined. Beautiful.

His secretary.

She could sense the familiar, old knot of nausea deep in her stomach. She'd known them before. Rumors had been going around for months. But last night? She hadn't even heard of the gala.

Dominic used to tell her everything.

She made coffee for herself. Poured it into a delicate porcelain cup and stood near the window as though she wasn't falling apart. When the intercom beeped, she blinked stupidly.

She wasn't expecting anyone.

"Mrs. Thorne?" the doorman asked over the speaker. "There's just a delivery here for you. From Blackstone Floral."

Ariana's heart skipped a beat.

For one stupid, momentary second, she thought-maybe it's him. Maybe he sent flowers to apologize. Maybe he remembers today is the anniversary of their engagement.

She pressed the button. "Send it up."

It was barely five minutes before the concierge showed up, white gloves and all. He placed the giant arrangement of black roses on the marble counter with the flair set aside for royalty.

"Would you care if I disposed of the card, ma'am?"

"No," she said brusquely. "Leave it."

He walked away with a nod.

She picked up the envelope between the thorns.

But the writing wasn't Dominic's.

And the card?

*Cass, thanks for last night. You rescued me from death by boredom. Let's do it again sometime. -Cass*

Cass.

His assistant.

Her chest went cold. Ice-cold.

The words weren't romantic, not exactly. But they were intimate. Casual. Comfortable. The kind of thank-you you pen after *being with someone all night*. Not just anyone. Her husband.

Ariana set the card down slowly, warily, as if it might explode.

And then she strode right into Dominic's office.

He always locked his files. His laptop. His drawers.

But never the wall safe.

She applied the pressure of her thumb against the biometric reader and it opened softly with a hiss.

Papers inside. Contracts. Stock reports. And a new, shiny black phone.

*Not* his work phone.

*Not* his personal.

Her fingers shook as she flipped it on.

No password. Not even a thumb print.

As if he didn't mind if someone else looked at it.

Her stomach turned.

The screen lit up. Notifications streamed in.

And then she saw them.

**Cass:**

You left your cufflink in my bed again. Naughty.

**Cass:**

Still can't believe we almost got caught in your office that day. Think she suspects?

Ariana couldn't breathe.

She couldn't move.

Each message was a blade piercing her chest.

And then-

**Dominic:**

Doesn't matter. She doesn't see anything she doesn't *want* to see.

A strangled sound tore its way up her throat.

It was easy to suspect.

It was another thing entirely to have *evidence* that the man she loved-the man she'd married-had been unfaithful, and worse, mocked her for it.

She dropped the phone as though it would scald.

She didn't cry.

Not yet.

She stood there for what felt like hours, staring at the phone on the floor, the card on the counter, the half-warm cup of coffee still clutched in her fingers.

Then, gradually, she went back to the bedroom.

And packed.

Not much. Just essentials. Her documents. A couple of outfits. Her mother's locket. A photo of her and Dominic on their honeymoon in Florence-laughing, sun-soaked, in love.

She stuck the photo into her bag and zipped it up.

Then she got dressed in black jeans, a turtleneck, and flats. No makeup. No jewelry. Nothing flashy.

Nothing that cried Mrs. Thorne.

She stepped over the assistant's card on the counter, the still-wrapped black rose bouquet, and the life she'd built around a man who'd never truly let her in.

Her driver blinked as he regarded her.

"Ma'am?"

"Take me to the penthouse at Fifth. Don't inform Mr. Thorne."

The driver hesitated. "Of course."

She gazed out the window as the city appeared to pass by outside in a blur.

She hadn't cried until she made it to the empty guest apartment. By herself. In the dark. No lights, no warmth, no Dominic.

She fell to the floor and let the tears flow. Wretched, racking, soul-cry sobs that felt like betrayal and regret and too many years spent loving a man who didn't love her.

She cried until her throat hurt.

Until her eyes ached.

Until her body was exhausted.

Then she stood up.

Walked to the bathroom.

Washed her face.

And stared at herself in the mirror.

Not the ghost. Not the wife.

Just Ariana Vale.

And she whispered to her reflection, voice steady:

"I'm done."