Bitter Sweet Hatred

I was the perfect wife to my producer husband, Braden, enduring his coldness and affairs for one reason: his promise to release my late father's priceless songbook.

Then, at a crowded industry party, I watched him kiss his starlet mistress, Destany, for all to see. The humiliation made me collapse, and I woke up in a hospital bed to a shocking truth: I was pregnant.

Braden used our unborn child as a leash, playing the role of a devoted husband while secretly continuing his affair.

His mistress grew bolder, breaking into our home after taunting me with photos of her and Braden in Tokyo.

"That baby is just another obstacle," she whispered, her eyes filled with hate as she lunged at me.

In the struggle, she shoved me down our grand staircase. The fall was a blur of sickening thuds and a sharp, searing pain. I lost my child.

The one thing that had tied me to him was gone, stolen by his cruelty and her jealousy. The years of his lies and my silent suffering crystallized into a single, cold purpose.

When Braden knelt by my hospital bed, sobbing and begging for forgiveness, I felt nothing. I simply picked up the phone and called my lawyer.

"I want a divorce," I said, my voice like ice. "And I'm taking back everything."

Chapter 1

Elinor Frost POV:

The heavy bass of the music vibrated through the floorboards, a relentless thrum against my chest that mimicked the frantic beat of my own heart. I saw them across the crowded room, bathed in the lurid glow of the stage lights, before they even saw me. Braden, my husband, was tangled with Destany Aguilar, his arm a possessive band around her waist, their faces inches apart. Her hand, adorned with a diamond-studded microphone charm, rested on his cheek. It wasn't a kiss yet, but the air around them crackled with an undeniable intimacy, a silent promise being exchanged in front of hundreds of watchful eyes. My breath hitched. The air felt thin.

A cheer erupted from the surrounding crowd. They were industry veterans, sycophants, and aspiring artists, all eager to witness the spectacle of their producer, Braden Harmon, and his rising starlet, Destany. They clapped, they whistled, their faces alight with a perverse excitement. My stomach churned, a cold, hard knot forming deep within me. It felt like the entire room was in on a secret, and I was the punchline.

I froze in the doorway, my hand still on the cool brass handle. Every muscle in my body screamed at me to turn and run, to pretend I hadn't seen anything. But a morbid curiosity, or perhaps a desperate need for the final, definitive blow, held me rooted to the spot. My vision tunneled, the vibrant party lights blurring into a kaleidoscope of pain.

Then, it happened. Destany leaned in, her lips finding Braden's with a practiced ease that made my blood run cold. It was a lingering, unapologetic kiss, designed for an audience. As their lips finally parted, Braden' s eyes scanned the room, a triumphant smirk playing on his lips. He looked like a king surveying his kingdom, utterly pleased with his conquest. The sight of his satisfied expression, even before he saw me, was a fresh wound.

Destany, catching the cue, quickly pulled back, her eyes wide with feigned surprise. "Braden, darling, what are you doing? People are watching!" Her voice, though hushed, carried over the pulsing music, laced with a saccharine sweetness that made my teeth ache. It was a well-rehearsed act, a public relations stunt disguised as a passionate moment.

Braden chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that used to send shivers down my spine in a good way. Now, it only tightened the knot of dread in my stomach. "Let them watch, Destany," he murmured, his gaze still sweeping the room, "This is the music industry. Scandal sells." He said it with such casual indifference, as if my feelings, my very existence, were utterly irrelevant to his grand theatrical performance.

Then his eyes landed on me.

Destany, following his gaze, stiffened. Her carefully constructed facade crumbled, replaced by an authentic flicker of panic. Her hand, which had been resting casually on Braden's arm, squeezed tighter, a silent warning. I saw it through the shimmering glass wall of the VIP section, a desperate, almost imperceptible gesture. She wanted him to play along, to deny everything.