Wrong Room Sleeping With My Fiancés Uncle

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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The heavy mahogany door of the Plaza Hotel's presidential suite stood before Isidora.

She gripped the universal keycard so tightly that the sharp plastic edges bit into her palm. The pain was grounding.

She swiped the card. The green light blinked, followed by a soft click.

Isidora pushed the door open. The air inside hit her like a physical blow, thick with the smell of expensive champagne and cheap lust.

She stepped onto the Persian rug. Her eyes immediately locked onto a custom Armani suit jacket discarded on the floor. It belonged to Kevin.

A black lace bra hung from the edge of the crystal chandelier in the hallway. It was Chantelle's, her former good friend.

Isidora's stomach violently contracted, acid burned the back of her throat. This was the man she was supposed to marry in a few months.

From the half-open bedroom door, the unmistakable sounds of wet skin slapping against skin and heavy, uninhibited moans echoed through the quiet suite.

She didn't cry. Instead, a freezing calm washed over her veins.

Isidora pulled her phone from her pocket. She opened the camera, switched to video mode, and made sure the flash was off.

She walked toward the bedroom and kicked the door wide open with her heel.

The screen of her phone illuminated the tangled limbs on the king-sized bed. Kevin was on top, his face buried in the blonde model's neck.

The sudden light made Kevin freeze. He snapped his head around, his eyes wide with sheer panic.

"What the hell!" Kevin roared, grabbing a pillow and hurling it at the door. "You creepy, ugly freak! Get out!"

Isidora didn't flinch. She simply tilted her head, letting the pillow hit the doorframe.

Her thumb pressed the red stop button. The video was saved.

She looked at Kevin's pale, sweaty face. There was no jealousy in her chest, only the cold satisfaction of a hunter bagging a kill.

Chantelle let out a piercing scream, pulling the silk sheets up to cover her chest.

Isidora turned her back on them. She walked out of the suite, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor in a steady, ruthless rhythm.

By the time she reached the elevator, her lungs felt like they were collapsing. She slammed her hand against the button for the rooftop bar.

She needed alcohol. She needed it to burn away the filth she had just witnessed.

The elevator doors opened directly into the dim, purple ambient lighting of the rooftop bar. The heavy bass of a jazz band vibrated against her ribcage, but it couldn't drown out the churning in her stomach. She forced the nausea down, her face still a mask of thick, uneven foundation and fake freckles, her eyes hidden behind hideous, thick-rimmed black glasses. She was a walking, breathing joke, and tonight, she would lean into it.

She walked to the most isolated corner of the bar, ignoring the sideways glances her strange appearance attracted.

"Dry martini. Make it your strongest," Isidora told the bartender.

When the glass arrived, she didn't sip it. She threw her head back and swallowed the burning liquid in one go.

The alcohol hit her bloodstream like a match dropped in gasoline. Her head spun.

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