2"My husband abandoned me at O’Hare so he could take an earlier flight with his childhood sweetheart.

Adrian didn't stay in London.

He boarded his private jet within an hour of leaving the gallery, his face like a slab of carved granite. The air inside the cabin was so thick with tension that Marco and the three bodyguards sat strapped into their seats, not daring to speak, breathe loudly, or make eye contact with their boss.

"Marco," Adrian spoke, his voice dangerously level.

"Yes, Boss?"

"Call our cyber intelligence unit. I want every single phone, tablet, laptop, and cloud account belonging to Sophia Reynolds mirrored, decrypted, and indexed by the time we land in Chicago."

Marco’s eyes widened slightly behind his dark frames. "Boss? She’s under family protection—"

Adrian turned his head, his dark eyes burning with a terrifying, unholy fire. "If a single keystroke is missing, Marco, I will throw you out of this aircraft without a parachute. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," Marco said immediately, pulling out his encrypted tablet.

By the time the Gulfstream touched down on the tarmac at O'Hare in the dead of a Chicago winter morning, the file was sitting on Adrian’s desk.

It was ninety-four pages long.

Adrian sat in his leather chair, a glass of water untouched beside him, reading through the digital autopsy of his marriage.

There were intercepted text messages between Sophia and a corrupt reservation agent at United Airlines, showing a fifty-thousand-dollar transfer from Sophia’s account to ensure Claire’s reservation was subtly rescheduled to a later flight without Claire receiving the automated SMS notification.

There were deleted voice memos from Claire’s phone, wiped via a remote malware link Sophia had sent Claire two years ago disguised as a charity raffle link.

There were communications between Sophia and a private investigator she had hired to track Claire’s schedule, ensuring that every time Claire planned an anniversary dinner, a weekend getaway, or an intimate dinner, Sophia would stage an "emergency"—a prowler outside her building, a sudden panic attack, a burst pipe—requiring Adrian’s immediate physical presence.

And, most damning of all, there was an audio recording from Sophia’s phone, captured the morning of the New York trip.

Sophia’s voice, laughing into her microphone as she spoke to a friend in New York:

*"It’s done. The little art-snob is stuck at O’Hare. Adrian thinks she blew him off for a meeting. By the time they sort it out, I’ll be on his arm at the charity ball. Once I get rid of her for good, the Moretti name is mine."*

Adrian closed the file.

He didn't scream. He didn't break furniture. He simply stood up, buttoned his suit jacket, and walked out of the office.

Ten minutes later, Adrian stepped into the penthouse guest suite where Sophia was still sleeping. He didn't knock. Two armed security guards entered before him, dragging Sophia’s designer luggage from the closets and dumping the contents onto the floor.

Sophia sat up in bed, gasping, pulling the silk duvet to her neck. "Adrian! What are you doing? Are you insane?"

Adrian walked over to the foot of the bed and tossed the ninety-four-page dossier onto the mattress.

"Read page forty-two," he whispered.

Sophia’s eyes darted to the printed pages. She saw the transcripts of her bank transfers. She saw the transcripts of her phone calls. Her face turned an ash-gray color, her lower lip beginning to tremble uncontrollably.

"Adrian... Adrian, listen to me," she stammered, scrambling toward him on her knees, her eyes filling with desperate tears. "I did it for you! She didn't understand you! She was ashamed of what you did for a living! She wanted you to be an art collector, a politician, something soft! I knew what you were! I've known you since we were kids! I was protecting you!"

Adrian looked down at her, feeling a cold, sickening revulsion wash over him.

"You were protecting my money," Adrian said, his voice flat, dead, devoid of a shred of human warmth. "You were protecting your penthouse, your luxury cars, and your status. And in the process, you destroyed the only woman who ever loved me for who I actually was."

"Adrian, please!" Sophia sobbed, reaching out to grab his trousers. "My father died for your father! You promised! You promised on your family name!"

Adrian pulled his leg back, stepping out of her reach.

"The debt is settled, Sophia," Adrian said coldly. "As of this moment, your trust fund is dissolved. The lease on your apartment is terminated. Every account associated with the Moretti Foundation has removed your name. You have sixty minutes to pack what you can carry and leave this city."

Sophia froze, staring at him in sheer, unadulterated terror. "You... you can't throw me out! I have nothing! I don't have a career! Where am I supposed to go?"

Adrian leaned down, his eyes boring into hers with the cold brutality of an executioner.

"I suggest," he whispered, "you go to an airport. And wait."

He turned and walked out of the room, motioning to Marco. "Ensure she is across state lines by noon. If she ever sets foot in Illinois again, treat her as a hostile operative."

"Understood, Boss," Marco replied.

Adrian walked back to his empty study. He looked at the divorce papers sitting on his desk. His hand hovered over the pen, his heart aching with an agony so deep, so profound, it threatened to crush him.

He picked up the pen. But he couldn't sign.