Three years after the divorce, the next time I heard news of my former CEO husband, it was live-streamed. His engagement party was splashed across the Jumbotron in the airport as soon as I landed. On the massive screen, the girl tucked under my ex-husband’s arm was gushing about their great love story. “Three years ago, I ran a little boutique florist shop in the Village, and he came into my shop to buy flowers for his wife.” “I was instantly smitten. When I found out he was the CEO of the Harrington Group, I started showing up at his office with 'client' bouquets every single day. I made sure his wife knew exactly what was going on, of course.” “After that, they fought constantly, and I just kept swooping in to 'comfort' him.” “It all came to a head when he got drunk after a huge fight with her. We were both overwhelmed by emotion, and it just happened naturally.” “I heard his wife had a miscarriage that night during their argument, and she ran home and cried herself silly.” “But look at me now—I knew I made the right choice. He's the head of Alistair City's leading conglomerate. I’m about to be the CEO’s wife. If I hadn’t swooped in when I did, I wouldn’t have this life.” “His ex? She was miserable. She didn’t even recover from the miscarriage before he made her walk away with nothing. Who knows if she’s even alive now.” I looked up at the familiar, smug face on the airport screen. I smiled. Well, that’s rather awkward for her. Not only was I perfectly alive, but I had also become the Asia-Pacific representative for Archon Capital, one of the world’s top investment firms. I was back in Alistair City, and it was time for the head of their leading conglomerate to change. 1 The VIP lounge was almost unnervingly quiet, which only made the engagement party blaring on the enormous screen seem even louder. My assistant, Leo, walked over silently, placing a cup of unsweetened black coffee and a sleek tablet next to me. The coffee was scalding, bitter, and bracing—exactly what I needed. I lifted the cup, taking a slow sip, my gaze fixed on the tablet. The screen was lit with the words “The Harrington Group,” below which were real-time stock prices and a core data analysis report. The red, plummeting arrow was stark and unmistakable. My index finger tapped lightly on the cold screen, once, then again. The smell of antiseptic from the hospital three years ago. The crisp, cold reality of the divorce papers that left me with nothing. The countless nights I’d spent curled up with stomach pain in my cramped foreign apartment, staring blankly at the nameless city lights. I set the coffee cup down with a light click against the table. Serena Maxwell on the Jumbotron was still talking, but I no longer heard her. I lifted my eyes to Leo, who remained silently beside me. The last trace of warmth in my expression vanished. “Notify Archon Capital’s European headquarters. Initiate Phase One of the acquisition plan for the Harrington Group.” Leo didn't hesitate, immediately beginning to type on a separate device. I turned back to the screen and the happy couple, a cold, predatory smile playing on my lips. “I want to see their panic before the market opens tomorrow.” Alistair City’s business world was turned upside down overnight. “Archon Capital Enters the Market with Multi-Billion Dollar War Chest, Suspected Hostile Takeover of Harrington Group!” “Harrington Stock Plummets to Trading Floor, Market Value Evaporates by Billions!” In Alexander Harrington’s office, the air was so thick with tension you could wring it out. Alex, a man who prided himself on his unflappable composure, now had his tie yanked crooked and his eyes, visible behind his gold-rimmed glasses, were webbed with red. Several high-level executives stood opposite him, too afraid to even lift their heads. “Find out! Find out now! What the hell is Archon Capital? Who is their goddamn representative?” Alex slammed his fist onto the desk, the veins on his hand bulging. An hour later, an emergency board meeting was called. The room was packed with the Harrington Group's old guard, their faces all darker than thunderclouds. Alex sat in the primary position, trying to stabilize the situation, but his own mind was chaos. It was then that the heavy double doors of the boardroom were pushed open. Leo walked in first, expressionless, ushering the person behind him. Then, I walked in. I was wearing a sharply tailored, slate-gray power suit, my heels clicking a crisp, rhythmic beat on the polished marble floor. The entire boardroom fell into a suffocated silence. Every single eye in the room was fixed on me—shock, disbelief, and a panicked search for context. Alex’s gaze, though, was different. It was utterly riveted to my face, like a nail driven into the wall. His lips parted, his throat bobbing once. The sight of him, speechless and stunned, was more satisfying than any positive financial headline. I ignored him, walking directly to the opposite end of the long conference table, the seat reserved for the acquiring party. I sat down with a composed elegance. The moment I was seated, Leo opened the tablet and slid it in front of me. “Eliza… Sloane?” An older board member finally found his voice, laced with uncertainty. I looked up, sweeping my gaze across the familiar, yet suddenly irrelevant, faces. Finally, I let my eyes settle coolly on Alexander Harrington. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” I said with a faint, utterly cold smile. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Eliza Sloane, the Asia-Pacific Representative for Archon Capital, leading this acquisition.” Alex’s face instantly drained of all color. “The Harrington Group’s financial reports for the past three years look impressive, but in reality, over thirty percent of your profit comes from high-risk leveraged investments. The moment your capital chain faces stress, the entire structure collapses.” “Seven of your subsidiaries have bloated, inefficient management. Last year alone, administrative expenditures consumed five hundred million dollars that should have been dedicated to technology and R&D.” “Your newest real estate venture was a major strategic error, located on the fringe of future municipal planning. That investment won’t see a return for at least three years.” In a few succinct sentences, I sliced through the Harrington Group’s glossy facade, exposing the rot underneath. Each word made the board members’ expressions darken further. Alex's hands were clenched into tight fists under the table. When the meeting concluded, the look in the eyes of the men in the room had shifted from pure shock to pure, unadulterated dread. People began to leave, but Alex remained seated. He waited until the last person was gone, then stood and walked slowly toward me. He stopped in front of me, his tall frame casting a long shadow. “Eliza,” his voice was raspy, edged with an emotion I couldn't decipher. “You…” What did he want to say? Ask why I came back? Or why I was doing this? I didn’t give him the chance. I stood up, deliberately closing the tablet and handing it to Leo. Then, I met his gaze, looking him directly in the eye. “Mr. Harrington, this is still business hours.” I paused, watching his face instantly freeze, and the curve of my smile deepened slightly. “Keep your private emotions contained.” 2 After that day, I didn’t pay much attention to Alexander’s reactions. The person I was truly waiting for was Serena Maxwell. I knew she would come for me. People like her, who survive by playing the victim, are terrified of losing their audience and their stage. Now that I was back and had stolen her spotlight, it would only be a matter of time before she struck. Sure enough, on the third day, a heavy, engraved invitation to a charity gala was delivered to Leo. “The annual Alistair City Charity Gala. The Harrington Group is the lead sponsor,” Leo stated plainly, placing the card on my desk. “Serena Maxwell is this year’s Charity Ambassador.” I picked up the beautifully designed card, running my finger over the embossed lettering. “A lovely ambush,” I chuckled, tossing the invitation back down. “Tell them I will be there on time.” Leo nodded, asking no further questions. He knew I wasn’t going to attend a party; I was going to crash a coronation. The moment I stepped into the ballroom that evening, I felt the immediate stickiness of countless gazes—curious, searching, and more than a few frankly malicious. I didn't care. I picked up a flute of champagne and found a quiet corner that wasn't overly conspicuous. It didn’t take long for the show to begin. Serena was wearing a pristine white, strapless column gown, her hair in a loose, delicate updo that exposed her slender neck. She truly looked like a fragile porcelain doll who knew nothing of the world’s harshness. She carried her own glass, weaving through the crowd with a clear destination: me. She stopped directly in front of me. Alex stood a few steps behind her, his brow furrowed, looking like a cowed husband who wanted to intervene but didn’t know how. “Eliza… sister?” Serena whispered tentatively. “It really is you. You’re back.” I stayed silent, watching her begin the performance. Her eyes instantly misted over. The tears arrived right on cue. “Sister, I’m so sorry… What happened three years ago, it was all my fault. I loved Alex too much, and I… I didn’t mean for it to happen. I’ve lived with the guilt all these years, I just…” As she spoke, she glanced out of the corner of her eye, making sure her performance of fragile remorse was being witnessed by enough people. It was award-worthy acting, I’ll give her that. The room was already filling with murmurs. Several sympathetic looks were directed at her, while the glances aimed at me were laden with judgment and blame. I was being framed as the unforgiving villain, the one bullying the poor, repentant girl. Alex finally closed the gap, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Serena, a clear act of protection. He looked at me, his eyes complicated. “Eliza, let the past go.” “The past?” I finally laughed, gently swirling the champagne in my glass. “Easy words for you, Alex. Some things can’t be let go.” Serena seemed frightened by my response, shrinking further into Alex's side, and her tears intensified. “Sister, please, can you forgive me? I just want to be happy with Alex now…” Watching her deliver this masterclass in deceit, I found any impulse to anger completely missing. I set my glass down and took my phone from my clutch. Under the confused scrutiny of everyone nearby, I pressed the play button. A crisp, smug female voice, amplified by the phone’s speaker, carried clearly through our corner of the ballroom. “...You should have seen what a fool Eliza was. She believed everything I said! Like I accidentally fell down the stairs…” “Alex? Men are all the same. If I cry, he thinks the whole world is out to get me. He’d argue with Eliza, and then he’d come straight to me for comfort…” “The miscarriage? Good riddance! Saved me the trouble of figuring out how to get rid of it myself. With that kid gone, she was nothing. That CEO wife title was always going to be mine!” The voice, the tone—arrogant and malicious—was a stark contrast to the tear-stained Serena standing before me. The recording continued, but the silence around us was deafening. Serena’s pale face still had tear tracks, but her expression had completely frozen. The feigned innocence in her large, watery eyes finally melted away, replaced by nothing but raw terror and utter collapse. 3 That charity gala recording caused the Harrington Group’s stock price to quietly plummet by another hundred million in market capitalization. Every morning, Leo provided me with his update on the Harrington Group’s latest movements. “Harrington dropped three points today. A few smaller shareholders are folding and requesting private meetings with you.” I nodded. “Schedule them. It’s time to close the net.” I heard that Alex’s side was absolute chaos. He had canceled all upcoming public engagements with Serena and had even frozen the funds for several of her vanity projects within the company. It seemed that trust, once fractured, could never be fully repaired. Alex was quietly beginning to investigate what happened three years ago. Leo’s intelligence network was highly efficient, reporting that Alex had pulled all the security footage from the hospital during my stay and sent people to interview some of the nurses in private. I listened to these reports with cold detachment, almost finding it funny. How foolish must a man be to only remember to seek proof after the truth has been shoved in his face via a recording device? Where was his skepticism before? Trying to play Sherlock Holmes now was far too late. I wasn't interested in Alex's small acts of penance. His investigation wouldn’t change the outcome. I wanted the Harrington Group. His personal remorse was worthless. The acquisition was proceeding smoothly. One shareholder after another was defecting, and the Harrington Group’s internal defenses were being dismantled piece by piece. The external and internal pressure was suffocating Alex. I heard he was suffering from recurring stomach issues again, often spending entire nights locked in his office. Late that night, I had just finished a video conference with European headquarters and was preparing to finally rest. Leo knocked and came in, his expression unusually grim. “Ms. Sloane, there’s been an issue.” I gestured for him to sit. “We received two pieces of intelligence.” “The first is from our insider at the Harrington family estate,” Leo said. “Tonight, Alex locked himself in his study and was looking through a lot of your old things. He found a letter—a letter you wrote back then but never got the chance to send.” My heart skipped a beat, completely unprepared for the emotional jolt. Leo continued: “Inside the letter… was your sonogram. He knows now that you were pregnant with twins.” My fingers instinctively clenched, my nails digging into my palms. “After he saw the letter, he locked himself in the study. He hasn't come out all night.” Seeing my prolonged silence, Leo slid a tablet across the desk. The screen was on. “Ms. Sloane, this is the second piece of intelligence. Our private investigator has secured the definitive proof.” I looked down, my gaze falling on the screen. It was an investigation report, attached to clear bank transfer records. The recipient was a middle-aged woman named Lana Reeves. Occupation: Hospital janitor. The report also included a video—Lana Reeves’s confession. She admitted that three years ago, Serena Maxwell paid her twenty thousand dollars to apply a special oily liquid to the staircase landing I used every day for my prenatal appointments. Colorless and odorless, you wouldn’t notice it, but the floor would become dangerously slick. My breath stopped entirely. I stared intently at the screen, seeing the conclusion printed on the final page in large, bold font: Upon investigation, Eliza Sloane’s miscarriage was not an accident. It was a premeditated act of murder.
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