A Heartless Divorce

The central air conditioning hummed, blowing a steady stream of frigid air across the freshly printed divorce papers resting on the glass coffee table.

"Sign the agreement. You'll receive every cent of the compensation you're entitled to." Silas Vance stood on the opposite side of the table, his expression completely devoid of warmth. He checked his watch, the movement radiating a chilling impatience.

Maeve sat heavily on the sofa, her fingers white-knuckling the frayed edge of her sweater. Every muscle in her body screamed in protest, a lingering, brutal soreness radiating through her bones from the nightmare of the previous night. She had dragged her battered frame back to this house, only to be met with a contract.

"I just want to know why," she managed to say. Her voice broke on the words, sounding dry and ragged.

"Daphne returned," Silas replied bluntly.

*Daphne Mercer.* The syllables hit Maeve like a physical blow. A bitter, hollow smile touched the corners of her mouth as the pieces finally clicked together.

So, this was the grand finale of her three-year performance. Daphne was the only woman Silas actually cared about. Because Daphne suffered from poor health and couldn't provide the Vance family with a required heir, Silas had shipped her overseas for premium medical treatment, keeping her safely out of the crosshairs of his demanding relatives.

Maeve was just a convenient stand-in. She was a prop used to pacify the conservative elders. She had walked into this arrangement knowing her place, burying her shameful, growing affection for her husband deep out of sight. She had treated every day beside him as borrowed time, fully prepared to hand the title of Mrs. Vance back the moment he asked.

She just never anticipated the utterly degrading method he would choose to discard her.

Yesterday afternoon, a simple text had summoned her to a hotel room. She had barely crossed the threshold before a suffocating dizziness dragged her into darkness. Hours later, she woke up completely naked on a rumpled hotel mattress, the horrific reality of her husband’s ruthless setup crashing down on her.

"You really didn't need to orchestrate something so elaborate," Maeve whispered. The phantom sensation of those hotel sheets still made her skin crawl, like someone had forcibly carved a piece of flesh directly from her chest. "I owe you my life, Silas. If you wanted out, all you had to do was tell me. I wouldn't have clung to you."

Without waiting for his justification, she leaned forward, snatched the pen from the table, and dragged the ink across the dotted line without a second of hesitation.

*Maeve Vance.*

He had given her that name. Three years ago, he had pulled her half-drowned body from the freezing ocean. She woke up with no past and no memories. He provided a roof, an identity, and eventually, a wedding ring. She had fallen for him slowly, willing to ruin her own reputation just to buy him time with his true love. But he had orchestrated her total ruin just to guarantee a clean break.

"The villa is yours. The car, too." Silas stared at the wet ink, clearly caught off guard by her straightforward surrender. He had fully expected her to put up a fight. "I'm adding ten million dollars in alimony to your account."

"Keep it. I don't want a dime," Maeve refused flatly.

She pushed herself off the sofa, ignoring the sharp ache in her legs, and headed upstairs. By the time she came back down, she was dragging a single, battered carry-on. It barely held a week's worth of necessities.

"Where exactly are you going?" Silas blocked her path at the bottom of the stairs, catching her wrist.

"Wherever I need to," she answered, keeping her gaze fixed on his collar.

"Don't be stupid. I told you I'm leaving the house to you." His grip tightened. He knew her situation perfectly well. Without his money, she would be sleeping on the streets by nightfall.

Maeve finally looked up, meeting his gaze head-on. "Silas, did you know I had feelings for you?"

His posture went instantly rigid. Visible annoyance flickered across his face.

"Ah. You did," Maeve said, letting out a soft, self-deprecating laugh as she read his reaction.

"I have no interest in discussing this," he snapped, his tone laced with heavy irritation.

It all made sickening sense now. He set up the hotel trap specifically because he knew she loved him. He wanted to shatter her dignity so thoroughly that she would never dare look back. He truly spared no expense for Daphne's peace of mind.

"I understand," Maeve said, her voice finally steady. She reached over and pried his fingers off her wrist, peeling them back one by one. "My debt to you is officially paid. From now on, we are completely even. I hope you and Daphne have a very long, very happy marriage."

She grabbed the handle of her suitcase, squared her shoulders, and walked out the front door. She kept her spine perfectly straight.

Silas stood frozen in the foyer, staring at her retreating figure. The absolute indifference in her eyes was something he had never seen before. She had always been so quiet, so remarkably compliant. He subconsciously took a step toward the door.

His cell phone buzzed loudly in his pocket.

Silas pulled it out, and the tension instantly vanished from his shoulders. He swiped to answer. "Hey."

"Silas? I'm feeling a little dizzy..." Daphne's fragile, breathy voice drifted through the speaker. "Can you come over?"

"Stay right there. I'm on my way."

The brief hesitation over Maeve evaporated entirely. Silas grabbed his car keys and strode out the side door toward the garage, his mind entirely re-focused.

Outside, the night air was freezing. Maeve stood on the edge of the empty road, pulling her thin coat tighter around her bruised ribs as she waited for a cab. Headlights flared in the distance, illuminating the desolate asphalt.

A heavy commercial van tore around the corner. It didn't brake. The engine roared as it swerved violently, tires screeching as it aimed directly for the curb where she stood.

The impact was deafening.

The massive steel grill slammed into her side, launching her frail body nearly fifty feet through the air. She slammed down onto the hard pavement with a sickening crack. The suitcase shattered on impact, spilling her meager possessions across the asphalt.

Among the scattered clothes lay a cheap plastic frame. It held a secretly enlarged wedding photo. In the picture, she was beaming with genuine hope, while the man beside her stared blankly ahead.

Warm blood pooled rapidly beneath her cheek, creeping toward the glass of the frame. Her vision swam, reducing the world to dark, blurry shapes. Her fingers twitched, dragging across the pavement as she tried to reach the picture. The edge of her bloody fingertip brushed the glass, but the last reserve of her strength vanished. Her hand collapsed onto the road.

A sleek luxury car blew past the intersection just feet away from her broken body. Silas kept his foot heavy on the gas pedal, his eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead, completely oblivious to the bleeding woman he had just left behind.

Miles away, high above the city in a sprawling luxury apartment, Daphne Mercer sat cross-legged on a velvet sofa, picking up her ringing phone.

"Job's done. Hit her going sixty. She's not walking away from that," the raspy voice crackled through the receiver.

"Excellent work. The rest of the wire transfer will hit your account in five minutes."

Daphne ended the call and tossed the phone onto the cushions. A bright, triumphant smile stretched across her lips. Silas had repeatedly assured her he would handle the divorce cleanly, but Daphne wasn't a fool. No destitute nobody would voluntarily walk away from a golden ticket like the Vance empire. Dead girls couldn't beg for a second chance.

She rose from the sofa and strolled over to the floor-to-ceiling mirror. She leaned in, carefully smoothing a stray lock of hair perfectly into place. She admired her pristine reflection, thoroughly enjoying the fact that nobody would ever suspect a face this delicate of harboring such a murderous heart.