POV: Adrian
My phone won't stop buzzing.
I grip the steering wheel tighter as another text from Isabelle lights up my screen. I don't even need to read it to know what it says. Something about dinner. Something about us spending time together. Something that makes my skin crawl with irritation.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
"For God's sake," I mutter, grabbing my phone at a red light.
"Don't forget we're having pasta tonight! I bought the ingredients you love. Maybe we could watch that movie you mentioned? I miss talking to you."
I miss talking to you. Like I'm some disappearing act instead of a man building an empire.
I delete the text without responding. She'll send another one in an hour anyway. She always does.
The truth is, I've outgrown Isabelle Brown. Maybe I never grew into her in the first place.
When I married her three years ago, I thought I was being noble. A poor architecture student falling for a disabled woman with nothing to offer but love? Everyone said I was crazy. My college friends laughed. My professors looked at me with pity.
But I did it anyway. I married her in that tiny courthouse ceremony with her crying about how grateful she was that I chose her despite her "limitations."
Despite. That word has haunted me ever since.
At first, it was fine. She was sweet. She tried hard. She made me feel like a hero for loving someone nobody else wanted. But three years later? The clicking of those leg braces drives me insane. The way she limps around our apartment, apologizing for everything. The way she looks at me like I'm some kind of saint for not leaving.
I'm not a saint. I'm just a man who made a mistake and doesn't know how to fix it without looking like a monster.
My phone buzzes again. This time, it's a text that makes me smile.
"Tonight? Your place? I'm wearing that black dress you like."
Vanessa.
Beautiful, confident, perfect Vanessa. She doesn't limp. She doesn't apologize for existing. She doesn't make me feel guilty every time I look at her.
She makes me feel powerful.
I text back quickly: "Yes. Isabelle has a doctor's appointment until 8. We'll have plenty of time."
No guilt twists my stomach. No shame makes me hesitate. I hit send and feel nothing but relief.
Because here's the truth nobody wants to hear: I deserve better than Isabelle Brown.
My architecture firm just landed three major contracts this month. I'm making six figures. I'm getting invited to exclusive industry parties where people actually respect me. I've worked myself to death to get here, clawing my way up from nothing.
And every time I come home to that clicking sound and those sad, hopeful eyes, I feel like I'm being dragged backward.
Vanessa understands success. She's Isabelle's friend, sure, but she sees what Isabelle doesn't—that I'm going places, and I need someone who can keep up.
"You're too good for her," Vanessa whispered to me six months ago, after watching Isabelle struggle to carry groceries up our apartment stairs. "She holds you back, Adrian. You know it."
I didn't argue. Because she was right.
The office parking garage is nearly empty when I arrive. I check my reflection in the rearview mirror and see a man who's finally becoming who he was meant to be. Sharp suit. Confident smile. Success practically radiates off me.
I walk into my firm's lobby, and my assistant Emily jumps up from her desk.
"Mr. Kane, you have a visitor." Her voice sounds strange. Nervous.
"I don't have any appointments until ten—"
"He insisted on waiting. He said it's urgent." Emily glances toward my office door. "He's been here since seven."
A cold feeling creeps up my spine. "Who is it?"
Before Emily can answer, my office door opens. A man steps out—tall, expensive suit, face carved from stone and fury.
I've never met him in person, but I've seen his picture in business magazines.
Marcus Ashford.
Owner of Ashford Technologies. Billionaire. One of the most powerful men in the city.
And according to Isabelle's sob story, the brother who disowned her.
"Mr. Kane." His voice could freeze hell. "We need to talk about my sister."
My blood turns to ice. "Your sister?"
"Isabelle." Marcus Ashford walks closer, and I notice his hands are clenched into fists. "You're married to her. Remember?"
"I... yes, but she said you disowned her. She said her family—"
"Cut her off?" Marcus laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Is that what she told you?"
The floor feels like it's tilting under my feet. "What are you talking about?"
"My sister staged a car accident three years ago. She put on leg braces and pretended to be poor. She told you a story about being disowned to see if you'd love her for herself." Marcus steps so close I can see the rage burning in his eyes—eyes exactly like Isabelle's. "Congratulations, Adrian. You failed the test spectacularly."
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
"Isabelle Ashford is worth five billion dollars," Marcus continues softly. "She's been running half of Ashford Technologies from your tiny apartment while playing the poor, disabled wife. Every dollar you thought you earned through your 'talent'? That was my sister's anonymous contracts keeping your pathetic firm afloat."
The room spins. "That's... that's impossible."
"Is it?" Marcus pulls out his phone and shows me a photo. It's Isabelle—but not my Isabelle. This woman stands in a boardroom in a power suit, no braces, commanding a room of executives. She's stunning. Powerful. Nothing like the broken bird I left crying this morning.
"She came to me last night," Marcus says quietly. "She walked into my penthouse on perfectly healthy legs. She was crying so hard she couldn't breathe." His voice drops to something deadly. "She told me what you've been doing with her 'best friend.' In your bed. In the home she's been paying for."
My knees nearly buckle. "No. She couldn't have known—"
"She came home early yesterday. She heard everything." Marcus leans in, and I can smell my own fear. "Every cruel word. Every laugh. Every moment you thought you were getting away with it."
"I need to talk to her. I need to explain—"
"You'll never speak to my sister again." Marcus straightens his suit. "The divorce papers will arrive at your office in approximately..." He checks his watch. "Ten minutes. Sign them. Don't fight. Don't contact her. Or I will destroy everything you've ever touched."
He turns to leave, then pauses at the door.
"Oh, and Adrian? All your contracts? They're Ashford contracts. Guess what happens when we cancel them."
The door closes with a soft click that sounds like a coffin sealing.
I stand frozen in my office, Marcus Ashford's words echoing in my skull. Isabelle is a billionaire. The leg braces were fake. Everything I thought I knew was a lie.
My phone buzzes. A text from Vanessa: "Can't wait for tonight, baby. We're going to celebrate your success."
My success. Built on my wife's hidden billions.
My wife, who heard everything yesterday. Who walked away on legs that never needed braces.
I run to the window and see Marcus Ashford's black car pulling away. And standing beside it on the sidewalk, looking up at my office window, is Isabelle.
She's not wearing leg braces. She's not limping. She's standing perfectly straight in an expensive coat I've never seen, holding what looks like legal documents.
Our eyes meet across the distance.
She doesn't cry. She doesn't look hurt.
She smiles—cold and terrible and beautiful—and drops the papers she's holding into a trash can.
Then she gets into her brother's car and disappears.
My phone rings. It's my biggest client. The contract that's paying my rent.
"Mr. Kane? We need to discuss the immediate termination of our agreement..."
I sink into my chair as my entire world crumbles around me, and all I can think about is the sound of leg braces clicking through our apartment.
A sound that was never real.
A wife I never really knew.
And a mistake I can never, ever take back.