The rain didn’t just fall on Seattle that night—it attacked the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Sterling penthouse with the fury of a thousand accusations. Inside the sprawling living room, where minimalist design met obscene wealth, the temperature was colder than the storm raging outside. Richard Sterling sat on his twelve-thousand-dollar Italian leather sofa with the relaxed posture of a man who’d already won, checking his Patek Philippe watch with barely concealed impatience.
Standing behind him, one manicured hand resting possessively on his shoulder, was Jessica Chen, his executive assistant—though the tabloids had already given her a less professional title.
She wore a diamond tennis bracelet that caught the light with every movement, a piece that looked hauntingly familiar because it had been an anniversary gift three years ago. To his wife.
Across from them sat Clara Sterling, looking impossibly small in the oversized armchair that seemed designed to dwarf her. She wore no jewelry.
Her face was pale and bare of makeup, her dark hair pulled back in a severe, practical bun that did nothing to flatter her features.
To Richard, she looked like exactly what he believed her to be: a plain, unremarkable woman he’d plucked from obscurity five years ago, now past her expiration date and usefulness. “Let’s not make this difficult, Clara,” Richard said, his voice carrying that particular tone of manufactured patience that men use when they’re trying to appear reasonable while being anything but. He slid a thick stack of legal documents across the mahogany coffee table with the casual dismissiveness of someone discarding trash.
“The terms are perfectly clear.
The prenuptial agreement stands. You get the lump sum we agreed upon—fifty thousand dollars, which is more than enough to start over wherever it is you came from.
Kentucky? Ohio?”
“Iowa,” Clara said softly, her voice steady and betraying nothing.
“Right.
Iowa.” Richard smirked, exchanging a knowing glance with Jessica, who suppressed a giggle while tracing a finger along his collar. “You leave the house by tomorrow morning. The cars, the jewelry, the accounts—they all stay.
You signed the prenup, Clara.
My lawyers, heavy hitters from Sullivan and Cromwell, made absolutely sure it’s ironclad. If you even think about fighting this, I will bury you in legal fees until you’re living in a cardboard box under the overpass.”
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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