Chapter 1

In Brandon Vance’s eyes, I was never his wife. I was merely a toxic asset waiting to be written off.

When I fell sick and asked for help, he brushed me off with impatience:

"This falls under low-level issues you should resolve independently. No need to escalate it to me."

When I broke down in tears, he scolded me coldly:

"Losing control of your emotions only exposes the vulnerabilities of our strategic alliance. Starting next week, my PR team will train you in emotional regulation."

Even during my horrific car crash, when I dialed his number in desperate agony, he hung up without a second thought:

"Nothing you do justifies interrupting a multi-million-dollar acquisition."

I fought for my life in the ICU for seven grueling days.

The first day I dragged myself back to the penthouse, I walked in on Brandon leaning over to gently coax another girl into taking her medication.

His mouth fell open, trying to stumble out an excuse.

I let out a bitter, exhausted smile and handed him the folder I had prepared long ago.

My tone sounded eerily like his:

"Mr. Vance, regarding our marital portfolio, a comprehensive audit indicates an unacceptably low ROI. I am officially terminating our partnership."

"Here is the divorce agreement. Sign it."

Brandon rose to his feet, casually glancing over the papers without taking them.

"Where have you been for the past two months?"

"My assistant said you wouldn't pick up calls or respond to texts. Next time you decide to vanish, file a notice with my office beforehand!"

Not a drop of concern. Just the same old cold, indiscriminate reprimand.

To be honest, after all these years by his side, this was the first time I looked at Brandon Vance’s face and felt nothing but visceral disgust.

Since he refused to take them, I didn't push.

I set the papers down on the coffee table.

"Mr. Vance, if there are no objections, just sign."

I glanced down at the delicate girl sitting in the wheelchair beside him.

My body was too weak to summon the energy for an argument or an interrogation. I bypassed her, heading toward the stairs to rest.

Perhaps my flat, emotionless reaction caught him off guard.

In a rare move, Brandon actually bothered to offer an explanation.

"This is Luna. Her brother is an old friend, and he asked me to look after her. It’s easier to take care of her here, so I moved her into the penthouse. I explained it in a text, but you probably missed it... What happened to your hand?"

Brandon abruptly changed the topic. Following his gaze, I looked down.

Without the divorce papers covering it, my right hand was fully exposed under the harsh chandelier lights.

Gaunt, sickly pale, with two layers of gauze tightly wrapped around the wrist, while the back of my hand was covered in dark purple bruises left behind by IV needles and resuscitation lines.

"Are you sick?"

It seemed he finally found what he believed to be the root of my bizarre behavior. He addressed me by my full name, not out of care, but in the scolding tone of a CEO dressing down an errant employee.

"Serena Hart, never make emotional decisions when you're unwell. Take the agreement back."

I was already used to it.

My steps paused for barely a second. Without turning around, I walked straight up to the second floor.

Before I could even latch the door, wave after wave of intense dizziness hit me. Drained of every ounce of strength, I slid down the wall and collapsed onto the hardwood floor.

From downstairs, Luna's soft, sugary voice floated into my ears.

"Brandon, did I upset Serena?"

"Maybe... you should take me back. Being alone is just a little inconvenient, but I can manage."

Brandon leaned down, his voice dropping into a tender murmur.

"Nonsense. You're staying right here. That's just how she is. Give her a couple of days, and she'll get over it."

"Come on, swallow your pills. The water is the perfect temperature."

"It won't taste bitter. I brought candy."

His voice was low, yet carried a warmth I had never once experienced in our entire marriage. I could even picture his expression—the exact tenderness and undivided focus I had begged for thousands of times.

Now, he handed it out so generously to a stranger.

A sharp wave of nausea surged from my gut. I clamped my hand over my mouth, dry-heaving violently, but nothing came up except the bitter burn of bile searing my throat.

Brandon Vance, you were never cold by nature.

You just never loved me.

I wanted to laugh—to laugh at my own sheer stupidity and naivety.

After crawling back from the edge of the grave, I had still harbored a pathetic sliver of hope for this sham of a marriage.

Downstairs, his gentle yet razor-sharp voice kept drifting up, every word rubbing coarse salt into my bleeding wounds.

*Buzz. Buzz.*

My phone lay on the floor where it had dropped. My vision was too blurry to make out the caller ID, but my trembling fingers swiped across the screen to answer.

A lazy, deep voice laced with playful amusement came through the speaker:

"Now that you're a married woman, getting a text from you is a miracle. What's the matter? Looking to have an affair with me?"

I cleared my throat with a weak, rasping cough:

"Sure. But no need to call it an affair. I'm getting divorced."

"Name your price. I'll be your sugar mommy."