Chapter 3

She lunged forward and grabbed Isabelle's neck with all the strength she had. Before she could really do anything, though, Charles yanked her wrist and threw her aside hard. She stumbled back, smashing straight into the wall. Blood immediately started trickling down from her forehead. Charles froze. He looked like he was about to step forward, but Isabelle threw herself into his arms first, trembling like a leaf and clutching her neck. "Charles... I thought I was gonna die..." Olivia was crying hysterically too, arms wrapped around Charles's neck like she couldn't breathe. Charles's face darkened. His voice was low and heavy. "Stella, stop pretending." The pain and dizziness were almost unbearable. It took Stella a few tries just to stand up. Blood streamed down her pale forehead, dripping onto her eyelashes. She forced her eyes open and stared at the man in front of her—arms around one woman, holding another in his embrace. Four years of secretly loving him. Six years of being his wife. One moment of death, one moment of injury. And this... this was what she got from the man she gave everything to. A wave of bitterness surged in her chest. Fueled by grief and rage, she stepped forward, stopping right in front of him. Then, without hesitation, she slapped him across the face. "Smack!" The sharp sound echoed. His face twisted with the force, and an angry red handprint bloomed on his cheek. She hadn't held back. "Charles, I'm divorcing you." The intensity in her voice stunned everyone into silence. She turned around and staggered out, her slim figure hunched, clothes wrinkled, hair messy, and hands still shaking. Disheveled, but proud. Behind her came a cold, mocking snort. Stella didn't need to look back. She knew Charles wouldn't believe she'd really go through with it. In his mind, the woman who drugged her way into his bed wouldn't willingly give up the wealth and status she'd gotten. That's always how he saw her. She'd spent six years defending herself—saying it wasn't her who drugged him back then. He never believed a word of it. Charles bit the inside of his cheek, eyes locked on her retreating back. His gaze burned, unreadable—dangerous. That slap—Stella, how dare you? — The day before his surgery, Charles returned to Riviera Court one last time. Considering he'd be recovering in the hospital afterward, he figured he wouldn't be home for at least a week. After a shower and a change of clothes, he decided to give Stella a chance to talk things through. But no matter where he looked, there was no sign of her in the villa. Even all of Sophie's stuff was gone. Damn woman. She actually ran off with the kid! Annoyed, he pulled out his phone and opened his chat with Stella. The last message was from a few days ago. "Where are you? Please come to the hospital. Sophie really needs you." His assistant said that the day she took Sophie to piano class, the kid seemed totally fine. He should've known. Stella was still the same—manipulative, calculating. Even her own daughter's health wasn't off-limits if it meant getting what she wanted. Disgust filled him, yet his mind kept flicking back to the image of her bloodied forehead. Irritated, he typed out four short words: "Get back home. Now." The moment he hit send, his screen lit up with a bright red exclamation mark. She'd blocked him. For a second, Charles could only laugh grimly. For six whole years, Stella'd played the obedient wife. And now? She finally lost it, acting just like that defiant girl she used to be. Meanwhile, Stella had already returned to the old Johnson family house.Back when Stella's family went bankrupt and her parents died in an accident, it was Old Mrs. Hart who stepped in—paid off their debts and took Stella into the Hart household. On her eighteenth birthday, she even bought back the Johnson family home as a gift. But Stella had never dared return here—until now. Standing once more in the worn-out living room, she stared at the small memorial shelf where her parents' framed photos stood, with Sophie's urn placed gently beneath them. Her mind was torn between gratitude toward the Harts and the bitter hatred she still felt for Charles. A part of her just wanted to end it all. A sharp screech of tires cut through the silence of the courtyard, making her flinch. Her mind instantly flashed back to when she was fourteen. Back then, debt collectors had trapped her in the same spot. "Kid, your family messed with the wrong people. If you don't step out, don't blame me for selling you off to the black market." Terrified like a hunted animal, she didn't think much about it at the time. But now she wondered—was there more to the Johnson bankruptcy? She turned and bolted toward the sound. But instead of the thugs from her past, it was Charles standing in the yard. The blur between past and present made her head spin. Charles was already striding toward her, voice laced with sarcasm and a chill that could bite. "Wow, Stella. You really had the guts to show up here?" That all-too-familiar scent on him—it wasn't just his own. Some other woman's perfume clung faintly to his clothes. Stella stepped back, took a breath to steady herself, and locked eyes with him. Those eyes of his—calm, unreadable. "Got the divorce papers ready? Or should I go ahead and file myself?" His gaze flicked to the dried blood on her forehead. Two days, and she hadn't even treated the wound. What, trying to look pitiful? Irritated, he looked away. "You walk out of this marriage, don't expect a single cent." "Fine." Her answer came without hesitation, stunning Charles into silence. His narrow eyes darkened as he stared at her. She pointed toward the house behind her. "This place? It was a gift from your grandma when I turned eighteen. The deed's in my name. I'll pay her back every cent she spent—but it's mine. Not yours. You've got no say." Charles was thrown—what had gotten into her? Still, he couldn't be bothered to argue. He brushed past her and walked into the house. "Hold on," Stella called, hurrying after him. But her legs were no match for his stride. By the time she caught up, he was already on the couch in the living room, flipping a box open as he waved it off. "Bought this for Sophie—for her competition. Thought I'd come give it to her myself." He waited, fully expecting to hear little footsteps thudding down the stairs. Sophie always lit up when he brought her things. She'd clutch the gifts with a shy smile and whisper, "Thank you, Daddy." Sure, she wasn't as sweet-talking as Olivia, but setting Stella aside—he didn't hate the kid. But upstairs stayed quiet—dead quiet. "Where is she?" He turned, confused, looking at Stella. She'd walked in and was staring at the gift box, eyes instantly welling up. Inside was a white chiffon dress, dotted with sparkling rhinestones, and on top, a delicate little princess tiara. It was the same outfit Olivia had worn at her birthday party. Now here he was, saying it was for Sophie. What a sick joke. "I asked you—where's Sophie?" His patience snapped, and he stepped toward the stairs. "She's gone."