Chapter 2 - The Return of the Discarded WifeThe heavy iron security gates of the estate stood wide open, welcoming the parade of luxury sports cars and chauffeured sedans into the circular drive. I didn't hide. I didn't sneak in through the service entrance. I drove my silver sedan right up the crushed limestone driveway, parking it deliberately behind Cordelia’s gleaming white Mercedes-Benz SUV, blocking her in completely.
As I stepped out of the car, the sharp autumn air bit into my skin, but the dull ache in my leg was instantly drowned out by a surge of pure, freezing adrenaline. I leaned heavily on a polished dark wood cane—a gift from my grandfather that he had carved himself—and began walking toward the brightly lit double oak doors of the house.
The music thudded against the walls—a rhythmic, deep bass house track that vibrated through the ground. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the grand living room, I could see Flynn standing by the stone fireplace, laughing heartily as a group of local real estate developers slapped him on the back.
He looked devastatingly handsome in his custom charcoal tuxedo, his silver-blonde hair combed back perfectly, looking every bit the triumphant young titan of industry.
I reached the front doors and pushed them open without knocking.
The heavy wood swung inward with a soft creak. Because of the loud music and the roar of conversation, nobody noticed my entrance at first. I stood just inside the foyer—the exact spot where my body had crumpled fourteen days ago, where my blood had stained the marble before Flynn stepped over me like I was a piece of trash.
I dragged the tip of my cane across the floorboards. Clack. Clack. Clack.
The sharp, rhythmic sound cut through the noise like a gunshot.
Conversations died out one by one. Heads turned. The laughter faded into an uncomfortable, suffocating silence until the only sound left was the low thrum of the bass and the crackle of the fire.
Then, Cordelia emerged from the dining alcove holding a crystal champagne flute. Her eyes widened, hardening into slits of pure venom when she saw my face framed by the doorway, supported by the cane.
“Well, look who decided to crawl out from under a rock,” Cordelia sneered, her voice carrying easily across the silent room. She stepped forward, her silk emerald dress rustling with every movement. “What are you doing here, Sloan? Did you come to beg for grocery money, or did you finally realize that a cripple without a family has no business walking onto private property?”
A few uncomfortable titters rippled through the crowd of sycophants standing near the bar.
At the far end of the room, Flynn froze. The glass of scotch in his hand trembled slightly before he set it down on the mantelpiece. His face drained of color as he pushed through the cluster of guests, walking toward me with a mixture of shock and suppressed panic in his eyes.
“Sloan,” Flynn said, his voice tight and defensive as he stopped a few feet away. “You shouldn’t be here. Security should have stopped you at the gates.”
“Security?” I tilted my head, letting out a dry, humorless laugh that echoed off the high ceilings. “Flynn, darling... don’t you remember? You own the gates now. You own the driveway. You own every single brick, beam, and nail of this estate.”
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I took a deliberate step forward, planting my cane firmly on the marble floor.
“I just came to deliver a housewarming gift,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “After all, people shouldn't move into a house without knowing what’s buried in the basement.”
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