Married to the Billionaire Who Betrayed Me novel Chapter 13

Chapter 13 Packing Up My Broken Vows

The rain soaked through my torn emerald dress, turning the silk into an icy second skin. I bypassed the broken elevator in my

building and climbed the three flights of stairs to my apartment. My heels clicked against the concrete steps, the sound/echoing in

the empty, desolate stairwell. I reached my door. My hands shook as I pushed the brass key into the lock. The deadbolt clicked open.

I stepped inside and shut the door behind me, leaning my weight against the cheap wood. The apartment was pitch black. No floor- to-ceiling windows overlooking the financial district. No imported Italian marble floors. No expensive security systems. Just a small

studio filled with secondhand furniture and the faint scent of lavender soap.

This was my real life. The life I planned to pack up and leave behind tomorrow, trading it for a spot beside my husband in the

Johnston family estate.

I peeled the ruined dress from my body. The cold, wet fabric pooled around my ankles, heavy with the grime of the city streets. I walked to the tiny bathroom and flipped the switch. The bare overhead bulb flickered to life.

The mirror reflected a ghost.

My dark hair hung in wet, tangled clumps around my shoulders. Mascara stained my cheeks like dark bruises, washed away by the rain and the tears. On my left cheekbone, the cut from Celeste’s massive diamond had stopped bleeding. It left a crusted, angry red line against my pale skin. A physical brand. A permanent reminder of my exact worth in his world.

I turned the faucet. I splashed freezing water on my face. I watched the water turn pink and spiral down the drain, taking my blood and my dignity with it. I grabbed a rough cotton towel and pressed it to my eyes. The fabric absorbed the moisture, but the crushing, hollow weight in my chest remained.

I left the bathroom and walked to my closet. I pulled a thick gray sweater over my head and stepped into a pair of worn sweatpants. The dry clothes offered no warmth. The cold did not come from the rain. It radiated from inside my bones, freezing my blood and

slowing my pulse.

I moved to the small wooden desk in the corner of the room. A gray metal lockbox sat tucked beneath the bottom drawer. I pulled it out and set it on the desktop. I spun the combination dial. Three numbers. His birth month. My birth month. The day we stood in

front of a judge.

The latch popped. I lifted the heavy metal lid.

Inside rested a single folded document. Thick, cream-colored paper. I reached in and picked it up. My fingers traced the raised seal of the city court pressed into the bottom corner.

Certificate of Marriage.

I read the typed names printed in bold black letters. Tristan Elias Johnston. Minerva Rose Hayes.

Below the names, his signature stretched across the designated line in sharp, aggressive strokes of black ink. My signature sat next to his, round and hopeful. Six months ago, that piece of paper felt like a shield. I believed it bound us together. I believed it meant I

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Chapter 13 Packing Up My Broken Vows

was chosen.

I placed the document flat on the desk. I smoothed the crease down the center with the pad of my thumb.

Wife.

That was the word he used in the quiet dark of the penthouse he bought for me. He used it to keep me compliant. He used it to excuse the hidden dinners, the separate cars, the cancelled trips, and the holidays spent alone. You are my wife, Mina. The rest just business. Do not let the business upset you. You have the only thing that matters.

I stared at the black ink. The paper was worthless. It was a receipt for a stolen life. In this tiny, silent room, I was Mrs. Johnston.

Outside this door, I was nothing.

I reached for my laptop sitting on the edge of the desk. I flipped the screen open. The harsh white light illuminated the dark

corners of the studio.

My browser refreshed. I did not have to search for my humiliation. It found me.

The financial news outlets, the society blogs, the mainstream media-they all carried the exact same story. The Johnston-Whitmore merger was the biggest corporate event of the decade. My face was the collateral damage to their grand announcement.

I clicked on a prominent society website. A high-definition video occupied the center of the screen. I hit play.

The footage showed me standing in the center of the ballroom. The camera angle caught the absolute desperation in my posture. I saw myself push past Julian Whitmore. I heard my own voice scream Tristan’s name over the swell of the string quartet.

The comment section scrolled past the video in real-time. I read the words flashing across the screen. Delusional. Social climber.

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