The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 453

Chapter 222-3

What is this? Who sent this? Did Knox set this up?

I sit up straight on the edge of the mattress, my thumb dragging down the glass screen to refresh the balance, desperately wanting to believe Knox is taking care of me from beyond

the grave.

But deep down, I know the truth.

Knox couldn’t have set this up. Knox didn’t plan ten days ahead, let alone ten years. Knox told

me that he was broke, drowning in debt to Vane, scrambling to deliver fentanyl orders.

Knox didn’t have almost a million dollars in liquid cash to leave me, and even if he did, he

wouldn’t have it in a trust. If Knox had that kind of cash sitting around, he would have bought

ammo, a better motorcycle, or another solid gold chain for his neck.

Then who?

And the realization hits me like a physical blow to the chest, knocking the air right out of my

lungs.

It’s Zara.

As his legal wife, Zara took Knox’s entire estate, and no doubt Locke is showering her in cash

… and now, she’s tossing scraps off her gold-plated table down into the gutter for me.

A slow, vicious heat begins to crawl up my neck, replacing the cold shock with pure,

unadulterated poison.

It’s guilt money. It’s charity.

It’s Zara Callahan sitting in her sky-high high-rise penthouse, wrapped in Locke’s arms,

holding her pregnant stomach and feeling just a little bit sorry for Knox’s leftover girl.

It’s Zara playing the benevolent queen, throwing eight thousand dollars a month at me so she

can sleep at night without feeling guilty.

She thinks she can buy my silence. She thinks she can buy my absence. She thinks she can chuck me a bone like a stray dog behind a restaurant and watch me run away into the dark, quiet and grateful.

1/3

Chapter 222-3

She thinks she’s being kind.

+25 Points

I let out a sound, a sharp, breathless laugh that scrapes against the back of my dry throat.

“Guilt money,” I whisper to the empty room. “You think you can pay me off with eight grand a

month, you miserable f*****g b***h?”

She doesn’t know about the ambulance. She doesn’t know about the hospital. She doesn’t

know that while she was planning her pristine future with Locke, I was scrubbing my blood –

Knox’s baby’s blood – off the bathroom tile

She gave me money. She gave me a survival fund.

She thinks she bought my disappearance, but all she really did was hand me a weapon.

If I have eight thousand dollars a month, plus the cash, the gold, and the jewelry I took from

Knox’s safe, then I don’t have to starve in an alley. I don’t have to sell my body or beg Knox’s

old patched brothers for a place to crash.

Zara Callahan just funded the very thing that’s going to destroy her.

Eight grand today, eight grand next month, eight grand the month after that. Clean,

untraceable, liquid cash sitting in an account under my name.

And without a baby, it’s for me alone.

I stand up from the bed, my legs steady for the first time in twenty-four hours. The cold, paralyzed numbness in my limbs is completely gone, replaced by a dark, singing clarity.

The raw skin on my hands doesn’t sting anymore. The empty ache in my stomach doesn’t

matter anymore.

I walk over to the small, cracked mirror above the motel sink and look at my reflection.

My face is pale, dark purple circles bruising the skin under my eyes, my lips dry and cracked. I

look like a ghost. I look like something that crawled out of a grave.

But my eyes aren’t dead. My eyes are burning with a cold, terrifying focus.

“Thank you, Zara,” I say to the mirror. “Thank you for the war chest.”

I turn away from the glass, grabbing the heavy leather duffel bags and throwing them over

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