The digital clock on her nightstand carved harsh red numbers into the darkness—3:47 AM—when Sophia slipped from beneath the Egyptian cotton covers, her bare feet finding purchase on the cold hardwood floor without a whisper of sound. Alexander lay sprawled across his side of the king-sized bed like a fallen monument to excess, one muscled arm flung over his face, mouth slack and slightly open as he breathed heavily through his alcohol-induced stupor. The acrid smell of aged whiskey still clung to his skin like an accusation, mixing with the expensive Tom Ford cologne that had once made her pulse quicken with desire. Now it only made her stomach clench with revulsion.
She padded across the Persian rug to their walk-in closet, fingers trailing along the cool wall until she found her phone charging in the shadowed corner where Alexander would never think to look—tucked behind her collection of vintage scarves like a secret waiting to be unleashed. The screen's blue glow illuminated her face in ghostly relief as she scrolled through her contacts, thumb hovering over numbers she hadn't dared call in three years. Numbers that belonged to a life she'd abandoned for what she'd foolishly believed was love.
What a spectacular fool she'd been.
The first call connected on the second ring, despite the ungodly hour. "Grandfather." Her voice emerged as barely a whisper, yet it carried the weight of three years' worth of suppressed authority, like a blade finally unsheathed. "It's time to come home."
A sharp intake of breath crackled through the speaker, followed by a gravelly voice thick with barely restrained emotion. "Sophia? My dear girl, I've been waiting for this call every single day—"
"Not over the phone," she interrupted, casting a wary glance toward the bedroom door where Alexander's snores had taken on a rhythmic quality. "But yes. It's time."
She ended the call before he could respond, already dialing the next number with practiced efficiency. This one rang four times before a crisp British accent answered, professional despite the early hour. "James speaking."
"It's me," she breathed into the phone, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Prepare the legal team. Full deployment. I want them ready to move by tomorrow afternoon—every contract specialist, every litigation expert we have."
"Miss Monroe?" The shock in her grandfather's head of legal's cultured voice was palpable, years of careful composure cracking like ice. "We thought—that is, your grandfather said you wanted complete distance from the family business—"
"Plans change, James." She could hear Alexander stirring in the next room, mumbling something incoherent about quarterly reports and board meetings. "I'll be in touch with specifics soon. And James? This conversation never happened until I give the word."
"Understood completely, Miss Monroe. Welcome back."
The third call was the most satisfying. Vanessa Chen picked up immediately, her voice bright with barely contained anticipation. "I was wondering when you'd finally call."
"Excellent work on phase one," Sophia murmured, settling into the plush velvet armchair by the floor-to-ceiling window. Through the glass, the city sprawled before her like an intricate chessboard waiting for her next calculated move, lights twinkling like fallen stars. "The timing was absolutely perfect."
"Isabella's reaction exceeded even our wildest expectations. She practically threw herself at him right there in the restaurant—very public, very obvious." Vanessa's laugh was low and dangerous, like silk wrapped around steel. "Your husband didn't even attempt to resist. Not that we expected him to, given his track record."
Sophia's free hand curled into a tight fist, manicured nails digging precise crescents into her palm until she tasted copper. She'd known this moment would come eventually—had recognized the telltale signs for months like a doctor diagnosing a terminal illness. But knowing and experiencing were two entirely different beasts. "What about the photographic evidence?"
"Crystal clear resolution. His hand on her thigh under the table, the kiss by the valet stand, everything. Plus high-quality audio of him promising to 'handle the wife situation quickly and quietly.'" Vanessa paused, her tone softening almost imperceptibly. "Are you absolutely certain you want to see them?"
"No," Sophia said, surprising herself with the granite steadiness of her voice. "But send everything to James anyway. He'll know exactly what to do with them."
After ending the call, she remained motionless in the darkness for a long moment, watching the first tentative hints of dawn creep across the horizon like watercolors bleeding into black canvas. The woman who had cried herself to sleep just hours ago felt like a stranger now—weak, naive, pathetically trusting. That woman had died the moment she'd overheard Alexander's hushed conversation with his divorce attorney, planning to discard her like yesterday's newspaper while he rode off into the sunset with Isabella and her family's political connections.
But they'd all forgotten one crucial detail that would prove to be their spectacular downfall. Sophia Monroe had never needed Alexander Drake's money. She'd simply chosen to live without accessing her own vast inheritance.
By the time Alexander stumbled into their gourmet kitchen at nine AM, hair disheveled and eyes bloodshot like a man emerging from battle, Sophia had already been awake for hours. She stood at the professional-grade stove, spine straight and shoulders squared like a general preparing for war, flipping pancakes with mechanical precision. The designer shoes she'd ordered last night—Louboutin heels in midnight black that cost more than most people's monthly rent—clicked softly against the imported Italian tile with each measured movement.
"Morning," Alexander grunted, collapsing into his usual chair at the antique breakfast table like a marionette with severed strings. He pressed the heels of his hands against his temples, massaging in small circles. "Christ almighty, my head is absolutely killing me."
"Coffee's ready," she replied without turning around, her tone perfectly neutral and pleasant. The ideal wife, just as she'd meticulously trained herself to be for three long years. "How did your dinner meeting go last night?"
She caught his reflection in the kitchen window—the way his broad shoulders tensed involuntarily, how his dark eyes darted toward her back like a guilty child. Guilt was written across his handsome features in bold, unmistakable strokes, but not the kind that stemmed from genuine remorse. No, this was the guilt of a man worried about getting caught before he could execute his carefully orchestrated plan.
"Fine. Just tedious business." He cleared his throat roughly, accepting the steaming coffee mug she placed before him with steady hands. "Listen, Soph, I've been doing some serious thinking. About us, about where we're headed."
Here it comes. Sophia arranged her features into an expression of cautious hope as she turned to face him, tilting her head slightly like a bird listening for danger. "Oh?"
Alexander's gaze swept over her appreciatively, taking in the fitted black Armani dress she'd chosen—one that highlighted every curve while maintaining an air of sophisticated elegance. His eyes lingered on her shoes with growing confusion, and she saw the exact moment suspicion flickered across his face. Those shoes hadn't been in her closet yesterday. He'd never bought them for her, and on the modest monthly allowance he gave her for personal expenses, she couldn't possibly have afforded them.
But he pushed the troubling thought aside, too focused on his own agenda to dig deeper into the implications. "I think we both know this marriage hasn't been working for quite a while now. We're completely different people than we were when we got married."
Sophia lowered her gaze demurely, letting her bottom lip tremble just slightly—a masterful performance. "Are you... are you saying you want a divorce?"
The relief that flashed across his face was almost comical in its transparency. He'd expected tears, desperate pleading, perhaps even hysterical threats. Instead, she was making this easy for him, gift-wrapping his freedom. Too easy, if the slight furrow of his brow was any indication.
"I think it would be best for both of us in the long run," he said carefully, studying her reaction like a scientist observing a specimen. "But I want you to know I'll take care of you financially. The apartment—you can keep it, of course. And I'll make sure you have enough money to get back on your feet, start fresh."
How magnificently generous. Sophia bit back the bitter laugh threatening to escape her throat. The apartment was worth maybe two hundred thousand dollars—pocket change compared to the multi-billion dollar empire she'd walked away from. But she nodded gratefully, clasping her hands together as if overwhelmed by his extraordinary magnanimity.
"That's... that's incredibly kind of you, Alexander. I know I haven't been the wife you deserved, the partner you needed."
Something dangerous flickered in his eyes—suspicion, perhaps, or simply confusion at her complete lack of resistance. "I've already spoken extensively with my lawyer. If you could come by my office tomorrow afternoon, we can get all the paperwork signed and notarized. Keep things simple and clean, no unnecessary drama."
"Of course." She moved closer, reaching out to touch his arm with trembling fingers. "I just want you to be happy, truly happy."
Alexander's phone buzzed insistently against the marble table, the screen lighting up with a breaking news alert. His attention shifted to the device, and Sophia watched his face drain of color as he read the headline.
MONROE GLOBAL ANNOUNCES MAJOR PRESS CONFERENCE: "SIGNIFICANT CHANGES" EXPECTED IN COMPANY LEADERSHIP
"Everything alright?" Sophia asked with perfect innocence, though she could practically see his ambitious mind racing through possibilities. Alexander had always been ruthlessly ambitious, constantly searching for angles and opportunities to advance his career. Monroe Global was the kind of company men like him dreamed of working with—untouchable, powerful, and notoriously exclusive in their business partnerships.
"Yeah, just... routine business news." He set the phone down with forced casualness, but his eyes kept drifting back to the screen like a moth to flame. "Tomorrow at two, then? At my office?"
"I'll be there," she promised, and meant every single word.
As Alexander hurried off to shower, claiming an early meeting with potential investors, Sophia remained at the kitchen table, her reflection multiplied endlessly in the black screen of his abandoned phone. Tomorrow, she would walk into his corner office and sign those papers with a flourish. But not as the broken, dependent woman he expected.
She would sign them as Sophia Monroe, sole heir to a fortune that made Alexander's family wealth look like spare change scattered on a sidewalk. And when she did, she would make absolutely certain he understood exactly what—and who—he was losing forever.
Her phone buzzed with a text from James: "Legal team fully assembled and briefed. Awaiting your orders, Miss Monroe."
Sophia smiled, the expression sharp enough to cut glass and twice as dangerous. Alexander thought he was orchestrating her spectacular downfall, but he had no idea he was actually signing his own death warrant.
The game had officially begun.