I was leaning back against my personal trainer’s chest, mindlessly scrolling through my feed, when a post featuring my own home address stopped my thumb dead. The user, some girl cosplaying as a "struggling house help," was sobbing in her caption. She’d "accidentally" ruined her employer’s haute couture gown and was terrified she could never afford the repairs. I didn't need a detective to solve this one. It was Faith, the live-in maid at the townhouse I shared with my husband-of-convenience. Usually, she was all thumbs and clumsy apologies, but apparently, she was a pro when it came to curated digital sympathy. The comments were a bloodbath. Half the people were calling her out, saying if you break it, you buy it, and crying for clout wouldn't pay the bill. The other half—the "eat the rich" crowd—was coddling her. Then, Faith replied. Her tone was the digital equivalent of a bashful tuck of the hair behind the ear. She claimed she wanted to pay for it, but her "Sir" had already found a different way for her to "compensate" him... all night long. The implication was as thick as New York humidity. I couldn't help but laugh. I hit the share button and sent the link straight to my "Inner Circle"—a group chat filled with the city’s most eligible bachelors who had been orbiting me for years. I typed out a single message: “Whoever can shave five percent off the Pierce Group’s stock price by the closing bell gets the chance to replace my useless husband.” 1. "Ms. Blackwood, the Pierce Group just hit a five-point-three percent drop." My assistant’s voice crackled through the intercom. I leaned back in my leather executive chair, watching the red candles flicker on the Bloomberg terminal. The sell-off had started at 2:00 PM sharp, volume spiking like a heart attack. "Understood," I said, hanging up. I opened my phone. The "Inner Circle" chat was blowing up—hundreds of messages. [Caleb: Evie, I leaked their Q3 receivables to three major financial analysts. The numbers are cooked.] [Leo: I’ve got an ESG firm drafting a report on their environmental violations as we speak.] The last message was from Carter Walsh, my childhood best friend and the heir to the Walsh fortune. [Carter: Done. Five points, on the dot.] I smirked and typed back: “You move fast.” “I’ve been waiting three years for you to ask,” he replied instantly. “I don’t miss my window.” I was about to respond when my phone vibrated with an incoming call. Greg Pierce. "Evelyn," his voice was a low growl, vibrating with suppressed rage. "What the hell are you doing to my stock?" "Greg," I said, my voice smooth as silk. "The market is a fickle mistress. Your company’s failure has nothing to do with me." "Don't lie to me!" he barked. "Is this because I told Faith she didn't have to pay for that dress?" "That 'dress'?" I laughed, a sharp, cold sound. "Greg, that was a vintage McQueen. It was my mother’s eighteenth birthday gift to me. It’s worth nearly a million dollars. Your little maid ruined it on purpose, and you think I’m the one being unreasonable?" "She was just trying to be diligent! Besides, I owe her. She’s done things for me you wouldn't understand. A dress is nothing compared to her loyalty." "Diligent?" I interrupted. "Is that why she was posting thirst-traps with our home address at 2:00 AM? Claiming I was 'stomping on her dignity' while she spent the night 'compensating' you?" "She only posted that because you’ve been suffocating her," Greg snapped. "I know you look down on her, Evelyn. But she works for a living. She’s earned her place more than someone born into a golden cradle ever will." I was actually stunned into a laugh. "Greg, do you hear yourself? You’re acting like you’re some self-made man of the people. You’re a Pierce. You’re literally the poster boy for old money." "I know who I am," he said. "And I know what this marriage is. It’s business. You’ve used my family’s resources for three years; the least you could do is act like a wife. Faith is a girl with nothing. Why are you so obsessed with bullying her?" I looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office, watching the clouds roll over Manhattan. This petty drama was beneath me. "Greg," I said. "Since you want to talk about business, let’s talk about the bottom line." "What?" "The Blackwood-Pierce merger involves six major projects totaling nearly four billion dollars," I said, sitting up straight. "Because of your maid’s social media antics, my own stock took a three-point hit today. Do you know what that translates to in market cap?" Silence. "Eleven hundred million dollars," I enunciated every syllable. "A billion-dollar headache because your 'loyal' maid wanted to play victim on TikTok. Now, I’m giving you two choices." "Choice one: Faith Jenkins makes a public apology, admits she destroyed the dress and lied for clout, and she’s out of New York by tonight." "Absolutely not!" he shouted. "She’s done nothing wrong—" "Choice two," I cut him off. "We divorce. And I’m invoking Article Seven of our pre-nup. I assume you remember it?" I heard him catch his breath. Article Seven: In the event of gross negligence or reputational damage leading to the dissolution of the marriage, the offending party forfeits fifteen percent of their personal equity to the spouse. "You're threatening me, Evelyn?" "I’m giving you an out. You have three days to decide." 2. Three days later, I walked into the townhouse and found Faith on her knees in the living room, scrubbing the floor. She was using a white cashmere throw—the one I’d just brought back from Milan—as a rag. "Ms. Blackwood!" she squeaked, jumping to her feet. She stood straight, clutching the soaked, ruined fabric. "You... you’re home early." I looked at the throw. The cashmere was matted, dripping with floor cleaner. "That throw," I said, my eyes meeting hers, "was five thousand Euros. I’ll be deducting that from your final paycheck." Her face went pale, her lip trembling. "I didn't mean to... I just thought it looked soft, and I wanted the floors to be perfect for you..." "Perfect?" I stepped into the room. "Faith, we have a closet full of professional cleaning supplies. You’ve been here three months. Don't tell me you haven't found them." "I... I just want to be better..." Her eyes started to well up, but there was a stubborn glint in them. "I know I’m not like you. I know I’m 'the help.' But you can't just use your luxury items to humiliate me because I’m poor!" "Humiliate you?" I smiled. "Faith, if you break something, you pay for it. That’s a lesson they teach in kindergarten. Since when does being broke give you a license to be a thief?" "I’m not a thief!" She raised her voice, chin trembling like a cornered animal. "I’ll pay it back! I have a savings account. I have three thousand dollars... I’ve worked years for that." She slammed a debit card onto the marble coffee table. "I’ll pay you five hundred a month for the rest. I’ve calculated it. It’ll take me... thirteen years. But I’ll do it. I’ll work nights, I’ll take a second job—" "Your math is off." I picked up the card, spinning it between my fingers. "The McQueen dress is currently valued at nearly a million dollars. At five hundred a month, you’ll be paying me back for the next hundred and sixty years. And that’s before interest." She froze. "And this?" I tossed the card back onto the table. "Three thousand dollars? That wouldn't even cover the dry-cleaning bill for my rugs." The tears finally fell, but she bit her lip, refusing to let out a sob. It was a masterclass in the "wronged-but-strong" archetype. I was about to end the performance when I heard footsteps on the stairs. Greg rushed down, and the moment he saw Faith crying, his face twisted into a knot of fury. "Evelyn! Again? You're still on this?" "On this?" I gestured to the cashmere rag. "Greg, your 'loyal assistant' just used five-thousand-dollar cashmere to mop the floor. Asking for compensation isn't bullying—it’s basic accounting." Greg looked at the ruined fabric, then at Faith’s neck. There was a faint, moon-shaped birthmark peeking out from her collar. That birthmark was his twenty-year obsession. When he was a kid, abandoned by his stepmother in a rough neighborhood for a few hours, a girl with that same mark had shared her sandwich with him. He’d convinced himself she was his "Guardian Angel." He’d only "found" Faith a few months ago. "She doesn't know any better," Greg said, his voice softening as he looked at her. "You could just teach her instead of—" "Why is it my job to raise your maid?" I snapped. "I pay her a salary to work, not to be my apprentice. This isn't a charity, Greg." "You’re so cold," he hissed. "She’s had a hard life—" "A hard life?" I laughed. "She’s making six figures to live in a mansion and ruin my clothes. That’s a dream life for most people." I walked up to Faith, looking at her tear-stained face. "Faith, if you want to be 'better,' stop talking and start paying. If you can't afford the lifestyle you’re destroying, stop touching things that don't belong to you." She glared at me. The sadness was gone, replaced by pure, unadulterated resentment. "Ms. Blackwood," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I know you look down on me. You were born with everything. You don’t know what it’s like to fight for a scrap of dignity. But I’d rather die than beg for your mercy." "Brava," I said, clapping slowly. "Then please, pack your bags and leave my house. As for the compensation... you’ll be hearing from my lawyers." "Evelyn!" Greg pulled Faith behind him. "You’re really going to do this?" I looked at them—the CEO and the 'Mistreated' Maid. A classic melodrama. "Greg, I’m giving you one last chance to be a businessman. Because if we go the legal route, intentional destruction of property at this value carries a prison sentence of three to seven years. Faith, do you want to see if the prison jumpsuits are made of cashmere?" Faith turned ghost-white and grabbed Greg’s arm. "Sir... I don't want to go to jail..." Greg stared at me, his eyes full of venom. "You’re a monster, Evelyn." "And you’re a cliché." I checked my watch. "Five minutes. Both of you. Get out of my house." I turned and walked upstairs, calling my estate manager to ensure they didn't "accidentally" pack any of my jewelry on their way out. 3. Three days later was the grand opening of the "Blackwood-Pierce Plaza," a nearly two-billion-dollar commercial complex. It was the crowning jewel of our merger, the symbol of our families' union. The gala was held in the glass-walled ballroom on the penthouse floor. Every power player in Manhattan was there. The paparazzi were lined up at the entrance, flashes firing like lightning. I was in a vintage Chanel fishtail gown, holding court in the center of the room. A reporter shoved a mic in my face. "Ms. Blackwood, rumors are swirling about your marriage. Care to comment?" I smiled professionally. "Tonight is about the Plaza. Let’s stick to business." "But they say you and Mr. Pierce are living apart—" "In business," I interrupted, "what matters is the ROI. Mr. Pierce and I have always been a high-yield partnership." Just then, a hush fell over the room. Greg had arrived. And he wasn't alone. Faith was on his arm. She was wearing a white silk dress—a dress I recognized. I’d tossed it into a donation bin last month because it was out of season. It had been crudely tailored to fit her, cinched tight at the waist to emphasize her curves. But the real insult was the necklace. A strand of South Sea pearls. My father’s wedding gift to me. Worth seven figures. I felt a surge of white-hot rage, but I kept my face a mask of bored elegance. The press swarmed them. "Mr. Pierce! Who is your companion?" "Is this a statement about your marriage, Greg?" Greg looked stiff, trying to shield her from the cameras. "This is my personal assistant. She’s just here to help with the event—" "Sir," Faith said, her voice soft but perfectly projected for the mics. "Don't hide me. I’ll tell them." She stepped forward, giving the cameras a practiced, forty-five-degree-angle smile. "Hi, I’m Faith. I know I shouldn't be here, but Greg needed someone to lean on. Evelyn is... so busy with work. She doesn't have time for him. I’m just doing my part to care for him. It’s the least I can do." The room went silent. Every eye turned to me. I stood my ground, the professional smile still etched on my face. The stage was set. I walked toward the podium and took the microphone. "It seems everyone has seen the headlines," I said, my voice echoing through the ballroom. "Perfect. Since you’re all here, I have an announcement." The giant LED screen behind me lit up with a single sentence: “THE CURTAIN FALLS.” "Three years ago, the Blackwood and Pierce families joined in a marriage of strategic interests," I began, my voice steady. "It was meant to be a model of corporate synergy." I paused, looking down at Greg, whose face was turning a sickly shade of gray. "Unfortunately, some people forgot that this was just a contract. They started believing in their own fairytales." "Evelyn!" Greg tried to storm the stage, but my security team blocked his path. "So, tonight," I raised my voice, "I am announcing three things." "First: As of this moment, my marriage to Greg Pierce is over. The papers are signed. I wish him and Miss Jenkins a long and... expensive life together." The room erupted. "Second: All joint ventures between Blackwood Holdings and the Pierce Group are hereby terminated. My legal team is already filing for breach of contract." "Third..." I looked toward the back of the room. The heavy oak doors swung open.
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