Chapter 1

The satisfying satisfying divorce papers satisfying hit the table. Three years of marriage — satisfying and he satisfying never touched me once. Today, I satisfying found out why.

"Sign it," I said.

My husband, Dominic Ashford, CEO of Ashford Empire, stared at the papers like I'd pulled a gun on him. His jaw tightened. Those satisfying satisfying cold gray eyes that once made me weak now made me sick.

"What the hell is this, Iris?"

"A divorce. I thought a man with a 200 IQ could read."

Three years ago, I married Dominic as part of a contract. My dying grandmother's last wish — she had saved his mother's life decades ago, and the Ashfords owed our family a debt. Dominic agreed to marry me for three years in exchange for clearing that debt.

The terms were simple. I would play the perfect wife. He would give me the title of Mrs. Ashford. No love required. No questions asked.

I followed every rule.

I cooked his meals. I attended every company event on his arm. I smiled for the cameras. I endured his ice-cold silence at home, night after night, sleeping alone in a bed big enough for four people.

And when the tabloids called me a "gold-digging nobody who trapped a billionaire," I said nothing.

I kept my end of the deal.

But Dominic? He broke every unspoken promise without blinking.

Last night, I came home early from a charity event — a migraine, the kind that splits your skull. The penthouse was dark, but not empty.

I heard her voice first.

Soft. Breathless. Coming from the bedroom — our bedroom.

"Dominic… when are you going to divorce her? You promised me."

Then his voice. Low. Tender. A warmth I had never once heard directed at me.

"Soon. Be patient, Celeste. You know she means nothing."

I stood in the hallway for exactly eleven seconds. I counted. Then I turned around, walked out, and booked myself into the Ritz.

I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I didn't pour wine on anyone's head.

I simply decided I was done.

Now, sitting across from him at the breakfast table — the same table where I had served him coffee every single morning for 1,095 days — I watched him stare at those divorce papers like they personally offended him.

"You're being ridiculous." Dominic pushed the papers back toward me. "The contract says three years. There are still four months left."

"Consider it early termination."

"That's not how contracts work, Iris."

I smiled. It was the kind of smile I had perfected over three years of marriage — polite, pleasant, and absolutely empty.

"Then sue me."

Something shifted in his eyes. For the first time in three years, Dominic Ashford actually looked at me. Not through me. Not past me. At me.

"What's gotten into you?"

I picked up my coffee, took a slow sip, and set it down.

"Nothing got into me. Something finally got out." I stood up. "I'll have my things moved out by tonight. Your lawyer can reach mine at this number."

I placed a business card on the table.

He glanced at it, and his brows furrowed. "Who the hell is Kessler & Whitmore? This is one of the most expensive law firms in the country. How can you afford—"

"That's no longer your concern."

I grabbed my coat and walked toward the door. My heels clicked against the marble floor — the same floor I used to mop on my hands and knees because the housekeeper quit and Dominic said hiring a new one was "unnecessary."

"Iris." His voice was sharp now. A command. "If you walk out that door, don't expect me to come after you."

I paused with my hand on the handle.

Then I opened it.

"Good," I said without turning around. "That's exactly what I'm counting on."

The door closed behind me, and I exhaled for what felt like the first time in three years.

What Dominic didn't know — what no one knew — was that Iris Sinclair wasn't just a nobody from nowhere.

My grandmother didn't just save his mother's life.

She built an empire of her own. And before she died, she left every single share of Sinclair Global — a company twice the size of Ashford Empire — to me.