“I didn’t come here to fight,” Cassius said, his tone dripping with condescension. “I came to thank you.”
Axel’s jaw tightened. “Thank me for what?”
“For cultivating such an exquisite woman.” Cassius reached into his breast pocket and produced a document – crisp, official, its holographic seals catching the sunlight. He pressed it flat against Axel’s chest.
Axel caught it reflexively. His eyes moved across the page. His face went grey.
It was a copy of a European Union passport. The photograph was unmistakably Ayla. But the name printed in bold letters read: AYLA GILLIAM. Beneath it, her occupation: Special Consultant to the Gilliam Group, European Division. And at the bottom, in fine print: Holder possesses diplomatic immunity.
“She’s under my protection now,” Cassius said quietly. “Legally. Internationally. Untouchable.”
Axel’s hands shook. The paper crumpled in his grip. “This is forgery. You can’t-“
“Can’t what?” Cassius stepped closer, invading his space. “Can’t give her a name worth having? Can’t offer her what you threw away?” His voice dropped to a whisper only Axel could hear. “She wore my shirt last night. Can you guess which one?”
The words detonated in Axel’s mind.
A roar tore from his throat. He lunged forward, grabbing Cassius by the lapels, fist raised to strike. Cassius didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. He simply smiled.
“Go ahead,” Cassius murmured. “Hit me. And watch your stock drop another twenty points before your fist connects.”
Axel froze, fist trembling in the air.
Cassius reached up and peeled Axel’s fingers from his jacket one by one, with visible disgust. He smoothed his lapel and stepped back.
“Check your phone, Axel. The Nasdaq opened an hour ago. Your AI algorithm has a rather fatal flaw. Someone shorted your stock heavily right at the opening bell. You’ve lost roughly a billion dollars this morning.”
Axel stumbled backward, fumbling for his phone, his fingers slick with sweat. When the numbers loaded, the color drained entirely from his face.
“The algorithm was our secret,” he whispered. “Only Ayla knew-“
“Yes.” Cassius adjusted his sunglasses. “Only Ayla. And now she’s mine. Every secret you trusted her with, every weakness in your empire – she brought it all to me.” He turned and began walking down the stairs. “Consider it severance pay for years of abuse.”
Axel stood frozen, the crumpled passport copy still clutched in his hand, his phone displaying the ruin of his company.
At the bottom of the stairs, Cassius paused and looked back.
“If you ever contact her again – if you even think about her – I will personally ensure the Farrell Group is delisted by end of week. She is untouchable now. Accept it.”
He reached for the car door.
A crash shattered the silence.
From the second-floor balcony, a heavy terracotta flowerpot had tumbled over the railing and exploded against the stone patio, sending shards scattering in every direction.
Kristal stood frozen on the balcony in a silk robe, her hand still outstretched where she had knocked the pot. She had been hiding up there, listening.
Cassius looked up at her, then back at Axel.
He let out a low, disgusted laugh. “Your taste in women is truly pathetic.”
The words broke Axel completely. He spun around, his eyes wild, and charged into the mansion. Seconds later, Kristal’s piercing scream echoed through the open doors.
Cassius didn’t look back. He slid into the Aston Martin and started the engine. As he roared through the gates, he pressed a button on the steering wheel, connecting to an encrypted line.
“The gift has been delivered,” he said, his voice carrying a note of dark satisfaction. “Your ex-husband is currently losing his mind. Get dressed, Ayla. It’s time to finish this.”
The marble steps of the Manhattan Supreme Court were swarming with chaos.
Over fifty journalists, paparazzi, and news crews were packed tightly behind the police barricades. Camera flashes strobed like lightning in the overcast afternoon light. News of Farrell Tech’s catastrophic stock crash and rumors of a high-profile divorce had drawn the entire city’s media to the courthouse steps.
A massive armored black Bentley Mulsanne pulled up to the curb. Four Gilliam Group private security contractors in tactical suits and earpieces stepped out first, forming a physical wedge and pushing the screaming reporters back.
The rear door opened.
Ayla stepped out in a breathtaking, stark white haute couture suit. The tailoring was razor-sharp, radiating absolute power and untouchable composure. She wore oversized black sunglasses that hid her eyes, but her posture was rigid and commanding. She looked nothing like a victim. She looked like an executioner.
She clutched a thick leather folder to her chest. Inside were the official divorce filings.
She began climbing the wide marble steps, flanked by her security detail. Reporters screamed her name, begging for a comment on the corporate espionage charges. Ayla ignored them completely.
She was three steps from the heavy brass courthouse doors when the deafening screech of tires tore through the air.
Three black Farrell Group SUVs jumped the curb and smashed into the police barricades. The crowd of reporters screamed and scattered.
The door of the lead SUV flew open.
Axel Farrell threw himself out. He looked completely unraveled – clothes torn, face drenched in sweat, eyes wide with manic obsession. He charged up the courthouse steps, ignoring the shouting police officers entirely.
The Gilliam security team moved to intercept. Axel reached to his waist and pulled out a high-voltage tactical stun device. He activated it. The bright blue electrical arc crackled with a sharp, aggressive snap that echoed off the marble columns. The crowd shrieked and stumbled backward in panic.
Ayla’s heart stopped.
Axel leveled the crackling device at the chest of the lead bodyguard.
“Get out of my way,” he roared, his voice cracking with hysteria.
Bound by strict engagement rules in a public space and unwilling to close range on a live electrical arc, the bodyguards slowly stepped back just enough to create a gap, hands raised.
Axel lunged through. He grabbed Ayla’s left wrist, his fingers digging into her skin with bone-crushing force, and yanked her violently toward him.
“You think you can just walk away from me?!” he screamed into her face, his breath reeking of alcohol and copper. “You think you can take his name and destroy my company?!”
Ayla didn’t scream. She didn’t pull away.
She reached up with her free hand and slowly removed her sunglasses.
Her eyes were completely dead – no fear, no love, no hesitation. She looked at him the way one looks at something beneath contempt.
“You destroyed yourself, Axel,” she said. Her voice was utterly calm, and it carried perfectly over the terrified, silent crowd. “Your paranoia and your sick need to control me burned your empire to the ground.”
Axel’s face contorted in agony. “You are my wife! You belong to me!”
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