After the divorce, I left Las Vegas without a moment's hesitation.

I headed to Dubai alone, ready to start anew.

Over time, I carved out a name for myself in the shadowy world of Middle Eastern arms dealing.

Then, whispers from Las Vegas reached me: my ex-husband, Augustine Clayton, was about to get engaged to his little mistress.

I ran my fingers over the bullet pendant around my neck.

Eight years ago, during a brutal gang shootout, he'd taken that bullet for me. It had grazed perilously close to his heart, missing by a hair's breadth.

Once the surgeons pulled it out, he fashioned it into a necklace and slipped it around my neck.

His voice was soft, almost tender, as he whispered, "From now on, my life is yours."

Snapping back to the present, I yanked the chain off without a second thought and tossed it into the trash.

Back then, everyone sneered that I was just some prize Augustine had won at the casino tables—that without him, I'd be nothing.

Seven years later, I returned to Las Vegas to open a new mine.

At the negotiation table, Augustine, who ruled half the city, locked eyes with me, and in that instant, tears welled up in his eyes.

I, however, remembered what had happened at his father's funeral seven years earlier.

That day, he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with his mistress, letting her play the part of his wife, graciously accepting condolences from family and friends.

That day, I learned my husband had built a cozy little home with her in Centennial Hills.

***

I slid the divorce papers across the table to Augustine, calm and collected as ever.

"Sign them."

Augustine arched an eyebrow, his expression dripping with amusement.

Tucked beneath the agreement was a newspaper, sensationalized to the hilt, detailing how Augustine's lover, Cecilia Webster, had stolen the spotlight at the funeral, leaving his real wife humiliated and sidelined.

"Kassandra, must you play these childish games again?" he asked casually.

"For eight years, you've dangled divorce over my head like a threat—must be at least a hundred times by now. Haven't you gotten tired of this routine?"

Then he fished a black card out of his pocket and flicked it onto the table.

"If that's not enough, just hit up Brad—he'll wire you more. I've been swamped with work lately, but you can call me if you need anything."

I didn't take the card. I simply cast a cool glance at Cecilia in his arms.

All the women Augustine had paraded around these years looked just like her.

I knew exactly why Augustine never married Cecilia after she came back.

After all, the wife of the underground king wasn't meant for the one he loved—it was for the one who fit the role, the strategic choice.

"You planning to keep her as your side piece forever?"

I nudged the divorce papers forward again.

Cecilia pouted in annoyance, clearly stung by the "side piece" label. She cooed in that saccharine voice of hers, "Ms. Lambert, love's between two people. The one who's not loved is the real side piece."

Augustine chuckled lightly, saying nothing to contradict her.

He stroked her cheek affectionately, then turned to me. "We'll go to the church tomorrow morning. Don't be late."

I didn't look away until his figure faded.

Every week, Augustine dragged me to church, saying it would cleanse us of our sins.

His mother, Shelly Clayton, often hinted that my barren womb was proof of my sin.

And Augustine? He saw my intolerance for his mistresses as the sin of jealousy.

Stepping into the church, I closed my eyes and began to pray.

When Augustine arrived, an inexplicable wave of panic gripped my heart.

"Kassandra," he called out.

My pulse quickened, a knot tightening in my chest.

"A sorcerer told me Cecilia's in for some bad luck this year. The only way to ward it off is to soak her feet in water mixed with your father's ashes."

I shot to my feet, staring into his cold, impassive eyes in utter shock—then burst into a hollow laugh.

"Augustine, eight years ago, I consulted a fortune teller about us. I lied and said we were a perfect match, but the truth? He told me you will ruin my life, and we will never have a baby.

"If you so much as touch my father's grave, I'll smash your father's coffin to splinters."

Over the years, I'd cried and raged over his endless affairs.

I'd learned the hard way: in this cutthroat jungle, no man respected a woman who endured everything without fighting back.

His face darkened in an instant.

"Do it!" he ordered, his voice stern, brooking no dissent.

"Augustine!"

His henchmen pinned me down with iron grips, while the others desecrated my father's grave right before my eyes.

"Kassandra, this is for your father's own good. Ashes are useless. Helping Cecilia out? It's an honor for him."

"Get the hell off me!"

Fueled by the absurdity of it all, I lashed out, shoving his goons aside and snatching the urn back.

Then, a brutal blow cracked against the back of my head.

Warm blood trickled down my forehead, blurring my vision.

I couldn't hold onto the urn anymore. Soon, someone ripped it from my arms.

In agony, I raised my head and, under the harsh sun, saw Augustine's cold face.

"Deliver it to the sorcerer," he said.

I forced a bitter smile and then blacked out.

When I came to, I was in a hospital bed.

My loyal aide filled me in: Augustine had spent the last few days in Centennial Hills with Cecilia.

He had used my father's ashes for some twisted black magic ritual, trying to bind my dad's spirit, forcing his ghost to serve Cecilia like some obedient phantom.

I yanked out the IV needle, gathered a squad of men I'd trained, and went straight there.

Cecilia was lounging on the sofa, sipping coffee, her face draining of color when she saw me burst through the door.

I scanned the opulent villa and found a brand-new altar in the corner.

There, staring back at me, was my father's portrait.

The sight ignited an inferno of rage inside me, flames licking at my veins.

"Kassandra, you're not welcome here! If you try anything, I'll make sure Augustine..."

Before she could finish her threat, I lunged, grabbing a fistful of her hair and yanking her toward the altar.

"Looks like you still don't get it.

"I'm Augustine's real wife. Every damn penny from his arms empire? Half of it's mine! If I want you out of here, you won't last an hour."

I stamped on her wrist with my combat boot, grinding down hard.

Cecilia let out a piercing shriek, agony ripping through her.

"You... you old hag! Augustine will never let you get away with this!"

I sneered, tightening my grip on her hair and slamming her face into the floor.

"You think you can stay young forever? In this world, youth is the cheapest commodity.

"You wanted my dad's ashes to break your curse? Foot-soaking's not enough. Here—drink every last drop of that filthy water!"

I signaled my men to hold her down, then poured the basin of ash-tainted water straight down her throat.

For every spill, I slapped her hard across the face.

By the time I let go, her cheeks were swollen, her lips bloodied.

Suddenly, urgent footsteps echoed behind us.

Augustine arrived, radiating an arctic chill, his private army following close behind, all weapons drawn and ready.

"Kassandra, you've crossed the line."

His voice was a frozen blade as he bent down and scooped up the limp woman in his arms.

I met his glare head-on. "Mr. Clayton, compared to what you've done, this is nothing."

His eyes blazed with arctic rage.

"Throw her into the snake pit out back. No one pulls her out without my order."

It was the venomous viper den he'd excavated just to indulge Cecilia's twisted whims.

"You wanted to watch an execution, right? Today, you'll get your fill," he murmured tenderly to the woman in his embrace.

Two burly guards dragged me roughly toward the rear of the property.

In the chilling depths of the cavern, serpents slithered forth, fangs sinking into my flesh with searing venom.

Agony exploded through me, blood soaking my clothes in a warm, sticky flood.

Before oblivion claimed me, I caught Cecilia's triumphant cackle.

I twisted my lips into a silent, sardonic smile.

Eight years ago, in front of all the crime lords, Augustine had sworn he'd only ever want me.

But his heart and his vows? They'd soured in just eight short years.

***

I spent two weeks in the hospital, nursing my wounds back to health.

During that time, the scandal exploded across Las Vegas: Augustine Clayton, pampering his mistress while letting his own wife bleed out in a snake pit. The whole city was buzzing.

On the day I was discharged, I made good on my promise—I shattered Augustine's father's coffin to pieces.

After venting my fury, I went to see Shelly.

"Shelly," I said, stepping into the room.

She opened her eyes, her gaze a tangled mix of pity and resignation.

"Could you pass this divorce agreement to Augustine for me?" I handed over the papers, along with the newspaper that described my humiliating story.

"Kassandra, men are all the same. You need to wise up. Compared to power and money, love's just a fleeting illusion.

"Only when you stop letting a man control your heart do you truly come out on top."

The destruction of her husband's coffin didn't faze her in the least.

In their youth, Augustine's father had chased countless mistresses and left a string of illegitimate children. She'd long since lost any illusions about him.

"Shelly, I married Augustine not because he was some rich heir, but because he was Augustine."

It was love at first sight. Back in the boxing ring, covered in blood, his eyes fierce and unyielding—that image had pierced straight through my soul.

These eight years, leveraging the Clayton family's influence to build arms channels and a network of my own. I was no longer the vulnerable girl who needed his protection.

I'd stayed by his side only because I couldn't let go of that love, even as it rotted away.

"Once you're divorced, his mistresses will trample all over you," Shelly said.

I smiled. "If she's got what it takes, let her try to climb."

When it came to Augustine's mistress, I felt nothing.

I knew Cecilia wasn't much of a threat.

A woman like her could only rely on her looks, and no true arms dealer would ever marry a woman who had nothing but a pretty face to offer.

Shelly stayed silent for a long time before finally ordering the maid to take away the divorce papers and the newspaper.

She stared at me for a while, then sighed. "You know, there are countless women who would kill to be in your position."

I didn't respond, just offered her a slight, respectful bow, and turned to leave.

Everyone envied me for standing at the pinnacle of power in Las Vegas, but only I knew what it truly cost.

My marriage with Augustine was like a field of poppies—beautiful on the surface but poisonous at its core.

As I stepped out, I ran into Augustine's cousin, Felicia Clayton.

"I thought you'd tolerate him for the rest of your life," she said dryly.

"I used to think so too," I replied with a faint smile.

She smirked. "I'll admit, I never really liked you. But between you and that tramp from the red-light district in Mexico, I'd pick you any day."

"You've been with him for eight years," she continued, folding her arms. "You're really just going to walk away? Don't you feel it's a waste? You could still cash out."

I chuckled. "If I stay any longer, I might not make it out alive. What good is his money if I'm dead?"

Felicia burst out laughing. "Relax. Good men are everywhere! After the divorce, I'll introduce you to someone—better than Augustine, richer than Augustine, and probably more of a gentleman too."

***

That evening, Shelly's maid brought me the signed divorce papers.

I immediately sent them to the courthouse to finalize the process. Then, finally allowing myself to relax, I drew a hot bath.

Just as I was sinking into the water with a glass of red wine, the door burst open. Augustine stumbled in, reeking of alcohol.

He braced his arms on the edge of the tub, trapping me between them, his voice low and lazy. "Good evening, darling."

My hand froze midair.

I realized then that Shelly must've tricked him into signing those papers. He clearly had no idea what he'd signed.

Otherwise, he wouldn't still be calling me "darling."

I stood, wrapping a robe around myself, and pushed him away coldly.

"Still throwing tantrums?" he asked, grabbing my wrist. "Cecilia's nothing. It's over."

I caught sight of the lipstick smudged on his collar and wrenched my hand free.

"It's not a tantrum. It's disgusting.

"Your taste, Augustine, is as cheap as the perfume Cecilia drowns herself in. It's revolting."

The next day, for the first time, we didn't attend the Las Vegas jewelry auction together.

Augustine showed up with Cecilia on his arm, stealing the spotlight the moment they walked in.

When I entered the hall, I overheard him introducing Cecilia to the investors as his woman.

Someone spotted me and greeted, "Mrs. Clayton!"

"Well, if it isn't Mrs. Clayton," Cecilia mocked, her tone sugary and cruel. "That dress looks a little... modest for the occasion, doesn't it?"

I lifted my hand slightly, revealing the emerald ring that symbolized my status as Augustine's wife. "What I wear doesn't matter," I said coolly. "What matters is that everyone here knows exactly who Mrs. Clayton is.

"Men like to have their fun sometimes. Ms. Webster, not everyone has your... devotion—content to be a mistress for life."

Onstage, the host invited Augustine and his wife to unveil the centerpiece.

Augustine extended his hand toward me. "Come on. Don't keep them waiting."

His intent was obvious—to give me an easy way down and to show the world our marriage was still unshaken.

We unveiled the piece together and delivered our speeches—every move was flawless, every word in perfect harmony.

The soft golden lights traced the angles of his face, so familiar yet so distant.

The warm stage lights traced the mature lines of his profile, and for a moment, I was transported back eight years, to when we had first taken over a smuggling route together.

That night, after securing our first million-dollar deal, he had slipped this very ring onto my finger aboard a yacht.

I smiled and whispered, "Mr. Clayton, what a wild ride through blood and flames."

But the human heart, I realized, was far more unpredictable than any gamble in Las Vegas.

I excused myself from the crowd, claiming I needed some air, and stepped out onto the terrace.

Cecilia followed me out, her heels clicking sharply against the marble.

"Ms. Lambert," she called, voice dripping with challenge.

I turned, regarding her with cool detachment.

"Four years ago, the night you had your miscarriage, Augustine told you he was away on business," she spat, aiming to twist the knife. "He was actually in my bed."

I took a slow drag of my cigarette, exhaled, and met her gaze, calm as ever.

"I thought you'd have learned some tact by now," I said quietly.

Her eyes flashed. "He loves me. He said he'd divorce you and marry me. He promised I'd have everything."

I laughed. The sound came out low, amused, and almost pitying.

"He said that in bed, didn't he? That's his favorite place to make promises."

I flicked ash off my cigarette. "Every woman who's come to me has said the same thing. Tell me, what makes you any different?"

I stubbed out the cigarette and turned to leave.

But as I brushed past, she suddenly grabbed my wrist. "The first time I stepped into his house, I knew you were just lucky," she spat. "You and I came from the same dirt. Why you? Why did you get to be his wife?

"I'm younger. I'm prettier. I should've been the one!"

Her voice shook with anger and envy. "Please, just divorce him! Let him go!"

I frowned and started to pull away. But suddenly, a deafening crash exploded from below.

The floor shuddered violently, and the terrace rail groaned and began to split.

By the time Augustine and his men rushed in, the terrace had cracked in two. Cecilia and I were stranded on opposite sides, the structure crumbling beneath us.

"Mr. Clayton, the structure won't hold!" one of his men shouted. "You've gotta save one first!"

A second collapse could hit any second; whoever got left behind was as good as dead.

Cecilia screamed, sobbing hysterically. My knuckles were white against the ledge.

"Augustine!" I cried. "The night I lost our baby—you swore you'd never hurt me again!"

It was all I had left to bargain with. Even if love was gone, maybe his guilt wasn't.

Augustine's lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes darting in tortured hesitation.

Then Cecilia shrieked, "Augustine! I'm pregnant with your child!"

His eyes widened. And in that instant, I knew.

"Save Cecilia first!" he shouted.

I watched as they pulled her to safety, her tears shining in the chaos.

Then the stone beneath my hands gave way.

Weightlessness hit me like a punch—I plummeted downward, eyes squeezing shut in resignation.

I got it. Cecilia had his child growing inside her; I was just yesterday's flame. How could I compete?

Luck—or irony—saved me.

I crashed into a canopy, which broke my fall.

After a day and night lost to unconsciousness, the rescue team found me.

When I awoke, the media frenzy was in full swing.

The title read, "Las Vegas Collapse Suspected as Rival Sabotage: Augustine Jets Off to Switzerland with Shaken Lover for Recuperation."

In the photos, his arm was wrapped protectively around her waist. Their departure date was the same day I was wheeled into surgery.

It was just like when I lost our baby. I'd lain alone in that hospital bed too—abandoned, forgotten.

While Augustine was away, I recovered in silence, enjoying the rare peace.

His deputy kept sending over lavish gifts: orchids air-shipped from France and exquisite jewels that screamed opulence.

I threw every single one out.

When I was finally discharged, I went to my old house in North Las Vegas.

There, I burned everything Augustine had ever given me.

As I walked out of the alley, a black military jeep was parked at the corner.

Augustine stood beside it, watching me.

"Cecilia's pregnant," he said quietly.

Augustine leaned against the hood of his black SUV, lit a cigar, and dropped the bombshell of his mistress's pregnancy.

I didn't flinch.

"According to the agreement, when we divorce, the assets are split sixty–forty. You take the forty." My voice was steady, emotionless.

"My mother's made it clear—only you can be my wife," he continued, his tone smooth, calculated. "You don't have to worry. Even if Cecilia gives birth, she'll never be allowed to outrank you.

"I can live without a mistress, Kassandra, but not without a wife who can fight alongside me."

It hit me like a cold splash. He didn't want a divorce, but it was not because he loved me, but because I was still useful to him.

"So what?" I said coldly. "I'm not the one keeping you from your true love. It's your mother. If you've got a problem, take it up with her," I shot back icily, sidestepping him to walk away.

"My mom wants you at the Clayton's mansion in three days," he said behind me. "Once Cecilia's baby is born, you will be that baby's mother."

I didn't break stride, my heels clicking defiantly against the pavement.

That night, I took another car back to our villa in Summerlin.

The first thing I did was check my accounts. Several tens of millions of dollars sat quietly in them. A fortune by ordinary standards, but compared to Augustine's arms empire, it was barely a ripple.

They say when a man gains wealth, he loses his morals. And when a woman loses her morals, she gains wealth.

If I were truly heartless, I could've stayed—lived on as Mrs. Clayton in name and enjoyed the money, the diamonds, and the power.

But I was done living a lie. I didn't want to rot away in this gilded cage any longer.

That night, I bought a one-way ticket to Dubai.

I'd leave the moment the divorce papers were finalized.

Three days later, I arrived at the Clayton mansion for the meeting. The air inside was heavy with tension.

The argument revolved entirely around Cecilia—whether she, armed with her pregnancy, could claw her way into legitimacy.

Shelly's tone was firm. "The child cannot stay. The heir of our family will not be born from a disgrace."

Augustine tapped his fingers on the table, his voice low but steady. "Once the baby is born, I'll announce to the public that it's Kassandra's. She can't have kids of her own—this fixes everything perfectly."

"No," Shelly cut him off sharply.

I set down my teacup and said quietly, "The night I miscarried, you swore you'd never have a child with another woman for as long as you lived."

Augustine's reply came low and gravelly, laced with weary resignation. "Kassandra, we can't keep chaining ourselves to old vows forever."

Before I could respond, a car horn blared outside—the courier had arrived.

I went out to sign for the delivery.

Inside the envelope were two divorce certificates.

I took mine, slipped it neatly into my bag, and turned to go back in.

As I turned my head, I saw Cecilia standing there, eyes burning with hatred.

"Kassandra, I hate you! Why do they all protect you?" She screamed, her voice shrill and shaking.

I ignored her and moved to pass, but she grabbed my wrist with surprising strength.

"I'll make sure he never looks at you again!" She shouted, and before I could react, she snatched a fruit knife from the table and plunged it into her own abdomen.

Augustine and others came running at the sound. When they arrived, Cecilia was curled on the floor, blood soaking through her dress.

"Augustine... She tried to kill me... She wanted to kill our baby..."

She gasped, her voice weak but clear enough to condemn me.

"Kassandra!" Augustine roared. He scooped Cecilia into his arms, his eyes blazing with fury.

I stood there, unmoved. "If the baby's gone, she has no one to blame but herself."

The next second, his hand struck my face.

The sharp crack echoed through the hall.

"You evil bitch," he hissed, his voice colder than steel. "We'll settle this when I get back."

With that, he carried Cecilia out. I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth and watched their car disappear into the distance.

Just then, my phone buzzed—a flight reminder. The plane to Los Angeles would be boarding soon.

Felicia approached quietly and gestured for me to check my messages.

A new text from her read, "Sandra, I know that wasn't your doing. When you get to Dubai, contact this man. He runs a large arms business... and he's always admired you."

I looked at the familiar name and number on the screen, then nodded slowly.

"Give this to Augustine," I said, handing her the copy of his divorce certificate.

"He's waited eight years for this moment. Tell him congratulations—from me."

Then I picked up my suitcase and walked away without looking back.

I'd transfer in Los Angeles before heading to Dubai.

At the airport, I paused for a moment, watching the planes lift and vanish into the burning Nevada sky. Then I dialed the number Felicia had sent me.

A low, confident voice answered, warm with amusement. "Long time no see, Sandra. When you land in Dubai, I'll be there to pick you up."

"Alright," I replied softly.

I closed my eyes for a second, clutching my one-way ticket out of Las Vegas.

In my heart, I whispered, "Augustine, we've tangled for eight long years.

"It's time I let you go... and set myself free."