Chaos reigned. Christian Ethan, the alpha of the corporate world, felt the unfamiliar sting of helplessness. His phone was practically fused to his ear, his knuckles white as he gripped it. "What do you mean you can't trace it?" he snarled, his voice a low thunderclap that made Chloe Vance flinch beside him. "I pay you millions for the best security on the planet, and you're telling me we've been crippled by a ghost?" On the other end, the panicked voice of his head of security trembled. "Sir, this isn't just a hacker. It's 'Rosewood'. The legend. Our firewalls… they melted. Every screen in every office, from here to our Tokyo branch, shows the same thing." A bloody black rose. An emblem of death in the digital underworld. Christian’s blood ran cold. Rosewood. A phantom who could topple nations with a few keystrokes. A force of nature spoken of in hushed, terrified whispers. Why would a legend like that target Ethan Corp? It made no sense. This wasn't corporate espionage; it was an execution. "Don't worry, Christian," Chloe cooed, draping herself over his shoulder. Her perfume was cloying, her touch irritating. "You're the most powerful man in the city. You'll find them. You'll make them pay." He barely heard her. His mind was racing, connecting invisible dots, searching for an enemy powerful enough, vengeful enough, to unleash such a weapon. Suddenly, the grand double doors of the living room crashed open. They slammed against the interior walls with a deafening boom. Wind and rain howled into the opulent space, whipping Chloe's silk robe and scattering the divorce papers on the table. Framed in the doorway stood Scarlett. Drenched. Bedraggled. Her cheap dress was plastered to her skin, her dark hair slicked back from her face. But it was her eyes that seized the air from Christian’s lungs. Gone was the meek, submissive gaze that always fell before his. Gone was the frightened doe. In their place were two chips of glacial ice, burning with a cold, controlled fire he had never seen before. She didn't look like a drowned rat. She looked like an empress surveying a battlefield. "You!" Chloe shrieked, pointing a manicured finger. "What are you doing back here? And look at the mess you're making on the marble! Security!" Scarlett’s eyes didn't even flicker toward Chloe. It was as if the other woman was nothing more than noisy furniture. Her entire focus, a tangible force, was locked on Christian. She strode into the room, her wet bare feet making no sound. Each step was deliberate, silent, and heavy with unspoken intent. This wasn't the walk of a servant. It was the advance of a predator. Christian's jaw tightened. He gripped the arms of his wheelchair, his authority challenged by her sudden, inexplicable transformation. "I told you to get out." She stopped directly in front of him, so close he could see the rain clinging to her eyelashes. She didn't cower under his glare. Instead, she met it, her gaze level and unnervingly calm. Slowly, she lifted her left hand. Her fingers, long and pale, closed around the thin, simple wedding band he’d tossed at her three years ago. "This charade," she said. Her voice was a revelation. The timid, breathy whisper he despised was gone, replaced by a low, husky tone that vibrated with power. "Is over." With a flick of her wrist, she slid the ring from her finger. She held it between her thumb and forefinger for a single, charged second before tossing it at him. It wasn't a desperate, emotional throw. It was a dismissal. The small gold circle hit the steel frame of his wheelchair with a pathetic *tink* before bouncing onto the floor, where it lay forgotten. Ignoring the twin looks of shock on their faces, Scarlett turned and walked to the low glass table. There they were. The divorce papers Chloe had been gloating over just an hour before. A symbol of his final, cruel betrayal. She picked up his expensive fountain pen. She didn't bother to read the cruel, one-sided terms. Her eyes scanned for the signature line. With a single, decisive stroke, she signed her name. *Scarlett Avery*. The script was not shaky or tear-stained. It was bold, elegant, and utterly final. She dropped the pen. The clatter echoed in the tense silence. Turning back to Christian, her expression was not one of heartbreak or anger. It was something far worse, far more insulting. It was pity. "There," she said, her voice smooth as silk and sharp as glass. "You're free, Christian. You have what you wanted." A sneer twisted his lips, a reflexive mask for his sudden unease. "Did you really think I wouldn't be? Now get out of my house before I have you thrown out." A slow, chilling smile touched Scarlett’s lips, but it never reached her eyes. "Oh, I'm leaving. But before I do, I want you to remember this moment." She took a step closer, leaning down just enough to invade his personal space, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that was for him alone. "Christian, you will beg on your knees to get me back." The sheer, unadulterated arrogance of her statement stunned him into silence. For a second, the world seemed to tilt. This penniless orphan, this charity case, this woman he had just discarded like trash, was predicting his regret. Then, he threw his head back and laughed. It was a harsh, ugly sound, devoid of humor and full of contempt. "Beg? For *you*? A nobody I picked up from the gutter? You're delusional. The stress has finally broken your pathetic little mind." Chloe, recovering her wits, joined in with a shrill laugh. "She's insane! Christian, call the guards! She's probably a threat!" Scarlett simply straightened up, the composed empress once more. She gave them both one last, sweeping look. "You think this is the end," she said, her voice returning to its normal, chilling volume. "But this is just the beginning of your karma. You have no idea what you've just thrown away." With that, she turned her back on them—the ultimate insult. She walked away, not scurrying like a kicked dog, but striding with the unshakeable confidence of a queen leaving a room of fools. Christian watched her go, a cold knot tightening in his stomach. His rage was warring with a sliver of doubt he couldn't crush. Her transformation. The timing. The simultaneous, devastating attack on his company by a hacker named Rosewood. It couldn't be a coincidence. It was impossible. She was a simpleton, an uneducated orphan… wasn't she? He wheeled himself over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, his glare fixed on her retreating form as she walked down the long, rain-slicked driveway. A nobody, walking back to the nothing she came from. But just as she reached the massive iron gates, a vehicle emerged from the storm. It was a long, black, impossibly sleek sedan, a custom Maybach that made his own fleet look like cheap toys. It purred to a stop directly in front of her. A man in a dark, impeccably tailored suit and earpiece jumped out, opening a large black umbrella as he rushed to her side. Christian squinted, his breath catching in his throat. The man didn't just open the rear door for her. He bowed. A deep, formal bow of profound respect and deference. From his vantage point, Christian couldn't hear the words, but he could see the man's mouth move, he could see the absolute loyalty in his posture. "Welcome back, Commander Rosewood." Scarlett slid into the plush leather interior without a single backward glance at the prison she was leaving behind. The door closed with a soft, expensive thud, sealing her away. The car executed a flawless turn and accelerated into the storm, its taillights vanishing like malevolent red eyes. Christian stared, his hands gripping the wheels of his chair so tightly his bones ached. The world spun. His security chief's panicked words echoed in his mind. The bloody rose on his screens. The name. *Commander. Rosewood.* He felt a terror so cold and absolute it threatened to stop his heart. The meek little wife he had tortured and thrown away wasn't just a somebody. She was *the* somebody. And he had just declared war on her.

Chapter 5: I Want a Divorce