Chapter One

Pills and Divorce

I stared out at the dark, glittering skyline of New York City from the balcony of our penthouse, my legs curled up on the cushioned chair. The air was crisp, carrying the faint hum of traffic and distant city sounds, but tonight, it felt colder—almost mocking.

It was my birthday. A day that once held meaning for me, but in the past years, it had become nothing more than a reminder of how far I'd fallen.

The clock on my phone read 11:47 PM. Quinn still wasn’t home. I tried calling him earlier, but as always, it went straight to voicemail. There was no message, no sign, nothing to show that he even remembered.

“Happy birthday, Anastasia,” I whispered to myself, the words bitter on my tongue.

I pulled my cardigan tighter around me, rubbing my arms for warmth. It wasn’t just the chill that made me shiver—it was the emptiness. Three years of waiting, hoping, trying. Three years of pouring love into a man who couldn’t even look at me without disdain.

“Ma’am?” Naomi’s soft voice broke my thoughts. I turned to see her standing by the glass doors, her expression hesitant.

“Yes?” I asked, trying to sound composed, though my voice cracked slightly.

“Mr. Winfrey’s personal assistant, Fleur, is here,” she said.

I sighed. Fleur. The ever-loyal shadow who seemed to know more about my husband’s schedule than I did.

“Let him in,” I said, standing up. “I’ll see what he wants.”

Moments later, Fleur entered the living room, holding a small bouquet of roses. His tailored suit was immaculate as always, but his face carried the same guarded expression it always did around me.

“Mrs. Winfrey,” he greeted formally, handing me the flowers. “Happy birthday. These are from the company.”

The company. Not Quinn. The company.

“Thank you,” I muttered, holding the roses awkwardly. “Is that all?”

Fleur hesitated. “I just wanted to inform you that Mr. Winfrey might be running late tonight. It’s been a busy day at the office.”

A busy day at the office. The same excuse he always gave.

I forced a tight smile. “Of course. Thank you for letting me know.”

Fleur nodded, lingering for a moment as if he wanted to say something else, but then he turned and left.

I stood there, clutching the roses, feeling the weight of another disappointment settle on my shoulders. When I married Quinn, I thought I’d found a partner, someone who would cherish and love me.

“Ma’am?” Naomi’s voice called out again.

I turned to see her standing by the stairs, a concerned look on her face.

“You shouldn’t wait for him,” she said gently. “It’s late. You should rest.”

“I’ll wait,” I replied firmly, though my resolve was starting to crack.

Naomi hesitated, then gave me a small nod. “Goodnight, ma’am.”

I stayed in the living room for hours, pacing back and forth, checking my phone every few minutes. Midnight came and went. Still, no sign of Quinn.

It was nearly 2 AM when I heard the elevator ding. My heart leapt, but when I saw who stepped out, my excitement evaporated.

“Raymond,” I said coldly, watching Quinn’s friend stumble into the living room, half-dragging a drunk Quinn behind him.

“Happy birthday, Ana,” Raymond said, his voice slurred. “Your husband’s been partying hard for you tonight.”

Quinn, my husband, the man I had spent the entire evening waiting for, was barely conscious. His shirt was unbuttoned, his hair a mess, and the stench of alcohol clung to him.

“Take him to the bedroom,” I said quietly, biting back the lump in my throat.

Raymond smirked. “Always the dutiful wife, huh?”

I didn’t respond. I just turned and walked up the stairs, leaving him to deal with Quinn.

When I reached the bedroom, I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands trembling. I wanted to scream, to cry, to demand answers, but I knew it wouldn’t make a difference. Quinn had made it clear from the start that I was nothing more than a convenience to him.

Minutes later, Raymond stumbled in, depositing Quinn onto the bed.

“He’s all yours,” Raymond said with a wink before leaving.

I sat there for a moment, staring at his sleeping form. His face was peaceful, almost boyish in sleep, a very visible contrast to the cold, distant man I knew when he was awake.

I leaned closer, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “Why do you hate me so much?” I whispered, tears streaming down my face.

To my shock, his eyes fluttered open. He stared at me for a moment, his gaze unfocused.

“Veronica,” he mumbled, his voice thick with alcohol.

My heart clenched. Veronica. The name that haunted our marriage.

“Where have you been?” he slurred, reaching out to pull me closer. “I’ve missed you…”

I froze as his lips brushed against mine. His touch was desperate, almost tender, and for a moment, I allowed myself to believe that he was talking to me—not her.

Before I could stop myself, I kissed him back. His hands roamed over my body, igniting a fire I hadn’t felt in months.

“Quinn,” I whispered, my voice trembling.

He didn’t respond. Instead, he guided me onto the bed, his movements rough.

For a brief, fleeting moment, I let myself get lost in him, pretending that this was real—that he wanted me. But as soon as it was over, reality crashed down around me.

Quinn sat up, reaching for the bottle of water and pills on the nightstand. He handed them to me without a word.

I stared at them, my chest tightening. “You don’t trust me enough to…”

“It’s not about trust,” he interrupted coldly. “It’s about convenience.”

Convenience. That’s all I was to him.

I swallowed the pills, my hands shaking, and set the bottle down.

“Happy birthday,” he muttered, standing up and grabbing a folder from the desk.

“What’s that?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Your birthday gift,” he replied, tossing it onto the bed.

I picked it up, my heart sinking as I read the words at the top: Divorce Agreement.

“Sign it,” he said, his tone devoid of emotion. “You’ll get everything you need. Money, property, whatever you want. Just… leave.”

My vision blurred as tears filled my eyes. “Quinn, I—”

“Leave, Anastasia,” he said firmly. “Just… leave.”