Chapter 3

Katherine's POV

"Are you insane?!"

Adrian slammed the phone down. He glared at me, his face a mask of shock and fury.

"My mother bought that house before we got married. The deed is strictly in my name," I said, my voice light but precise as a scalpel. "You lived there rent-free for eight years. Did you really think you owned it?"

He stared at me, swallowing hard, unable to formulate a single word. He had probably genuinely forgotten who the legal owner was.

I didn't give him a chance to lose his mind. I got into my car.

In the rearview mirror, I saw him sprint to his own car, slam the door, and speed off.

The city breeze rushing through the window felt sweet. For eight years, I had been running myself ragged—pandering to my husband, coddling my son, exhausted every single day.

Pushing open the heavy doors of the villa, the living room was chaos.

"This is my dad's house! Get out, you rude hillbillies!"

Lucas was screaming from the staircase, fully embracing his rich-kid persona, trying to command the movers.

Adrian stood among the cardboard boxes, his face ashen, his Italian tailored suit covered in dust.

"Katherine! Make them stop right now!" He immediately tried to take control the second he saw me.

I ignored him.

A shirtless mover walked over carrying the last big box. Wiping sweat from his forehead, he nodded politely. "Ms. Wells, the master bedroom is cleared out. Please sign here."

"Thank you." I took the receipt.

"Ha!" Adrian let out a piercing sneer, his narrow gaze darting between me and the mover.

As if he finally found a weapon to regain the upper hand, he pointed a finger directly at the mover's face.

"No wonder you're in such a rush to kick us out! Eight years unemployed, and this blue-collar trash is all you can get? You've been sleeping around in this house all along, haven't you?!"

The worker froze, cracking his knuckles, his fists clenching instantly.

I raised a hand to stop him, turning to look at Adrian's twisted, jealous face.

"Adrian, you're not just an egomaniac; you're delusional," I said icily. "Grab your precious son and get out. From this second forward, every minute you stay is criminal trespassing."

He recoiled from the absolute ice in my eyes.

"You just wait!" He grabbed a crying Lucas and dragged him toward the door. "I'll have my lawyers audit every cent of our marital assets. I'll make you beg!"

The door slammed shut.

Two hours later, the cleaning crew sanitized every corner.

Standing in the spotless, cavernous hall, a sudden wave of bitterness hit my chest. After an eight-year marriage, the only things in this three-story mansion that truly belonged to me were a few battered cardboard boxes of design sketches in the basement.

I gave my youth to this family, only to end up living like a cheap squatter.

Just then, my phone buzzed. An unknown number from New York.

"Ms. Wells? Good afternoon, this is the creative department at Elara," a frantic voice said. "We reviewed your initial ready-to-wear drafts—the tailoring is absolute genius! Our director is offering one million dollars for the exclusive rights to the 'Awakening' collection."

My grip on the phone tightened.

One million dollars.

The pile of sketches Adrian called "trash" was worth a million dollars to a luxury fashion house.

"You heartless, vicious bitch!"

Before I could process the news, the front door burst open.

My mother-in-law, Dorothy, barged in, her heavily powdered face stretched in rage.

"Who gave you the right to kick my son and grandson out? What makes you think you can hog the Clark family's assets! Hand over the keys and take your garbage back to the streets!"

Screeching, she lunged at me, trying to grab my collar.

In the past, whenever she pulled this matriarch act, it was my reflex to bow my head, apologize, endure hours of scolding, and willingly pull out my credit card to buy her whatever she wanted.

Looking back, my weakness was just pathetic.

I took a half-step back, dodging her liver-spotted hands, and slammed the emergency alarm button on the wall.

A piercing siren instantly flooded the house.

Dorothy covered her ears, her arrogance crumbling.

"Check the deed, Mrs. Clark." I raised my voice, using a tone she had never heard from me before. "This is private property left to me by my mother."

The private security team rushed in.

"Please escort this trespasser out. If any member of the Clark family comes within fifty yards of this property, call the cops."

I didn't even watch her kick and scream like a slaughtered pig as two massive guards dragged her away. I simply shut the door.

Early the next morning, the doorbell rang frantically again.

Thinking Dorothy had returned, I yanked the door open with a cold glare.

Instead, a man in a sharp suit stood there, holding a heavy manila briefcase.

"Ms. Katherine Wells?" he asked with utmost respect. "I am Arthur, the estate lawyer entrusted by your late mother, Ms. Patricia."

I frowned. My mother had passed away years ago.

"Before her death, Ms. Patricia set up a conditional trust fund." Arthur opened the briefcase and handed over a thick, gold-stamped document. "There is only one trigger condition—the finalization of your divorce from Adrian Clark."

"Congratulations, Ms. Wells. As of this moment, you officially inherit $50 million."