Chapter 3

I pulled up every financial statement and transaction record spanning the past six months.

It did not take long for me to unearth blatant, forged approval signatures scattered across dozens of bills.

Those ambiguous service fees meant to be transferred to our official suppliers all shared one chilling detail.

Every last payment, after bouncing through a string of intermediate channels, ultimately settled into a single personal account—a Wells Fargo bank account registered solely under Selena’s name.

This was never a string of careless workplace mistakes.

She was laundering money right under our noses, slowly bleeding our café dry from the inside out.

“What on earth are you doing up this late, hunched over your laptop like a vengeful ghost?”

The office door clicked before slamming shut, locked from the outside. Selena stood frozen in the doorway.

The dim overhead lighting twisted her ordinarily flawless features into something dark and menacing. She had clearly come to confiscate and destroy the original paper receipts, only to walk straight into me.

“You’ve got quite the nerve, Selena.”

My gaze remained fixed on the damning transaction records illuminating my screen, cold and unyielding.

“Nearly fifteen thousand dollars in falsified consulting fees every single month, paired with kickbacks you’ve extorted from our suppliers by abusing your position. The evidence I have right now is more than enough to lock you away in a federal prison in New York State for years.”

To my utter shock, Selena showed zero trace of panic.

She let out a mocking, sharp laugh, closing the distance in two quick strides before slamming my laptop shut with one forceful palm.

“Go ahead and tell Noah. By all means.”

She leaned down, her eyes dripping with unbridled scorn.

“Do you honestly think he’ll believe his hysterical, aging wife—the woman who faked illness to steal the spotlight on our fifth anniversary—or his perfect assistant who solves every single one of his problems without complaint? You’re pathetic, Irene. Have you still not figured it out? Noah grew sick and tired of your cheap mentality and suffocating control a long time ago.”

“Get out of my way.”

I reached out to snatch my laptop back. I could not let her delete the local backups of my evidence, not after everything I’d endured.

“Hand that computer over, you insane bitch!”

A brutal tug-of-war erupted between us in the cramped stairwell.

My fingers had just curled firmly around the laptop’s edge, ready to yank it free, when a vicious, murderous glint flashed across Selena’s eyes.

“If you’re so determined to wallow in misery, I’ll do you a favor and set you free for good.”

She raised both of her hands and shoved my shoulders with every ounce of her strength.

Weightlessness crashed over me in an instant.

I tumbled backward, rolling uncontrollably down the concrete staircase.

A sickening thud echoed through the stairwell as my abdomen collided brutally with the sharp corner of a stair landing.

A raw, agonized scream tore from my throat.

Warm, thick liquid soaked through the fabric of my trousers in seconds, streaming down my thighs and pooling into a terrifying dark-red puddle across the cold floor.

A flicker of panic crossed Selena’s face for a fleeting second.

Yet the hesitation vanished almost immediately. She clutched my laptop tightly to her chest and fled through the back exit without a single backward glance.

“Please… somebody help me…” I collapsed weakly into the spreading pool of my own blood, fingers trembling as I fumbled to dial 911.

The wailing sirens of an ambulance sliced through the stillness of the night.

On that night, I was stripped of my right to become a mother.

“Ms. Irene, I’m so sorry.”

The nurse’s voice was laced with genuine sympathy as she gently closed the medical chart in her hands. “Due to severe external trauma and critical blood loss, we couldn’t save your baby.”

I lay motionless on the frigid hospital bed, staring blankly up at the sterile white ceiling.

There were no tears, no hysterical breakdowns, and no desperate urge to call Noah for comfort like I had done every time I’d been hurt in the past.

My heart still beat steadily in my chest, but the old Irene—the woman who had loved Noah with every fiber of her being, who had lowered herself to dust just to stay by his side—had died alongside my unborn child.

Three days later, I ignored the doctor’s strict orders for complete bed rest and discharged myself from the hospital.

Back at the apartment, I cross-referenced every procurement document, monthly brand consulting invoice, and all public and private capital transfer records from the past year.

I dug through endless archived WhatsApp chat logs and captured irrefutable screenshots proving Selena had been accepting illegal kickbacks from Summit Bakery Equipment for months on end.

I compiled everything—the signed founding partnership contract between Noah and me, the original store design blueprints for all three Manhattan locations, the exclusive temperature-curve formulas for our signature coffee blends, and every last capital flow record linked to the café—before backing every file onto a portable encrypted hard drive.

Every piece of evidence in my possession was a sharp blade, forged to sever every thread tying me to my past.

It was eleven o’clock at night when I heard the front door’s lock twist open.

Noah had returned home unusually early.

He tugged loose his crumpled tie, the lingering scent of whiskey and high-end perfume clinging to his clothes.

He froze for a split second at the sight of me sitting silently on the sofa, sipping bitter black coffee, before his brows knitted together in that familiar, irritated scowl.

“How much longer do you plan on dragging out this ridiculous victim act?”

He tossed his suit jacket over the back of a dining chair, his tone sharp and accusatory.

“I’ve been buried under work these past few days while Selena runs around solving every crisis at the store. Meanwhile, you hide away in this apartment throwing petty silent tantrums. Why are you being so cold and distant all of a sudden? Do you honestly expect me to get on my knees and beg for you to stop this endless, exhausting drama?”

I sat shrouded in the shadows, studying the man I had once sacrificed half my life for.

He failed to notice my deathly pale complexion, the faint, permanent smell of hospital disinfectant clinging to my skin, and the irreversible emptiness buried deep within my chest. He had not even realized I’d lost our child.

I held my tongue and said nothing.

“Fine. Suit yourself. Rot away in here alone for all I care.”

My unyielding silence pushed him over the edge.

Noah kicked the wooden coffee table in a fit of rage, snatched his car keys off the counter, and slammed the front door so hard the walls shook, leaving nothing but deafening stillness in his wake.

I listened to the roar of his car engine fade into the distance downstairs before rising calmly to my feet.

I placed the encrypted hard drive stuffed with irrefutable evidence and core business assets on his side of the shared nightstand, then dragged my suitcase out of the closet.

I was leaving Noah.

And I would make sure every single person who’d hurt me paid back their debts in blood.

（Noah’s POV）

The second I stormed out of the apartment, I drove straight to a private cigar bar downtown.

“She’s just manipulating me again, Liam. Trust me, I’ve seen this same childish routine a hundred times.”

I downed a glass of whiskey in one burning gulp and tossed my tie carelessly onto the leather lounge sofa, my frustration simmering beneath my skin.

“Irene’s turned into a textbook control freak these past few years. Does she honestly think moving out or giving me the silent treatment will make me crawl back to her like a desperate dog? It’ll never happen. Give her three days at most, and she’ll come running back, red-eyed and sniveling, dragging her suitcase right through that front door.”

Liam frowned heavily across from me, his tone earnest and concerned.

“I’m not so sure, man. Back at the anniversary party booth the other night… she looked genuinely deathly sick. Are you certain you shouldn’t head home and check on her? You two built that café from nothing together; you survived the worst of times side by side.”

“Don’t you dare bring up the past.”

I slammed my empty whiskey glass against the tabletop with a sharp crash.

“She’s been weaponizing our miserable old days to emotionally blackmail me nonstop for years. Selena’s got every store operation fully under control. The café will keep raking in profits without Irene clinging to the reins. It’s high time she finally faced reality—she’s living off my hard work, not the other way around.”

I spent the rest of the night crashing on Liam’s guest sofa.

The next morning, I pushed open the front doors of our flagship café, fully expecting the usual rich aroma of roasted coffee and a smoothly running store.

What greeted me instead was complete, unbridled chaos.

“Thank God you’re here, boss!” Benny, our head shift supervisor, rushed over to me in a panic, sweat beading across his forehead.

“Our entire point-of-sale system is offline. We can’t access the backend without Irene’s administrator credentials. The weekly shift schedule is in complete disarray, and nobody has the authorization to verify the cash register’s opening balance this morning!”

I kneaded my throbbing temples, annoyance flaring hotter by the second.

“This is basic operational work. Figure it out. Call Selena and tell her to log in using the backup passcode.”

“Selena’s already in the back kitchen, but that’s not even our biggest problem right now!” Benny’s voice cracked with stress.

“Our premium Huila coffee beans from Colombia never arrived. That’s our signature VIP product scheduled for today’s pre-ordered clientele!”

I cursed under my breath and dialed the direct line to Apex Resources, our long-term exclusive supplier.

“Listen to me, Max.”

My voice boomed over the phone, sharp and furious.

“Where the hell is my shipment? Is this how you treat your highest-paying client who drops tens of thousands of dollars at your company every single month?”

Max’s icy, unyielding reply cut straight through my anger.

“I apologize, Mr. Noah. But I received an official email from Ms. Irene first thing this morning. She has formally frozen all of your café’s commercial credit lines under our firm. Your bulk shipments operate on monthly deferred payment terms, and every binding contract, as well as the authorized social security payment credentials, are registered exclusively under Ms. Irene’s legal name. We will not authorize a single bean to leave our warehouse without her signed written approval.”

The line went dead.

In that single, suffocating moment, the cold truth finally dawned on me.

This was no longer a petty lover’s quarrel.

Irene was not coming back.