His Discarded Wife Is The Rival's Queen

Isabella Schmitt POV:

"Where to, lady?" the cab driver asked as I pulled the door shut against the howling Boston wind outside Mass General.

"Beacon Hill," I said, my voice hoarse. "The David Estate on Chestnut Street."

The driver glanced back at me through the rearview mirror, his eyebrows lifting slightly at the mention of the city's most exclusive old-money enclave, before shifting the car into gear.

When the cab pulled up to the towering black wrought-iron gates of the estate, I paid the fare with the last twenty-dollar bill in my wallet and stepped out into the freezing slush.

My checking account was nearly empty, and my personal credit card—the only card David Sports Group had not frozen—had less than five thousand dollars of available credit left.

It was emergency money, not transplant money. It would never be enough for my mother.

I walked up to the brass intercom panel and punched in the seven-digit security code I had known by heart for three years.

With a heavy, mechanical groan, the iron gates swung inward.

I walked up the sweeping driveway, the manicured evergreens on either side draped in glowing holiday lights for the upcoming New Year.

The festive cheer felt like a slap in the face.

I pushed open the heavy oak double doors of the main house, and a blast of central heating washed over me, thick with the scent of expensive cedar and spiced cologne.

Before I could shake the snow from my coat, a high-pitched screech of laughter echoed from the grand living room, followed by the violent crash of porcelain shattering against hardwood.

I stepped around the marble foyer and stopped.

Seven-year-old Coy David stood in the center of an antique Persian rug, gripping the cut-down shaft of a titanium golf club.

At his feet lay the pulverized remains of a blue-and-white Qing dynasty vase.

On the velvet sectional nearby, Kristi Wheeler leaned back in a cream-colored cashmere lounge set, swirling a glass of vintage Pinot Noir without a care in the world.

When Coy spotted me, his face twisted into a bratty sneer, and he raised the metal club, pointing the jagged grip straight at my chest.

"What is the poor woman doing back here?" he yelled, stomping his foot. "Daddy said you belong in the freezing basement! Get out of my house!"

I didn't look at the child. My gaze locked directly onto Kristi.

"Control your son, Kristi."

Coy lunged forward like a rabid terrier, swinging his heavy winter boot and kicking me hard in the right shin.

The impact sent a sharp jolt of pain up my leg, leaving a muddy smear across my dark trousers.

"Don't touch her, Coy," Kristi said lazily, taking a slow sip of her wine. "You might catch whatever cheap germs she brought back from the coach class cabin."

Footsteps sounded on the curved mahogany staircase.

Fitzgerald descended the stairs, clad in a tailored charcoal three-piece suit, his gold cufflinks catching the chandelier light.

Kristi immediately set her glass down, her sharp expression melting into a picture of fragile distress as she glided over to wrap her arm around Fitzgerald's.

"Fitz," Kristi whimpered, resting her cheek against his lapel. "Isabella just barged in and started screaming at Coy. She terrified the poor boy."

Fitzgerald's pale brown eyes swept over me, lingering for a fraction of a second on my snow-damp coat and muddy pant leg.

His brow furrowed with irritation.

"Why aren't you in Montreal finishing the telemetry algorithms for the summit?" His voice was cold, stripped of any warmth. "What are you doing causing a scene in my living room at four in the morning?"

"My mother is in septic shock at Mass General," I said, ignoring the dull throb in my shin as I looked him dead in the eye. "She needs an emergency bone marrow transplant. I need a five-hundred-thousand-dollar advance against my dynamic tracking patent royalties."

Fitzgerald let out a dry, condescending laugh.

He walked over to the wet bar, poured two fingers of Macallan into a crystal tumbler, and turned back to face me.

"So, you've flown five hundred miles through a blizzard just to beg for scraps?"

Beside the couch, Coy let out a gleeful, mocking giggle.

"We are legally married, Fitzgerald," I said, my nails biting into my palms inside my coat pockets. "My algorithms generated over twenty million dollars in licensing revenue for your sports performance division this fiscal year alone. I am asking for what is already mine."

Fitzgerald took a slow sip of his whiskey and stepped toward me, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the marble floor.

"Your little lines of code wouldn't be worth fifty cents without the David Sports Group brand slapped on the cover," he said, his voice dropping into a cruel murmur. "You want half a million dollars? Fine. Get down on your knees, beg Kristi for forgiveness for speaking to her like that, and maybe I'll let her write you a check out of her weekly allowance."

The air in the room seemed to freeze.

I stared at him, a wave of profound nausea washing over me.

"You want me to kneel to the woman who stole my preliminary research drafts and presented them as her own?"

Kristi instantly pressed a manicured hand to her chest, her eyes welling with well-rehearsed tears as she buried her face deeper into Fitzgerald's chest.

"Fitz, please... she's attacking my credibility again... I worked so hard on that presentation..."

"Enough!" Fitzgerald snapped, slamming his heavy crystal glass down onto the marble side table with a sharp crack. "I am sick of your pathetic, insecure jealousy, Isabella. You aren't getting a single dime from this family today. Not one cent."

I looked at his rigid, self-important face.

The last lingering shred of whatever youthful illusion I had once harbored for this man withered and died on the spot.

I didn't scream. I didn't cry.

A cold, razor-sharp calm settled over my nerves.

"I didn' t come here to plead with you. I came to give you notice. Since you choose to ignore my warning, and don' t blame me for what comes next，prepare to pay the price, Fitzgerald."

I turned on my heel and walked toward the heavy front doors.

"Hold on."

Fitzgerald's voice cut through the cavernous foyer just as my fingers touched the cold brass handle of the front door.

His leather soles clicked against the herringbone parquet as he closed the distance behind me.