His Discarded Wife Is The Rival's Queen

Isabella Schmitt POV:

"What pathetic little game are you playing now? Walking out like a martyr? Do you honestly think this little silent treatment routine works on me?" Fitzgerald sneered.

I turned my head slightly, catching his silhouette in the reflection of the glass panel.

"I don't have time for your games. If you refuse to release my earned compensation, we will let the probate and labor courts settle it."

Fitzgerald let out a sharp, mocking bark of laughter.

He reached into the inner breast pocket of his tailored jacket, pulled out an eleven-inch iPad Pro, and tapped the screen.

"Labor courts? You think you have leverage?" He held the glowing screen out toward me, his smirk full of venom. "You pulled this exact stunt three months ago. Filing a dramatic resignation ticket in the enterprise portal just to see if I'd fly to Montreal and beg you to stay."

I turned around fully, my eyes settling on the screen.

At the very top of his pending administrative executive queue sat the ticket I had submitted a few hours ago: 'Isabella Schmitt – Lead Sports Science Specialist – Voluntary Termination of Employment.'

"That isn't a stunt," I said, my voice completely devoid of inflection. "That is a legal notice."

"A legal notice?" Fitzgerald chuckled, hovering his index finger mockingly over the red "Reject" button on the interface. "Your mother is dying in an ICU bed without half a million dollars of my money, and you expect me to believe you're walking away from your salary?"

He shook his head, his eyes hardening with pure malice.

"You want to play chicken with me, Isabella? You want to threaten me with your departure? Fine. Let's see how fast you choke on your own pride."

Instead of hitting "Reject," his thumb swiped across the screen and deliberately tapped the green icon at the bottom: "Batch Approve All Pending Transitions."

A crisp digital chime sounded from the device.

A bright system banner flashed across the display: "Action confirmed. Employee ID 8841 status updated to: Separated. Standard non-compete covenants waived per Executive Override. Severance settlement queued."

Fitzgerald tossed the iPad onto the console table by the door with a dismissive flick of his wrist.

He crossed his arms, looking down his nose at me.

"There. You're officially unemployed. Let's see how long it takes before you're kneeling on the frozen pavement outside my office, begging for your badge back."

I looked down at the tablet screen where the green confirmation box was still glowing.

"Non-compete covenants waived."

He had been so eager to punish me, so drunk on his own petty authority, that he hadn't even realized he had just used his master executive override to dissolve the three-year non-compete clause that had legally bound my research to the David Sports Group.

A strange, electric sensation bloomed in my chest.

The suffocating tightness that had gripped my lungs for three long years vanished, replaced by an intoxicating clarity.

I looked up at him, the faintest ghost of a smile touching my lips.

"Thank you, Mr. David," I said, my voice smooth and level. "That is undeniably the best executive decision you have ever made."

Fitzgerald's left eyelid twitched.

Something in my expression—the complete, terrifying absence of despair—seemed to rattle him. He took half a step forward, his mouth opening as if to speak.

I didn't give him the chance.

I pulled the heavy oak door open and stepped out into the swirling wind.

The freezing gale blasted across the threshold, whipping my dark hair across my face and instantly blowing away the cloying stench of cedar cologne and expensive wine.

I walked down the stone steps into the storm, letting the heavy door slam shut behind me.

Trudging through the fresh powder on the driveway, the sub-zero air burned my throat, but for the first time in years, I could actually breathe.

I pulled out my phone, opened the David Group internal messaging application, and tapped "Leave All Corporate Channels."

One by one, the red notification badges vanished from my screen.

The five-hundred-thousand-dollar shortfall was still an open wound, but I would burn every bridge in this city before I ever crawled back to that house.

I reached the wrought-iron side gate, intending to cut through the service alley toward the Charles/MGH subway station.

Just as my hand touched the rusted latch, a high-pitched, agonizing yelp cut through the roar of the wind.

My entire body locked up.

It was Pucks.

The four-month-old Alaskan Malamute puppy I had rescued from an animal shelter near the Montreal facility and temporarily housed in the heated kennel behind the carriage house while I was on rotation.

Another shriek tore through the blizzard, followed by the muffled thud of metal striking soft flesh and the vicious, excited laughter of a young boy.

I spun around, dropping my purse onto the snow, and sprinted blindly toward the dark thicket behind the carriage house.