Penniless Divorce: The Secret Hacker Queen

Nora POV:

I stepped out of the corridor and onto the wide marble floor of the penthouse living room.

The bright chandelier illuminated the vast space, accompanied by the sharp, rhythmic clicking of designer heels against marble.

Sitting on the cream sofa was Daphne Cole.

Draped in a Chanel tweed jacket, she set her champagne glass down with a delicate clink, her mascara-heavy eyes narrowing as she looked me up and down.

"Look at you. Still wearing yesterday's silk like you belong here."

She stood up, her four-inch stilettos clicking sharply as she closed the distance between us.

"The entire group chat is laughing at you right now, Nora. Did you seriously think Marcus was ever going to marry you?"

Her voice was sweet, coated in poison, dripping with the satisfaction of someone who had spent years plotting this exact humiliation.

I looked at her, watching the smug tilt of her painted lips, while the memories of how she systematically isolated Nora from high society played out in my mind.

"Are you finished?" I asked, my voice flat. "If you are, move. You're blocking my way."

Daphne froze, clearly thrown by the lack of tears or hysteria she had anticipated.

Her jaw twitched in annoyance, and she reached out aggressively, aiming to shove my shoulder.

"Don't play the high-and-mighty victim with me! You are nothing now!"

I did not flinch.

As her hand came forward, I shifted my weight half a step to the left, letting her palm slice through empty air.

At the same time, I hooked the toe of my flat shoe behind her ankle.

Daphne let out a sharp gasp as her balance broke completely.

She tumbled sideways, crashing onto the plush sofa, her champagne flute tipping over and soaking the front of her designer jacket in sparkling wine.

"You bitch! You dared to dodge me!" she shrieked, scrambling up with her hair clinging to her cheek.

At the sound of the crash, two hulking private security guards stationed near the foyer stepped forward.

They were Marcus's personal bodyguards, broad-shouldered and expressionless, watching the scene without intervening.

I looked down at Daphne as she tried to brush the wet alcohol from her silk lapels.

"Lower your voice, Daphne. If TMZ catches a clip of you screeching like a drunken mess, Dad's PR firm won't be able to fix your reputation this time."

Daphne turned red, gritting her teeth loud enough for me to hear.

"Just wait until Dad and Mom hear about this! You won't get a single penny!"

I turned my back on her tantrums and walked straight toward the double front doors.

Before I could reach the threshold, the two security guards shifted their massive frames, forming a wall of dark suits directly in front of the exit.

"Excuse me, Miss Whitfield," the taller guard rumbled, his voice mechanical. "Mr. Reed gave strict instructions. You cannot leave the building until the public relations situation is resolved."

I stopped, my eyes narrowing as I looked back toward the hallway leading to the study.

Marcus wasn't just kicking me out; he was locking me down.

The study door clicked open, and Diego walked out, holding the signed NDA in a slim black leather folder.

"Miss Whitfield, please cooperate," Diego said, adjusting his glasses. "TMZ and sports paparazzi have the entire perimeter surrounded. If you step outside right now, your presence will trigger an uncontrolled media frenzy for the franchise."

"That is Marcus's problem, not mine," I said, meeting Diego's clinical stare. "I signed your contract. Our legal ties are severed."

"The legal department needs time to process the release," Diego countered smoothly. "And we must guarantee you do not make unauthorized statements to the press."

I understood immediately.

Marcus didn't trust me. To him, locking me in was the easiest way to clean up the mess.

From the sofa, Daphne let out a vindictive laugh, dabbing her wet jacket with a cloth.

"Looks like you're not even allowed to be a stray dog outside. You're just a locked-up bird in a cage."

I ignored her completely, turned around, and walked toward the guest suite Nora had occupied for the past two years.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside, shutting the noise of the living room behind me.

The bedroom still smelled of Nora's soft rose perfume, filled with expensive clothes Marcus had bought to dress her up like an accessory for charity galas.

I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window and looked down fifty floors.

Dozens of camera flashes flickered in the darkness below, clustered around black news vans parked along the curb.

I closed my eyes, letting Sienna's analytical mind dissect the board.

I was trapped in a gilded cage with no cash and a hostile environment.

To break this perimeter, I needed real leverage.

And that leverage was buried in the private trust my late mother had hidden before Henry Cole took over the estate.