Part 1From Scorned Wife to Ship's Queen

Andrew Miller asked for a divorce the moment his mentor's daughter confirmed her pregnancy.

"Her reputation matters, Elle," he'd said, his voice flat, devoid of real apology. "It's just for show, don't overthink it."

Even our son, Jack, chimed in, echoing his father's words with a saccharine sweetness that grated on my nerves. "You always talk about gratitude, Mom. Besides, it's Dad's child. Don't make things harder for him."

Everyone braced themselves for a screaming match, for tears, for the inevitable outburst. But I just nodded, a silent, hollow acceptance.

I signed the papers without a fuss and, just as swiftly, married Tim Thorne, the man who had saved my life years ago.

Because in my past life, when I clung desperately to the marriage, refusing to let go, Andrew and Jack simply abandoned me, vanishing without a trace. I became the city's laughingstock, a shell of my former self, never truly recovering.

So this time, I accepted the divorce with a quiet resolve and simply disappeared from their lives.

Six years later, at an exclusive, high-society gala aboard a luxury cruise ship.

Andrew and Jack, his son, elbowed their way through the swirling dancers, grabbing my wrist with a furious grip. "I said it was just for show, Elle! Where the hell have you been all these years?!"

I was taken aback, but only for a split second. A split second later, my sweet little girl, a bundle of sunshine, tumbled into my arms. "Mommy, who are you talking to? Daddy's looking for you!"

When I saw Andrew again, I was on the ship's deck, nursing a drink, clad in a sleek, silk mermaid gown. I'd been up until dawn working on designs and hadn't wanted to show my face, but as the wife of the cruise line's owner, I had no choice but to attend.

I sighed, my glass still mid-air, when abrupt footsteps pounded behind me. The next thing I knew, I was spun around, caught in an unexpected grip.

Both Andrew and I froze. His pupils contracted, his voice a strangled gasp of disbelief: "Eleanor! It really is you! Where have you been all this time?!"

My expression remained calm, but before I could answer, Tiffany Hayes, standing beside him, shrieked, her voice dripping with feigned concern: "Elle, darling, you're so thin now! I remember when you were too self-conscious to even show your face!"

Jack snickered, a childish, cruel sound. He'd shot up quite a bit in the years since I'd seen him, but the arrogant smirk on his face was a carbon copy of Tiffany's. He'd clearly caught Tiffany's subtle jab, and a mocking smile played on his lips. "Aunt Tiffany, stop it. You know Mom's got a thin skin. She'll be crying any minute. What's the point? You're not exactly model material anyway."

Jack's tone was thick with disdain, exactly as it had been every time he'd mocked me in the past. Mocking my weight, my intelligence, and the fact that I was "just a housewife" with "no personal appeal."

But before our marriage, I was a rising star, a celebrated talent in the fashion world. Major fashion houses had practically thrown themselves at me, eager to collaborate on designs. But after I married Andrew, everything shifted. He constantly accused me of neglecting our home. He systematically brainwashed me, insisting that a "good wife" and "good mother" didn't seek the limelight. One day, he even sent emails to my partners, pretending I was retiring from the industry.

I woke to find my career annihilated, and I screamed and cried like a madwoman. He simply told me, with infuriating nonchalance, to "calm down." From that day on, I was a bird with clipped wings, devoting myself entirely to domestic life.

Yet, in our seventh year, he began an affair with his mentor's daughter, claiming she was "dazzling" and "reignited his passion."

As I drifted through these bitter memories, Tiffany's syrupy giggle broke through. She cooed, with mock kindness, "Elle, dear, even if you can't be a model, don't be too hard on yourself. You could always apply to be a hostess. I have a friend who's a hotel manager. They're hiring hostesses for about three thousand a month. Want me to put in a word for you?"

Jack burst out laughing before she'd even finished. "Aunt Tiffany, stop it. You know Mom's got a thin skin. She'll be crying any minute." He puffed out his chest, pointing to a raised stage nearby. "Aunt Tiffany was invited to walk the runway tonight! For a really famous designer's collection!"

I blinked, a strange urge to laugh bubbling up inside me.