Rising From Ashes: My Masked Runway Comeback

I sat in the emergency room corridor, pressing a soaked bandage against my heavily bleeding arm. I had texted my husband of three years, billionaire Efford Thornton, begging him to come.

He did come, but he walked right past me as if I were a piece of furniture. When the doctor finally brought the last bag of O-negative blood in the city to save my life, Efford's assistant intercepted it.

Efford coldly ordered the blood to be sent to the VIP wing for Aletha Chase.

"Mrs. Chase is pregnant with the Thornton heir," he declared flatly. "The priority is non-negotiable."

As I watched my life-saving blood being carried away, he handed me a divorce agreement and an NDA. If I dared to expose his affair, he would immediately cut off the funding for my grandmother's dementia care, leaving her to rot in a public ward. He then turned his back, leaving me to bleed out in the hallway.

For three years, I had given up my career and my identity to be his perfect, compliant wife. I couldn't understand how the man who once looked at me like I was his whole world could now literally watch me die just to protect his mistress.

But he forgot one thing. The submissive wife he married was just a ghost. I wiped the blood from my hands, dug out the leather half-mask I had hidden away years ago, and made a call.

It was time for the legendary runway model "Phoenix" to rise from the ashes and burn his empire to the ground.