The night before the 31st attempt to file for my divorce, I received a video from ten years in the future.

On the screen, "I" was trapped in a dim, damp basement. My future self was covered in bruises and scars, tortured until she was barely recognizable.

"Veronica, don't go to court tomorrow! Drop the divorce!"

Her voice was a hoarse, broken rasp. Her eyes were wide with pure, unadulterated despair.

"The lawsuit pushes him over the edge. He shorts Dad's company overnight. Dad jumps off a building... Mom dies in the crash rushing to the hospital..."

Tears cut through the grime on her face. "And Arthur... he locked me down here. He's tortured me for ten whole years!"

My mind flatlined.

Suddenly, the woman in the video convulsed, coughing up a massive splatter of dark blood.

She collapsed onto the concrete floor. Her breathing was shallow, but her eyes remained dead-locked on the camera lens—as if trying to reach through a decade of time to grab me by the shoulders.

"I can't hold on anymore. I just swallowed half a bottle of pills..."

Her voice faded into a breathless whisper.

"Veronica, listen to me. Don't fight him head-on. Find a chance to run."

~~~~~

The footage cut out with a burst of harsh static, leaving the screen pitch black.

I sat frozen on my bedroom floor, cold sweat pasting my silk nightgown to my spine.

I had naively thought that Arthur forcing my lawyers to lose thirty consecutive motions was the absolute limit of his power. I thought if I just kept fighting, the law would eventually grant me my freedom.

I was wrong.

In Arthur Winston's eyes, I wasn't a wife with legal rights. I was property.

I was a possession that, if it ever tried to run, he would ruthlessly break its limbs and destroy its entire family just to make a point. Even though he was the one cheating. Even though he didn't love me anymore.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror—still glamorous, still whole—and the mental image of my parents' gruesome deaths flashed behind my eyes. A bone-deep chill shot from my heels straight to my skull.

Fighting him head-on was a death sentence. If I wanted out, I had to play his game first.

The next day. Manhattan Supreme Court.

The 31st hearing of our endless divorce battle was officially in session. The gallery was packed with reporters from every major New York media outlet, all waiting to feast on the latest joke of this billionaire drama. After all, Mrs. Winston had already lost thirty times.

At the defendant's table, Arthur lounged in a bespoke suit, his long legs crossed, leaning back with effortless arrogance. His sculpted features were flawless, but his grayish-blue eyes held a suffocating, cold disdain.

He didn't even spare me a glance, merely toying with the Patek Philippe watch on his wrist out of sheer boredom.

"Counsel for the plaintiff, proceed," the judge said, banging his gavel with undisguised impatience.

My lawyer took a deep breath, reaching out to open his massive file of evidence.

"Your Honor."

Every camera lens and pair of eyes in the courtroom snapped to me.

Arthur finally stopped playing with his watch. He lifted his heavy eyelids, his cold gaze pinning me down.

Meeting his eyes, I dug my fingernails so hard into my palms that the skin nearly broke. Then, in front of the judge, the media, and my monster of a husband, I slowly bowed my head.

"I'm dropping the divorce."