Chapter 1: The Divorce Papers
Chapter 1: The Divorce Papers
"Sign it, Sion. And stop looking at me like I just kicked your dog."
Cersei didn’t even look up from her iPad as she slid the manila folder across the marble kitchen island. Inside were the divorce papers.
Sion held the cheap plastic spatula in his hand, the scent of the garlic shrimp pasta—her favorite—filling the air. For three years, this kitchen had been his battlefield. He had cooked every meal, scrubbed every floor, and endured the vicious sneers of her elite friends, all to honor a deathbed promise to Cersei’s grandfather. Protect them, Sion. Don't let them know it’s you.
And he had. From the shadows, he used his massive, anonymous financial network to keep the struggling Vance Corporation afloat, making Cersei look like a business genius.
"Three years, Cersei," Sion said, his voice quiet, steady. "I gave up everything for this family."
"You gave up nothing because you are nothing," Cersei’s mother, Eleanor, barked as she strode into the kitchen, dripping in diamonds. "You’ve been a parasite living off my daughter's hard work! Look at her—she’s the CEO of a multi-million dollar company now. And you? You're a stay-at-home loser whose biggest achievement is taking out the trash."
Sion looked at Cersei. "Is this what you want?"
Cersei finally sighed, looking at him with a mix of pity and annoyance. "Sion, we’re just from two different worlds now. I need a partner who can match my stature, not someone who irons my blazers. Vance Corp just secured a massive, anonymous $50 million credit line. We're going global. I don't have time to drag your dead weight behind me."
Sion felt a cold smile touch his lips. Anonymous credit line. They really thought it was just good luck.
"Fine," Sion said. He picked up the pen and signed his name without hesitation.
Eleanor snatched the papers, smirking. "Good. Now pack your rags and get out. Oh, and don't bother taking the BMW. It was bought with Vance money."
Sion set the spatula down. He didn’t grab a bag. He didn't need one. He pulled a cracked, burner flip-phone from his pocket—one he hadn't turned on in three years—and walked out into the pouring rain.
He flipped it open and dialed a single number.
"Sir?" a powerful, trembling voice answered on the first ring. "Is it finally time?"
"It's time," Sion cold-snapped into the receiver. "Freeze the Vance accounts. Pull every contract, every investor, and every ounce of my influence. Let's see how long they survive in the storm."
He hung up, but as he stepped onto the wet sidewalk, a sleek black Maybach pulled up to the curb. The door opened, and a man in a tailored suit stepped out, holding an umbrella over Sion.
May you like
"Sir, your ex-wife's biggest rival, the Apex Group, is hosting a gala tonight," the man said. "They are announcing the theft of your patented tech. Shall we?"
Sion wiped a drop of rain from his cheek, his eyes freezing over. "Let's go state our business."
