Her Emperors Disposable Toy

Seven months into the sickness that was slowly hollowing me out, I asked Vivian Shaw for a divorce.

She didn't even grant me a flicker of her emerald eyes, keeping them glued to the documents she was reviewing. A reason?

I slid an Asset Transfer Agreement across the mahogany desk toward her.

The edges of the paper were worn, and the date was three months before our wedding.

Multi-billion dollar controlling shares in the Shaw Group, three European villas, a private island in the Caribbean.

All gratuitously signed over to my stepbrother, Rhys Alden.

The only thing I'd received, all those years ago, was a cold, brutal prenuptial agreement.

I signed it, stepping into the Shaw estate with nothing, not even a penny from Vivians considerable dowry.

For a decade, the limit on my corporate allowance card was five hundred dollars a month. Now, even a hospital stay required stringent financial planning.

Finally, she put the file down and looked at me. A flash of something that might have been concerna brief flicker of warmthcrossed her face, only to be immediately sealed over by her customary frost.

"This expired, voided agreement? Ethan Bellweather, since when have you become so dramatic about paperwork?"

I looked at the woman I had loved for fifteen years.

In her eyes, I didn't even have the right to be hurt.

I didn't cry. I didn't raise my voice. I was unnervingly calm.

"Vivian," I said. "Ill have the divorce papers drafted and sent over in a few days."

Then I turned and walked out, pulling my cell phone out to call the medical center.

"Hello, I'd like to schedule my surgery for one week from today."

1

The appointment confirmation pinged in immediately.

Looking at the scheduled time on the screen, a spasm of pain shot through my abdomen, involuntary and sharp.

I braced myself against the bedroom wall and slowly sank to the floor, fighting back tears as I messaged my attorney.

He called me back instantly. "Mr. Bellweather, are you truly determined to waive all marital assets and walk away with absolutely nothing?"

"You are entitled to at least fifty percent of..."

Marital assets?

I couldn't stop the bitter, hollow laugh that escaped me.

There were no marital assets.

Vivians equity growth over the years was held in blind trusts, and every asset in her name had been legally notarized pre-marriage.

My name was nowhere on the beneficiary list for the family trust.

She'd mentioned it casually the day we got engaged: she would never marry a man who was dependent on her fortune. She wouldn't hand over what she had fought so hard to inherit just because of a marriage certificate.

At the time, I assumed it was her anger at her father for forcing her into the marriage with me. I also understood the immense battle shed fought to secure the Shaw Group against her swarm of illegitimate siblings.

So, I had dutifully signed every page of the thick stack of financial waivers.

I thought that one day she would lower her guard and truly see me.

But it wasn't until I saw that Asset Transfer Agreement that I realized how foolish I'd been.

Every single item on that transfer agreement perfectly matched the list of assets she had made me sign away at the notarys office.

She wasn't unwilling to share her wealth; she just never intended for me to be the husband she shared it with.

"Ms. Reed," I interrupted my attorney. "Please prepare the divorce agreement. I only ask for a clean break. No assets."

My hand was still shaking when I hung up.

It wasn't hesitation. It was fury.

Ten years of marriage felt like a long, elaborate fraud, and I had been the willing fool.

The password to the hidden safe in Vivian's study was Rhys Alden's birthday.

She was willing to give Rhys everything she owned, yet my monthly allowance never exceeded five hundred.

Even when I was too sick to eat, throwing up until I was dizzy and weak, she was across the city at Rhyss private art exhibit.

The most pathetic part?

I had designed their love nest with my own hands.

Three months ago, Vivian had slapped a set of blueprints on my bedside table, forcing my feverish, weakened body out of bed to work.

"A friend is gifting his partner a villa. Design it to the highest standard, and fast," shed commanded.

Now it was clear that "friend" was herself.

And the signature at the bottom of the resident form, a bold, sweeping "RA," was clearly Rhys Alden's initials.

The divorce agreement arrived via courier just before sunset.

My attorney made one last plea: "Mr. Bellweather, at least keep the income you earned during the marriage..."

I shook my head.

Vivian never contributed a dime to the household; my entire income over the years had been sunk into the maintenance and upkeep of her property.

Now, I realized that in her eyes, my contributionmy lifewas truly worthless.

A fresh wave of pain surged through me as I signed the papers.

I couldnt hold back anymore. The tears finally fell.

2

That same afternoon, Ms. Reed helped me secure a small apartment.

I didn't care about the neighborhood or the floor plan; I just needed to move out immediately.

It was eight oclock when I returned to the Shaw mansion for the last time.

The fatigue from my illness made it nearly impossible to stand straight, but I cooked one final dinner.

A four-course meal, all her favorites.

For ten years, I knew her tastes better than I knew my own.

Regardless of the ending, fifteen years of my life had been tied to hers. I wanted a clean, peaceful finish.

But it was past one in the morning when Vivian finally returned.

She carried the cloying scent of SantalRhys Aldens signature cologneand the unmistakable shadow of a hickey, brazenly marking the base of her throat.

I watched her movements, and my gaze caught on her left hand.

Her ring finger was bare.

She had taken our wedding band off. I didnt know when.

Her eyes landed on the untouched, cold meal on the dining table, and her brow furroweda habit born of impatience.

There was no warmth in her expression, only clear, visible annoyance.

"Another pity party? You think this will make me roll over?"

She shrugged off her trench coat, tossing it carelessly onto the designer sofa, and moved to walk past me.

"Vivian," I called out. My voice was so calm it surprised even me. "The divorce agreement is on the table. Sign it."

She stopped dead, turning back with a look of derision that nearly spilled over.

"Because of an expired piece of paper? Ethan, since when have you been so irrational?"

"Your father coerced me into marrying you using a life debt. I had no choice but to agree."

"Rhys has a bad heart. I simply wanted to give him a blessing, a formality!"

A blessing?

A formality?

How absurd. Two weightless words that negated all my suffering and all my devotion.

I suddenly understood that the barrier between us for the last decade was not circumstance or family obligation. It was simply that she had never loved me.

Fifteen years ago, on a rainy night, she was being hunted by her vicious half-siblings. I hid her in a storage room for three days.

I was the one who snuck her food and medicine, nearly getting beaten to death by her pursuers myself.

She had gripped my hand and promised: "Ethan, when I take control of the Shaw Group, I will marry you in a ceremony that will make headlines."

And she did. She took the reins of the Shaw Group with ruthless, thunderous efficiency.

But she married me with the coldest, most calculated prenuptial agreement ever penned, calling that the "ceremony that made headlines."

"Vivian," I slowly stood up, fighting the sharp ache in my side. "So you do remember that you owe me a life."

She froze for a moment, then let out a chilling laugh.

"Oh, so we're tallying up the scores now? Fine. Name your price. How much?"

Name my price.

A bitter smile touched my lips, and the last, warm corner of my heart finally went entirely cold.

"It won't be necessary, Vivian. I am done with this relationship."

"I want the signed divorce agreement on the living room table by nine a.m. tomorrow."

I used every ounce of strength to keep my voice steady. Then, without waiting to see her reaction, I turned and headed upstairs.

Behind me, the silence was shattered by the violent sound of shattering porcelain and her low, furious roar: "Ethan Bellweather! You had better not regret this!"

Regret?

My only regret was opening that storage room door fifteen years ago on a rainy night.

3

When I went downstairs the next morning, the living room was empty.

The divorce papers had been ripped into confetti and were scattered across the expensive, hand-woven rug.

My heart seized at the sight of the shredded paper, but the panic quickly subsided into a dull, familiar numbness.

That was Vivian's answer. She was too arrogant to negotiate and too controlling to let go.

My phone screen lit up with a new message.

It was from Rhys Alden.

He had suddenly re-added me on social media a month ago.

His first message: "Ethan, long time no see. Im back. Vivian picked me up at the airport. She hasn't changed a bit, has she?"

Since then, my phone had become the live-stream of his perfect happiness.

A blurry picture of Vivian's back at the art gallery. A candid shot of her putting food on his plate. A deliberately visible half-arm in the passenger seat of her car.

And yesterday, hed sent a voice note.

In the background, I could clearly hear Vivian impatiently hanging up on someone.

"Ethan Bellweather? Ignore him. He's always making a scene. Just focus on your painting."

The last message was ten minutes old. A photo.

Vivian was asleep in his bed, her profile peaceful against his familiar dark sheets.

The caption: "Ethan, I hear you were going through Vivian's study and upset her? Don't worry, that agreement was just something she gave me years ago when I was sick, to cheer me up. It's totally void. Don't take it the wrong way."

"Oh, and you really remind me of the old me, especially your eyes. Vivian said thats the first thing she noticed about you."

"By the way, how is your body? Vivian says youre getting more and more disgusting these days."

A wave of icy nausea slammed into my throat. I bolted into the bathroom and dry-heaved violently.

The illness had never made me feel as physically sick as I did in that moment.

I gripped the sink, staring at my pale, red-rimmed face in the mirror.

My eyes... they were the reason? Because they resembled his?

Fifteen years of first love, ten years of marriage, all originated in one woman's unfulfilled obsession with another man.

And I was merely the clumsy, second-best replacement.

The tears I had suppressed finally burst forth. They ran down my cheeks, hot and heavy.

With a trembling hand, I typed a reply to Rhys.

"You always liked picking up my leftovers. Keep her. Both of you."

The message sent.

Almost immediately, Vivians phone call came through.

I didn't answer.

I ended the call, then blocked her number.

The world instantly went quiet.

I pressed my hand to my tightening abdomen, inhaling deeply, forcing myself to regain composure.

This was not the time for grief.

I called the moving company I'd booked and started to pack my possessions with a cold, almost surgical efficiency.

My clothes, my design sketches, the cheap kitchenware and small appliances Id bought myself...

Everything that bore my personal mark was boxed.

The expensive watches, the bespoke suits, the luxury bagsall of it had been bought by Vivian to maintain my "role" as her husband.

I left every piece.

Including the wedding band I'd taken off, which lay glinting silently on the vanity.

The movers arrived swiftly, loading a dozen cardboard boxes onto the truck.

Before leaving, I took one last look at the villa where I had lived for a decade.

It was beautiful, cold, a perfectly constructed gilded cage.

And I was finally serving out my sentence.

4

My rented apartment was tiny, but the sunlight poured in.

I spent the entire day arranging my things, exhausting my body, but feeling an odd, weightless peace in my mind.

That evening, I received a text from an unfamiliar number.

It was Vivian.

"Ethan, come home immediately. We can pretend none of this happened."

"Rhys is fragile. Stop trying to upset him."

"Also, I know you're unwell. Get the treatment you need. Stop this foolish tantrum."

I looked at the message and almost laughed until I cried.

Even now, she was concerned with Rhys's feelings and assumed I was throwing a childish fit.

My own pain, my sickness, my life, was irrelevant.

I didn't reply.

I deleted the text and blocked that number, too.

5

The day before the surgery, I went in for a final consultation.

The doctor reviewed my charts. "Your results are very encouraging. If we proceed with the treatment, your chances of a full recovery are significant."

"And if I refuse the surgery?"

The older physician pushed his glasses up, his gaze troubled. "Mr. Bellweather, the hope for recovery is truly great. Are you certain?"

I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood before finally replying.

"I need more time to think."

As I walked out of the office, my steps felt unsteady.

And then, at the end of the long hospital corridor, I saw the person I least wanted to see.

Vivian. She was impeccably dressed, radiating the cold, assured power of the Shaw Group CEO.

"You're coming back with me." She grabbed my wrist, her grip so hard it felt like she was trying to crush bone. "The tantrum ends now."

"A tantrum?" I looked up at her. "Vivian, you truly believe this is a tantrum?"

"That agreement is old and void," she repeated, her voice laced with impatience. "Rhys has a heart condition. I simply wanted to give him a blessing..."

"So I get to be the sacrificial lamb for your fantasy love story?" I violently yanked my arm away.

"Vivian, do you remember the year of our wedding, when I had a 104-degree fever? You said you were too busy to come home, but later I saw photos of you and Rhys skiing in Aspen on his social media."

"Our third wedding anniversary. You claimed you had a mandatory board meeting, but I saw your car in Rhyss studio parking lot on his selfie."

"Anytime I needed you, you were busy. But you always had time to attend his art shows and celebrate every one of his birthdays."

I recounted the betrayals, one by one, my voice eerily calm, as if speaking of a strangers life.

Vivian's face finally changed. "You... you knew all of this?"

"I never spoke of it because every time, I told myself to give you one more chance, to believe in you one last time."

I laughed, but the tears finally came. "It wasn't until I saw that asset transfer agreement that I realized how pathetic I was."

She was silent. For the first time, I saw something akin to guilt in her eyes.

But it was too late.

Everything was too late.

"I will get treatment," I said softly. "But it has nothing to do with you."

"From this day forward, whether I live or die is entirely irrelevant to you, Vivian Shaw."

I turned and walked away.

She didn't follow.

For the next few days, I shut myself off, focusing only on resting in the apartment.

My lawyer called to say Vivian was refusing to sign the divorce papers.

"Mr. Bellweather, if you insist, we have to file a suit. But given your current health status, the court will lean heavily toward mediation."

"Furthermore, Ms. Shaw stated that if you insist on a legal battle, she has the means to drag this out for years." The lawyer sounded troubled.

I held the phone, silent for a long moment.

I knew Vivian was capable of it. She had the money and the influence; I had nothing left.

"Ms. Reed, how long would a contested divorce take?"

"If the opposing party is determined and utilizes all her resources, it could be stretched out for several years."

Years?

I didn't have that long.

I had to force Vivian to agree to the divorce.

6

Just as I was thinking, the doorbell rang.

Rhys Alden stood there in a soft, white cashmere sweater, looking fragile and innocent, holding a fancy insulated container.

I opened the door, but made no move to let him in.

"What do you want?"

"Ethan, I knew you'd be here." He offered a weak smile and started to step inside. "Vivian is worried sick about you. She sent me to check in. I brought you some chicken broth. You're sick, you need to nourish yourself."

I blocked the doorframe, unmoving.

"Thank you. I don't need it. You can leave."

His smile faltered, replaced by a wounded expression. "Ethan, are you still mad at me? Vivian and I aren't doing anything inappropriate. She just takes care of me..."

"Whatever you two are doing is irrelevant to me," I cut him off coldly. "I'm divorcing her soon. You can finally let her take care of you openly."

A flash of triumph flickered in Rhyss eyes, quickly masked by feigned concern.

"Ethan, don't rush into a divorce! You have no money now. And Vivian says she wants you to be healthy..."

Before he could finish, I looked up and stared at him, my eyes burning.

"She wants me to be healthy? So what? So I can keep playing my part in your sick game?"

Rhys was startled by my gaze and instinctively stepped back. "Ethan, why would you think that? I only felt sorry for you, substituting for me all these years..."

He trailed off, but the unspoken words were the most vicious blade, instantly slicing through my last defense.

So that was it.

That was why she refused to divorce me.

Because I was a mere stand-in, and she couldn't openly be with the real man.

She needed me, the man with the eyes "like his," to complete their fantasy!

A tremendous wave of absurdity and revulsion overwhelmed me.

I couldnt hold it back any longer. I snatched the insulated container from his hand and hurled it at him with full force!

Warm chicken broth splattered all over his white sweater. He shrieked and leaped back.

"Get out!" I pointed to the stairs, trembling all over. "Tell Vivian I will divorce her even if it kills me!"

Rhys looked down at his ruined clothes, and the mask of wounded innocence finally cracked, revealing a sliver of malice.

"Ethan, don't be ungrateful! If Vivian wants you alive, you will live! Do you really think you can resist her?"

"Let's see!" I stared him down. "Let's see if I can!"

Perhaps my expression was truly terrifying, because Rhys ultimately slunk away, defeated.

I closed the door and slid down the wall, sinking to the floor, my body cold and shaking uncontrollably.

Fear and despair washed over me.

I knew the extent of Vivian's power. If she truly intended to force me into treatment, I had virtually no defense.

No.

I could not let her win.

My body, my life, had to be mine.

Not Vivian's. And certainly not Rhys Alden's!

A desperate, insane thought took root in that moment.

If I simply ceased to exist, would they finally let me go?

7

My heart was in agonizing turmoil when my phone suddenly buzzed.

It was an anonymous email.

Driven by an impulse I couldn't explain, I clicked it open.

The email contained no text, only a few scanned documents.

The first was a screenshot of an old email exchange between Vivian and Rhys, dated years before my marriage to her.

The second was a copy of Rhys Alden's medical report, diagnosing him with congenital azoospermiainfertility.

The third document was a bomb.

It was a recording of a conversation between Vivian and her private counsel.

I pressed play, and Vivian's cold voice filled the tiny apartment, terrifyingly clear:

"That gift agreement must be watertight, no legal loopholes, but it's the security I promised him. It has to be effective."

"As for Ethan... we don't need to worry about him anymore. He's been my husband for ten years; I've paid off that debt of gratitude long ago. His only remaining value is to give me an heir."

"Once the child is secured, if he cooperates, we'll give him a generous settlement to keep him quiet. If he doesn't... you know what to do."

"Rhys loves children. If my child has eyes like him, that would be the best possible outcome."

The recording cut off abruptly.

I sat on the floor, the blood draining from my body. I was so cold my teeth were chattering.

So... this was the truth!

Every suspicion was confirmed.

My help, my life debt, was merely an "obligation" she needed to "pay off."

A surge of volcanic anger and nausea hit me. I rushed back to the bathroom, vomiting until my stomach was empty.

This wasn't sickness-induced retching. This was a purely physiological reaction of disgust.

Disgust for the fifteen years of love I had wasted, for the decade of marriage I had mistakenly cherished!

When it was over, only acid remained.

I gripped the wall, looked at the ashen-faced man in the mirror, and a cold smile touched my lips.

I pulled out my phone and unblocked Vivian's number.

It rang once, and she answered.

I held the receiver, letting out a soft, unnervingly clear laugh.

"Vivian, you want me to give you a child, is that right?"

There was a moment of silence on the line, followed by her voice, tight with barely contained fury. "Ethan Bellweather, what are you doing?"

"What am I doing?" My laugh turned colder. "What can I do..."

"I just wanted to tell you..."

I paused, speaking each word slowly, deliberately, driving them like stakes into her heart.

"That child, you will never, ever get it."

Then, without giving her time to react, I hung up and turned off my phone.

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