Protecting My Brother’s Forbidden Ex Wife

The day I found out my husband was cheating on me, I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I picked up my phone and called my sister-in-law, who was currently living five thousand miles away in Moscow.

A week later, on a pristine, sun-drenched Tuesday afternoon, my sister-in-law and I were strolling through a high-end designer boutique when we spotted my husband. He was buying a ridiculous leather handbag for the woman draped over his armthe ghost of his past, the golden girl he never quite got over.

I let my eyes well up with perfect, cinematic tears. I opened my mouth to speak, but my sister-in-law didn't wait. With a flick of her wrist, she and the two hulking bodyguards flanking her descended upon them like a force of nature.

Ten minutes later, my husband had four fractured ribs, two dislocated shoulders, and a face so swollen he looked like a bruised plum. His golden girl was lying on the marble floor, a warm puddle of urine soaking into her designer skirt, weakly sobbing for someone to call the police.

I bit the inside of my cheek until it bled to keep from laughing.

What the rest of the Harrington family didn't knowwhat they had never bothered to noticewas that since we were little girls, my sister-in-law had been fiercely, unapologetically in love with me.

I was lounging on a chaise on the terrace, letting the late-morning sun warm my skin, when my assistant, Carter, crouched down beside me.

"Boss. Mr. Harrington has been busy," he said, his voice a low, professional murmur as he handed me his iPad.

I opened my eyes, squinting against the glare, and looked at the screen.

The paparazzior whoever Carter had hiredknew how to frame a shot. Every image dripped with undeniable, suffocating intimacy. There they were, embracing at the JFK arrivals terminal. There they were in a dimly lit booth at Le Bernardin, him reaching across the white tablecloth to gently wipe the corner of her mouth. There they were, slipping through the wrought-iron gates of a secluded Hamptons estate.

I zoomed in on the woman's face. Bella Crawford. Peter's ultimate "what if."

She was back. No wonder Peter hadn't slept at home in a month.

I tossed the iPad back onto the cushion just as my phone began to buzz. Peter's name flashed across the screen. Right on cue.

"Diana," his voice crackled through the speaker, clipped and impatient. "Go out to the family compound in Connecticut by yourself today. Things blew up at the firm. I'm tied up."

I frowned, keeping my voice perfectly even. "Peter, we agreed. We do the monthly family dinner together."

A heavy sigh echoed through the receiver. "What does it matter if you go alone? You just sit there and make polite conversation with my parents. You can handle it. I have a crisis here. I'm hanging up."

The line went dead.

It was mid-afternoon by the time my driver pulled up to the sprawling, ivy-covered Harrington estate.

"Margaret," I said, keeping my voice respectfully neutral as I walked into the grand living room.

My mother-in-law was lounging on a velvet sofa. The moment she turned her head and saw I was alone, her eyes hardened. Without a word of warning, she snatched the heavy, beaded throw pillow next to her and hurled it at my face.

I flinched, but not fast enough. The sharp metal detailing of a decorative zipper caught the edge of my forehead.

A thin, hot line of blood immediately began to trickle down my pale skin. Neither Margaret nor my father-in-law, who was sitting in the armchair opposite her, even blinked. In fact, Margaret let out a short, derisive scoff.

"Peter isn't with you?" she sneered. "I suppose you'll just have to stop using my son as your personal meat shield."

I kept my head bowed. I let a single drop of blood fall, sinking into the priceless Persian rug beneath my feet.

Richard Harrington peered over his reading glasses, his eyes flicking from the Wall Street Journal to my bleeding face. He looked mildly annoyed, as if I had tracked mud into the house. He gestured vaguely to a maid to fetch the first-aid kit.

While the maid dabbed at my forehead with trembling hands, Margarets voice echoed through the cavernous room, sharp as broken glass.

"I don't know why the Kensingtons bothered raising such a useless daughter. You can't keep your husband's attention, you can't manage to get pregnant, and you drain my son's bank accounts. You provide absolutely nothing to this family. Nothing." She paused, her eyes narrowing. "And your pathetic father. Always trying to ride Harrington Holdings' coattails. Have you seen the cut he took on the waterfront development? Cheap materials, shoddy workmanship. If his incompetence damages the Harrington name, I'll sue him into the ground myself."

I sat there, the picture of docile submission. The maid wiping my forehead shot me a look of profound, silent pity.

"Enough, Margaret. What's the point of barking at her? She's not exactly playing in our league," Richard interrupted, his voice laced with absolute boredom.

"The girls are coming over for bridge in an hour. You'll stay in the corner and serve the drinks," Margaret ordered, dismissing me with a wave of her manicured hand.

For the next four hours, the sunroom was suffocating. The air was thick with the smell of expensive gin, heavy perfume, and Virginia Slims. Four society matriarchs in immaculate Chanel, blowing smoke like industrial chimneys. It made me want to vomit.

"Oh, dear. I think I just ashed on my shoe," Mrs. Davenport, the mother of a tech billionaire, purred, looking pointedly at Margaret.

"Don't worry about it, darling," Margaret smiled sweetly, before her gaze snapped to me. "Diana. Get down there and clean Mrs. Davenport's shoe."

She commanded me with the exact same tone she used for her purebred Dobermans.

I didn't argue. I walked over, knelt on the hardwood floor, and took a cloth to the cherry-red patent leather stilettos. You're pushing seventy, I thought distantly, and you're wearing fire-engine red pumps. I glanced down at my own sensible black flats.

Mrs. Davenport looked down at me from her perch, practically vibrating with the thrill of dominance. Every few seconds, shed subtly shift her foot, letting the sharp toe of her stiletto kick against the fabric of my skirt.

"You really do have the best daughter-in-law, Margaret," Mrs. Davenport cooed. "So obedient. Not like my Chloe. That girl is spoiled rotten. Doesn't listen to a word I say."

Margaret let out a bell-like laugh. "Oh, please. You can't compare them. Chloe is a Harvard law graduate. Ours? Ours is completely useless."

I was still kneeling beside the table when Margaret casually reached for her silver insulated teapot. With a flick of her wrist, she tipped it.

Boiling water cascaded directly onto the back of my hand.

I gasped, shooting up from the floor, shaking my hand frantically. The skin was instantly an angry, blistering crimson. The pain was blinding, a sharp, searing heat that radiated up to my elbow.

"Oh! My goodness. Clumsy me," Margaret said. Her voice was flat. There wasn't a drop of remorse in her eyes; they were dancing with cruel amusement. "You'd better go run that under the tap."

I rushed to the kitchen, shoving my hand under the freezing water, biting my lip so hard I tasted copper, just to keep the scream trapped in my throat.

By the time I left the estate that evening, I felt hollowed out. I had played the servant all day. I hadn't been offered a single bite of food. When Carter saw me walking down the driveway, my hand wrapped in a makeshift gauze bandage, he practically ripped the car door open, his jaw clenched tight as he helped me into the back seat.

"Boss," Carter said, his eyes dark in the rearview mirror. "How much longer are we playing this game?"

I leaned my head against the cool leather of the headrest. A slow, terrifying smile curved across my lips.

"Not long," I whispered. "I just need to make sure I have every single piece on the board exactly where I want it."

Peter wasn't answering his phone, so the next morning, I went straight to the Harrington Holdings headquarters.

When the elevator doors opened to the executive penthouse, I wasn't expecting a party. But there they were. Peter's inner circle. The boys' club. Spencer and Nate. These were the men I had spent my college years with. We had crammed for finals together, drank cheap beer on fire escapes together. I had given them my genuine, unfiltered loyalty.

I was just about to push the glass door open, a soft smile forming on my face, when a woman's voice drifted through the gap.

"You guys, stop it. Peter, tell them to stop teasing me."

It was Bella.

Then came Spencer's voice, booming and jovial. "Come on, future Mrs. Harrington! Don't be shy. The whole city knows Peter's basically built a shrine to you."

Bella was sitting on the edge of Peter's mahogany desk, swinging her legs, the absolute center of gravity in the room. She ducked her head, offering a practiced, blushing smile. Peter reached out and affectionately tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

Nate chuckled, leaning back in his leather chair. "You've been back in the States for a month, Bella. I don't think Peter's even seen his own house since you landed."

Bella covered her mouth, giggling. "I haven't kidnapped him! Hes the one who refuses to leave my apartment. And please, you guys have to stop calling me that. I don't have the luxury of being his wife."

She let her gaze drop to the floor, the picture of tragic longing.

Spencer immediately jumped in to soothe her. "Don't sell yourself short, Bells. If you hadn't moved to Paris, there is zero chance that ice-queen Diana would be sitting in the Harrington wife slot right now."

I stood frozen in the hallway. My perfectly manicured nails dug into the leather of my handbag until my fingers ached. There was a hollow, echoing pain in the center of my chest.

Three years ago, Spencer's startup had been on the verge of total bankruptcy. He came begging Peter for a five-million-dollar bridge loan. Peter had laughed in his face, telling me in private that Spencer's company was garbage and wasn't worth his spare change. He was going to let him drown.

It was me. I was the one who begged Peter to remember their years of brotherhood. I was the one who personally signed a guarantee, promising Peter that if Spencer defaulted, I would liquidate my own private trust to cover the loss.

My kindness. My loyalty. It was all just a punchline to them now.

And Nate. Nate, whose father had abandoned him and his mother for a younger woman and a secret second family. Nate's mother had broken her back working double shifts to give him a life, eventually building a multimillion-dollar bakery franchise from scratch. Nate always spoke of his mother with a fierce, protective pride. He openly despised his father for his infidelity.

Yet here they were. Both of them. Forming a protective shield around their buddy's affair. Bowing at the altar of the other woman.

I didn't understand how men could be so exceptionally hollow. How they could experience the fallout of betrayal, yet so easily inflict it on someone else.

Through the crack in the door, Bella's eyes suddenly met mine.

The brief flash of shock in her gaze was immediately swallowed by a sickeningly sweet, triumphant smirk. The sheer audacity of it made the air leave my lungs. I wanted to run.

Bella turned back to Peter, casually wrapping her arms around his neck. "Peter, I'm craving Italian. Let's go to that place in SoHo. My treat."

Spencer and Nate immediately cheered, agreeing that whatever "the golden girl" wanted, she got.

Once upon a time, they had called me by my first name. They used to swear they didn't hang out with me just because I was dating Peter. They said we were a family.

I believed them. God, I was naive. It takes the absolute worst moments of your life to strip the mask off the people around you.

They were all exactly the same. They were all trash.

I turned on my heel and left. By the time I reached the lobby, I was on the phone with my private wealth manager, initiating the quietest, deadliest divorce prep New York had ever seen. Carter had also emailed me the Q3 projections for my shadow portfolio. Looking at the staggering numbers, a genuine, terrifying smile broke across my face.

That was exactly how Peter found me when he finally walked through the front door of our townhouse that eveningstaring at my phone and smiling.

He dropped his briefcase, walked over, and draped himself over the back of the sofa, pressing a kiss to my hair. "Hey, beautiful. What's got you so happy?"

The moment I had heard his key in the lock, I had swiped away from my financial spreadsheets and opened a gossip blog. My face was a mask of utter serenity. "Just reading some ridiculous celebrity drama."

He leaned in, trying to catch my lips for a kiss. I turned my head just enough so his mouth grazed my cheek. I gave him a gentle but firm push backward. His face instantly clouded over.

"You reek of garlic and cigar smoke," I said, keeping my tone light. "Did you go out for Italian?"

Peter stiffened. A flicker of panic crossed his eyes before he smoothed it over. "Uh... yeah. Grabbed dinner with Spencer and the guys. I'm gonna go take a shower."

I watched him walk up the stairs, my eyes cold. By the time he got out of the shower, I had already turned my back to his side of the bed and feigned a deep, heavy sleep.

The next morning, Peter was putting on an absolute clinic in husbandly devotion. He was sitting at the breakfast island, pushing a mug of perfectly frothed matcha and a warm croissant toward me.

"You aren't rushing to the office today?" I asked, taking a sip.

"I'm too busy? Never too busy for my wife," he grinned smoothly. "So, how was it? Did my mother give you a hard time at the estate the other day?"

I set the mug down and looked at him, letting a small, humorless laugh escape. "What do you think?"

Peter saw the smile and assumed the coast was clear. "Come on, Diana. You know how she is. It's just family dynamics"

I reached across the marble counter and yanked back the silk cuff of my blouse.

The burn took up the entire back of my hand. The skin was an angry, mottled purple. A massive blister had popped in the night, leaving the dead skin wrinkled and peeling over raw, weeping tissue. It looked like something out of a horror movie.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" I whispered. "Your mother poured boiling water on me."

Peter's eyes bulged. He stared at the mangled flesh of my pale hand, the color draining from his face. His eyes immediately went red.

He reached out, his hands hovering over mine, terrified to touch it. He fell to his knees beside my barstool, wrapping his arms around my waist, burying his face in my stomach. "God, Diana. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry she put you through that."

Put me through that.

I stared down at the top of his perfectly styled hair. Not I'm going to kill her. Not I'm going to burn that house down. Just a passive acknowledgment of my suffering.

My utter lack of reaction seemed to unnerve him. He pulled back, looking up at me, his guilt rapidly souring into defensive anger.

"Well, what do you want me to do, Diana?!" he snapped, his voice rising. "You want me to drive over there and beat up an old woman? She's my mother! What am I supposed to do? Why can't you just learn to stroke her ego a little bit? Play the game!"

I looked at him. The disappointment was a physical weight in my chest.

There was a time, years ago, when this man actually gave a damn about me. When we were engaged, Margaret had made a snide comment about my weight. Peter had flipped a dining table. He refused to speak to his mother for six months, and the freeze-out only ended because his father begged him to come to a board meeting. After that, whenever Peter was in the room, Margaret treated me like glass.

But it had been too long. Peter stopped caring, stopped showing up, and Margaret, like a rabid dog returning to its vomit, reverted to her true nature. Crushing my dignity was her favorite parlor game.

The Harringtons were rotten all the way down to the studs.

Peter played the doting husband for exactly three days before he vanished again. He didn't come home for the rest of the week. I didn't care. It gave me the silence I needed. My empire was on the precipice of something massive. Everything rode on the next few weeks.

Bella was a D-list influencer before she moved away. Now that she was back, Peter was funneling Harrington Holdings' marketing budget into reviving her career.

I was scrolling through my phone while drinking coffee when an algorithm pushed one of her posts onto my feed.

I clicked it.

The blood in my veins turned to ice.

The caption read: "Thank you to my angel for the necklace. Ive loved this piece for years, and after so much time, it finally found its way to where it belongs."

Attached was a photo of her delicate collarbone. Resting against her skin was a massive, pear-cut blue diamond, surrounded by a halo of flawless white diamonds.

It was the Tear of Artemis. The necklace my grandmother had secured around my neck on her deathbed.

A ringing sound started in my ears. So that was why Peter had played house for three days. He wasn't guilty about my burned hand. He was waiting for me to leave the house so he could crack the safe in my dressing room, steal my grandmother's legacy, and strap it around his mistress's neck.

My hands were shaking so violently I dropped the phone twice before I managed to dial his number.

He answered on the second ring. He sounded completely unfazed, as if he'd been waiting for the call.

"Diana. I know why you're calling. Listen, let's just say I bought it from you. I'll wire five million into your personal account today. Is that enough?"

"Peter," I breathed, my voice vibrating with a rage so profound it scared me. "Are you out of your absolute mind? You broke into my safe. You stole from me. I am giving you until midnight tonight to bring that necklace back to this house, or I will ruin you."

"Jesus, Diana, calm down. It's just a piece of jewelry. Haven't I bought you enough diamonds over the years? I'm not stealing it, I'm compensating you for it. The wire transfer is already pending."

I cut him off. "Men who play God eventually have to face the devil, Peter. I hope you're ready for the fallout."

I hung up. I immediately dialed Carter.

"Accelerate the timeline," I said, my voice eerily calm. "I want the IPO launched within seven days."

There was a brief pause on the line. Then, Carter's voice, hard and absolute. "Consider it done."

I hung up. I stood in the middle of my silent, immaculate kitchen, trembling with adrenaline. Then, I pulled up my contacts and dialed a number with a +7 country code. Moscow.

"Sabrina," I whispered when the line connected. "I need you."

When I met Sabrina at JFK, I barely recognized her.

She was a vision in a sharply tailored, blood-red leather trench coat. She had grown at least two inches taller than me, her hair chopped into a sleek, ruthless bob that framed a face carved out of marble. People in the arrivals terminal were literally stopping to stare at her. If it weren't for the ten towering, heavily armed Russian private security contractors forming a wedge around her, a dozen men would have tried to hit on her.

I ran to her, tears spilling hot and fast down my cheeks. She caught me, wrapping me in a crushing, desperate hug.

"Diana. I missed you so much," she breathed into my hair.

"Sabrina..." I sobbed, the sound tearing out of my chest.

"Hey, hey. Look at me." Sabrina pulled back, taking my face in her black-leather-gloved hands, her thumbs gently swiping away my tears. "You're a titan, Diana. You run an empire from the shadows. Why are you crying? Did my brother do this?"

I looked up, stunned. She knew. She knew about my company. Not even my own father knew about my business. It was an entity I had built from the ground up using my grandmother's inheritance while I was supposedly "just studying" abroad in London for ten years. It had grown into an apex predator in the venture capital world.

Sabrina pulled me back against her chest, her hand stroking the back of my head. It was the safest I had felt in years. The cavalry wasn't just coming. The cavalry was here.

I moved Sabrina into one of my private penthouses in Tribeca. I refused to go back to the townhouse I shared with Peter.

The next afternoon, Carter sent me a ping with a location. I grabbed Sabrina, telling her I wanted to take her shopping. She just smiled softly, saying she didn't need anything, but let me drag her out the door.

We were strolling arm-in-arm through the most exclusive luxury department store on Fifth Avenue, a discreet phalanx of Russian muscle trailing thirty feet behind us.

Sabrina stepped away to use the restroom. I was idly browsing a rack of silk blouses when a voice sliced through the quiet ambiance like a rusted knife.

"Oh my god! Peter, look, it's Diana!"

I turned slowly. Bella was clinging to Peter's bicep like a barnacle. Peter looked momentarily panicked, shifting his weight uneasily, before attempting a mask of authority. "Diana? What are you doing here?"

I stared at him deadpan. "I'm in a Bergdorf's. What do you think I'm doing? Ordering a pizza?"

Bella stepped forward, her voice dripping with sickly-sweet concern. "Diana, I heard you and Peter had a fight. Was it over this?"

She reached up, her manicured fingers brushing against her collarbone. Resting there, mocking me, was the Tear of Artemis.

Something inside me snapped. The world went terrifyingly quiet.

I didn't think. I lunged. I grabbed the heavy platinum chain and ripped it downward with all my body weight.

The clasp snapped. Bella let out a blood-curdling shriek. "Ah! Are you crazy?! It cut me!"

I gripped the cold diamonds in my fist, a massive wave of relief crashing over me. Carter was right. He had profiled her perfectly. The woman was too vain, too desperate to prove she had won; she would never take it off. She'd wear it in public like a trophy.

Peter practically tackled Bella to check on her. A thin, angry red welt was rising on the back of her neck.

He spun around, his face contorted with rage. "Diana, how dare you put your hands on her! I told you I bought that from you! I'm wiring you five million dollars! If you want more money, name your price, but you do not assault her like a feral animal! Apologize to Bella right now!"

"Assault?" I stepped right into his space, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "You broke into my home and stole from me. You're nothing but a common thief in a Tom Ford suit."

I looked him dead in the eye. "I'm filing for divorce, Peter."

Peter froze. Next to him, a flash of pure, euphoric victory sparked in Bella's eyes. But she was a professional victim. She immediately grabbed Peter's arm, her voice trembling. "Diana, please, you can't do that! Peter loves you! If this is a misunderstanding, I'll explain everything. Please don't throw your marriage away because of me!"

I let out a sharp, barking laugh. "Are you seriously that delusional, Bella? You're older than I am, stop playing the naive little girl. My mother died a long time ago, she never gave me a sister. I'm divorcing Peter because he repulses me. It has absolutely nothing to do with you. You are nothing."

Peter's face flushed a deep, ugly crimson. As I turned to walk away, he lunged, grabbing my arm and slamming my back against a mirrored pillar. His hand clamped around my jaw, his fingers digging brutally into the soft skin beneath my chin.

"Who the hell do you think you're talking to?" he spat, his breath hot against my face. "You don't get to file for divorce. Your family begged for this union! The Kensingtons survive off the scraps from my table! I call the shots, Diana. You have no power here."

I thrashed against him, tears of pain pricking my eyes as his grip bruised my jawline. Bella stood three feet away, watching with a small, satisfied smirk.

I was just starting to wonder what was taking Sabrina so long.

I didn't even see the blur. I just felt the sudden rush of displaced air.

Before I could blink, Peter was violently ripped away from me. He didn't just fallhe went airborne, crashing backward into a glass display case with a deafening shatter.