Strike Three, Ashford

His ex-wife and daughter were back from Europe.

And just like that, our marriage was no longer a private affair.

It wasn't until I saw the photos that I truly understood. The pictures splashed across Page Six: Michael Ashford—a man so disciplined he scheduled his own spontaneity—stuffed into a fuzzy, bright blue cartoon character costume, smiling for a selfie with his ex and their child at the Central Park Zoo's family day.

That’s when the realization hit me, cold and sharp. I had never seen that version of him. The version of Michael Ashford in love.

But I am Audrey Rhodes, the sole heir to the Rhodes Corporation. And I have never learned how to share.

1

The second the tabloid photos hit my phone, I was dialing my PR team to kill the story.

But someone was faster.

Within three minutes, the images were scrubbed from the internet. A complete digital blackout. I let out a dry, humorless laugh. That was Michael, all right. As the CEO of Ashford Holdings, the last thing he would tolerate was a scandal that could tarnish our merger—the very union our marriage represented.

Fifteen minutes later, the low hum of a town car announced his arrival. A wave of bright, cheerful laughter drifted from the driveway. I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window in the foyer, a silent observer.

I watched Michael—a man known for his calculated composure and ruthless boardroom tactics—gently holding a little girl's hand. His face was softened in a way I’d rarely witnessed.

I knew about the ex-wife, Clara. I knew about their daughter. He had never tried to hide them.

"Michael, are you sure this is a good idea?" Clara’s voice was laced with a practiced hesitancy as she held the little girl's other hand.

"As Michael Ashford's legal wife, I understand that I have a role in raising his daughter," I said, my voice cutting through the evening air. I stepped into the doorway, my expression a mask of cool indifference. "That does not, however, grant you an invitation to forget your place."

Clara’s face flushed with embarrassment. She lowered her gaze. "I'm sorry. It's just... today was the Children's Festival, and Lily really wanted to..."

The little girl, Lily, suddenly let go of her father's hand and charged at me, kicking my shin with a surprising amount of force. Her voice was thick with tears.

"You're the mean lady who stole my daddy!"

A sharp pain shot up my leg. I winced, but I couldn't bring myself to scold a three-year-old.

"Lily," Michael's voice was firm but held no trace of impatience. "That's not polite."

I stood there, a perfect stranger on the other side of their perfect family portrait. The absurdity of my situation was almost comical.

"Michael, you and I both know this marriage is more than just you and me," I said, pulling my composure back around me like a shield. "It's Ashford and Rhodes."

Clara saw her opening. "Mrs. Ashford, we were just—"

"I am speaking to my husband," I said, my gaze flicking to her with a clear warning. "When did I ask for your opinion?"

Michael sighed, scooping his startled daughter into his arms. "Audrey, it was just a family day at the zoo. I've already handled the press. There will be no fallout." His voice, a low, magnetic baritone, was as cool as ever.

My heart clenched. A bitter, mocking taste filled my mouth.

No fallout.

So that's what I was. My feelings, my humiliation… they were just variables in his risk assessment. The ones that required the least consideration.

I saw the flicker of triumph in Clara’s eyes. I narrowed mine.

"Audrey, Lily will be staying the night. Have the housekeeper prepare one of the guest rooms."

"And her?" I asked, my voice flat, my gaze fixed on the woman at his side.

Michael paused for a beat. "She can stay in the adjacent room. Just for tonight."

I nodded. My upbringing had instilled in me a deep aversion to making a scene.

That evening, the sound of laughter and games echoed from the guest wing below. Meanwhile, I, the lady of the house, lay wide awake in the cavernous master suite, the bed feeling colder and emptier than ever.

Around midnight, a restless energy in my chest forced me downstairs for a glass of ice water.

"Mrs. Ashford." Clara's voice emerged from the shadows of the living room, dripping with newfound confidence. "Lily is Michael's flesh and blood. As long as she exists, he and I can never be truly disconnected."

I calmly set my glass down on the marble countertop and turned to face her, my height giving me a slight but satisfying advantage.

"And?"

Her composure flickered. She took a small step back. "And... you should give him back to me. We only broke up because I was young and foolish. It was never because we didn't love each other."

A short, sharp laugh escaped my lips.

"Love?" I twisted the large emerald on my finger, the Ashford family heirloom. "For people like us, 'love' is the most irrelevant commodity there is."

The contempt in my voice made her flinch, her breath catching in her throat. I gave a small, dismissive smile and turned to leave.

"Audrey!" Clara's voice was sharp now. She closed the distance between us, leaning in to whisper in my ear. "Does it not bother you at all? Knowing that he and I... that we could have..."

She pulled down the collar of her silk pajama top. There, against the pale skin of her collarbone, was a collection of angry, purple marks.

My fingers, hanging by my side, curled into a tight fist. But my face remained a mask of serene indifference.

"Carnal novelty," I said, my voice barely a whisper, "has a notoriously short shelf life."

I left her standing there, her face a burning red, choking on her own impotent rage.

Back in my room, my hand went to the emerald ring, the symbol of my status as the Ashford matriarch. A wave of despair washed over me. He was Michael Ashford. A man of his caliber, his presence... after three years of sharing a life, a bed, it was inevitable that I would develop feelings.

But affection is built up over time. And so is the lack of it.

Three strikes, Michael, I thought. That's the rule.

Don't make me call strike three.

2

The next morning, the door to the master suite opened.

Michael stood there, with faint, bruised-looking smudges under his eyes. He must have been up half the night entertaining them. A familiar tightness constricted my chest. Michael was a man of almost pathological self-discipline. For years, even the most intense moments of passion between us, the ones that left a flush on his high cheekbones, were never enough to disrupt his rigid sleep schedule.

"Do you like children?" I asked, getting out of bed. I took his tie from the valet stand and began to knot it with practiced precision.

He looked down at me, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "They're fine."

"Let's have one," I said.

Michael stared at me, his expression unreadable. But he nodded. "Alright."

I knew he wouldn't refuse. It was a logical, strategic move for our dynasty.

Downstairs in the dining room, Clara was holding Lily in her lap. The moment the little girl saw her father, she scrambled down and ran to him, sobbing. As she passed me, she grabbed a piece of still-scalding French toast from my plate and threw it at my silk blouse.

"I hate you! You're a mean lady! Why are you in my daddy's house?"

The sticky heat seeped through the fabric. I frowned, looking directly at Clara. "Control your child. She has no manners—"

"Audrey," Michael's voice cut in, sharp and cold. "That's enough. She's just a child. Clara has been raising her alone for years. I'm the one who owes them."

The words caught in my throat. I felt a dizzying sense of displacement. In three years of marriage, he had never, not once, taken that tone with me.

"That's between you and her," I said, struggling to keep my voice even, but the anger was already boiling over. "She's a child, which is precisely why she needs to be taught. What will people say? That Michael Ashford's daughter is some kind of feral little—"

"Audrey Rhodes!"

Michael's warning, laced with an icy fury I had never heard before, snapped me back to reality. I took a deep breath, realizing I shouldn't have directed my anger at a child. But the man standing before me was a stranger. His eyes were filled with a cold rage.

"When Lily was born, Clara was my wife. The woman I married in a church, before God and everyone. You will choose your words more carefully."

With that, he lifted Lily into his arms and turned to leave. Clara rushed to his side, tucking her arm into his.

He didn't pull away.

Just before they walked out the door, Clara glanced back over her shoulder. Her smile was pure, unadulterated triumph.

I told you, her eyes screamed. He still loves me.

The house fell silent. The housekeeper, ever discreet, began clearing the guest rooms, a quiet sigh escaping her lips. I sank onto the sofa in the foyer, my breath coming in ragged, angry gasps.

That’s strike two, Michael.

Three years ago, after a fundraising gala, Michael and I had both ended up in the wrong hotel suite. Two powerful people, fueled by too much champagne and the magnetic pull of ambition, lost control in the dark.

When we woke up, despite our extreme caution, a photographer had caught us leaving the room together. To quell the impending scandal, the Rhodes and Ashford families proposed a merger of the most permanent kind.

Before we were married, he told me everything. About his ex-wife, about his daughter. I hadn't cared. I wasn't in love with him.

After the wedding, he gave me everything a Mrs. Ashford was due: respect, status, a life of impeccable luxury. "Audrey," he'd once said, his voice low and serious, "you are my wife. You will always be my wife."

But looking back now, it was clear. I was the only one who had ever been truly invested in this marriage.

…

The following week was the annual Ashford Holdings corporate gala. As the wife of the CEO, my attendance was non-negotiable. Michael drove us, the silence in the car thick and heavy.

"Audrey," he said finally, breaking the tension. "You don't need to worry. I married you. The title of Mrs. Ashford will always be yours."

I stared out the window at the blur of city lights, saying nothing.

My silence was shattered the moment we stepped into the ballroom. A familiar figure approached us.

"Mr. Ashford." Clara was wearing a black evening gown with a neckline that plunged daringly low.

Michael gave a curt nod. Only then did she turn to me, her expression a perfect picture of timid deference. "Mrs. Ashford."

I took a slow, deep breath, turning my gaze to my husband. "What is she doing here?"

"Clara just moved back to the city. She needed a job. I gave her a sinecure in the marketing department," he said, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world.

My hands, hidden in the folds of my gown, began to tremble. I stared at him, my voice a furious whisper. "You put your ex-wife on your payroll? What am I, Michael? A decoration?"

He blinked, as if the thought had genuinely never occurred to him. But I knew better. Michael Ashford was no fool. This wasn't an oversight.

He was indulging her.

I would not lose my composure in a room full of sharks. I took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, downed it in one go, and pasted a polished, corporate smile on my face. Hooking my arm through Michael's, I began to navigate the crowd.

An hour later, my head felt thick and heavy. I excused myself to the terrace for some fresh air. I found a wrought-iron bench near the gardens, the cool night air a welcome shock to my system.

"Hiding out here all alone? Where's Ashford?" A warm cashmere jacket was draped over my shoulders, smelling of sandalwood and pine.

I turned. Carter Shaw. The formidable head of Shaw Industries.

"Thank you," I said, pulling the jacket tighter. The warmth was unexpectedly comforting. He sat down beside me.

"His ex is back. What's your play?" he asked, his voice low. He looked at me, his gaze unnervingly direct. "If you want her gone, Audrey, I'll be your blade."

The casual way he spoke of making a person disappear, as if discussing a line item on a budget, didn't faze me. I turned my head slightly. "Not necessary. I don't want you to dirty your hands."

Suddenly, he leaned in, invading my space, his face so close I could feel the warmth of his breath. "Forget him. What about me? You know I've been a perfect gentleman for you all these years."

His intensity was overwhelming. For a moment, I was at a loss for words.

"Carter," I said softly. "Not right now."

I stood up, leaving him there with a shadow of disappointment in his eyes, and walked back to our car.

The gala ended soon after. From the moment Michael got behind the wheel, his eyes were on me. "You and Carter Shaw seem close."

I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "We grew up together, more or less. Our families—"

Before I could finish, Michael, the man who lived by rules and restraint, unbuckled his seatbelt. He lunged across the center console, his body pressing me into the leather seat. A kiss, tasting of whiskey and desperation, crushed against my lips. It was fierce, possessive.

After a long moment, he pulled back, his dark eyes, usually so calm, now wild with an emotion I couldn't place.

"Audrey," he breathed, his voice ragged. "You're mine."

3

This sudden, raw display of possession didn't flatter me. It infuriated me. He could carry on a tangled affair with his past, but I was expected to remain a pristine, untouched asset?

"Let go of me," I said, my voice dangerously quiet.

Michael didn't move. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Are you jealous?"

I turned my head away, the petulant gesture feeling childish even to me. "Fire her."

The smile vanished. He pulled back, settling into his seat, the cool, familiar mask of Michael Ashford sliding back into place. "Audrey," he said, removing his gold-rimmed glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose with a weary sigh. "I've told you. You will always be Mrs. Ashford."

"And she still needs to support Lily," he added.

I turned to face him fully, my brow furrowed. "I never said you couldn't send her money."

He sighed again. "But Lily needs her father. And you know your family—and mine—would never agree to me bringing her to live with us."

I stared at him, a knot of disbelief and hurt tightening in my stomach. "Are you forcing me to choose?"

Michael reached across the console, his warm, dry hand covering my own chilled fingers. "I'm just asking you not to make this difficult for her. I promise you, Audrey, your position is secure."

His words, meant to reassure, felt like a slap. He was defending her. And all he thought I cared about was the damned title. The sadness of it was overwhelming. Perhaps, in his eyes, our marriage had never been about anything more than a title.

Just then, my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

Mrs. Ashford, Michael had a bit too much to drink tonight. Just a reminder, he’s allergic to honey. Please don't use it to sober him up.

Attached was a photo. Michael, leaning against a wall in a dimly lit corner of the gala, his tie loosened and the top button of his shirt undone.

I laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. I tossed the phone into his lap. "What is this? Some kind of sick power play?"

He frowned, looking at the screen. He sighed, but his voice was calm. "She's my executive assistant now. This is part of her job."

That was it. The last thread of my control snapped. "Do I need an outsider to remind me of my own husband's habits? Who the hell does she think she is?"

"Audrey," Michael's voice was sharp with impatience. He rolled down the window and lit a cigarette. "You're losing your composure. Clara is the mother of my child. The least you can do is show her a basic level of respect."

I thought I had misheard him. A cold, derisive laugh escaped me. "Respect?" I spat the word out. "She's earned nothing of the sort."

This time, the look in his eyes stopped me cold. "Audrey Rhodes, watch your tone."

The wind whipping through the open window felt like a thousand tiny needles against my face. It was strong enough to steal the breath from my lungs, and in that moment, it felt like it took my pride with it.

I turned to him, my voice cracking almost imperceptibly. "Michael, I am your wife."

"Why do you keep making exceptions for her? Why do you break your own rules for her, again and again?"

He just frowned, his expression one of genuine confusion.

"The first year we were married, I had a fever of 103. You said you had an important meeting the next day and couldn't afford to lose sleep. You left me alone in the emergency room. But you can stay up all night playing games with them?"

"You knew having her around would upset me, yet you brought her into the company, made her your assistant. You couldn't just wire her the money?"

"And that night, Michael. What happened that night? Did those marks just appear on her neck by magic?"

A thousand other small betrayals, like scattered grains of rice, were lodged in my heart. Picking them up one by one was exhausting. The wind stung my eyes, making them water. The pain was immense, yet impossible to articulate.

Michael’s composure finally broke. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. He looked completely lost. "I..." He wanted to explain, but he had no words.

We arrived home. He parked the car, but neither of us moved.

"Leaving you at the hospital was wrong," he finally said, his voice strained. "But I sent my assistant to stay with you, didn't I?"

He sounded almost frantic. "I just wanted to compensate Clara for taking care of Lily all these years."

"And I swear to you," he said, turning to cup my face in his hands, "nothing happened between us."

"I'm sorry, I—"

His words were cut off by a child's cry from outside the car. "Daddy! Come play with Lily!"

4

I snapped back to reality, pushing his hands away from my face.

We got out of the car. Clara stood there, holding Lily's hand, her expression timid. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Ashford. Lily just missed her daddy so much. I couldn't stop her."

Michael glanced at my rigid, icy expression. He took Lily inside, handed her off to the housekeeper, and then returned to the living room where Clara and I stood in silence. He sat on the sofa, his face a mask of cold fury.

"Explain," he said, tossing his phone onto the coffee table. The sound made Clara jump.

Seeing the thunderous look on his face, she seemed genuinely flustered. "What do you want me to explain?"

"Sending these manipulative texts to Audrey. What was your goal?"

Tears instantly welled in Clara's eyes. Her voice trembled. "I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking! I just remembered that both you and Lily are allergic to honey, and I just... I acted on instinct."

She turned to me, wringing her hands, a picture of remorse. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Ashford. I overstepped."

I rose from my chair and walked over to her. I tipped her chin up with my finger, my touch conveying utter disdain. "In what capacity, exactly, did you feel the need to 'remind' me of anything?"

My eyes were like chips of ice. I released her chin as if touching something unclean. "Lose the act. I've seen countless women try to claw their way into the Ashford family. Trust me, you don't want to know what happened to them."

Clara's face went white, the humiliation of my gesture stinging her more than a slap.

Michael, hearing the explanation about the allergy, seemed to relax. The tense line of his jaw softened. "That's enough. Take Lily and go home. And from now on, you are not to come here without my explicit permission." He positioned himself slightly between us, breaking our standoff.

Clara’s tears fell freely now. With a choked sob, she collected her daughter and left.

But the next evening, my world tilted on its axis. A frantic call from Michael summoned me to the hospital.

Lily was in the ICU. I stood there, stunned into silence.

"Audrey!" Clara, her face a mess of tears and rage, shoved me hard. "I took her away! I left! Why did you have to hire someone to run her down? She's only three years old!"

I stumbled, catching my balance, my voice sharp with disbelief. "Are you insane? You can't just invent accusations out of thin air!"

Michael, his face dark with a terrifying mix of grief and suspicion, stepped forward. He pushed a tablet into my hands. It was a video of a police interrogation.

"It was Audrey Rhodes," a grimy-looking man said, his words tumbling out in a rush. "She gave me a hundred thousand dollars to hit the kid with my car. Said she'd give me another hundred when it was done."

I stared at the screen, my heart hammering against my ribs. "He's lying! This is a setup!"

I looked at Michael, my voice pleading. "You don't actually believe I did this, do you?"

He closed his eyes, his voice heavy with defeat. "I don't want to. But the man is the distant nephew of a Rhodes family chauffeur, Audrey. Are you telling me that's a coincidence?"

His roar of accusation echoed in the sterile hallway. And in that moment, something inside me broke. It was a clean, quiet snap. Some people, I realized, were simply not worth the fight.

"That's strike three, Michael."

He looked at me, confused. I met his gaze, all the pain and hurt in my own eyes now gone, replaced by a chilling clarity.

"Believe whatever you want. But know this: I, Audrey Rhodes, do not resort to such pathetic, low-life tactics."

I then turned to the sobbing Clara. "You're just like Medea, aren't you? Willing to sacrifice your own child to destroy the queen. You're a monster."

I took a deep breath, refusing to show any weakness. Then I turned and walked away.

In the car, I made two calls.

The first was to my lawyer. "Prepare the divorce papers and a full asset division. I want them on my desk by tomorrow."

The second was to my executive assistant at the Rhodes Corporation. "Starting in three days, I want a full-scale corporate assault on Ashford Holdings. Liquidate everything. I want them bleeding."

I looked up at the dark, bruised sky. My heart was cold.

"Michael Ashford," I whispered to the empty car. "Betraying me comes with a price."

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