Return As A Senior Auditor

Good morning, everyone. Please stop what you are doing. We are from the State Revenue Department, and we are here to audit your accounts.

Our reunion was entirely corporate. I was standing in his family's high-rise, not as the girl who once begged for his attention, but as the senior tax auditor about to bring his empire down. Soon, he would be facing a prison cell.

The Knight family patriarch, Thomas Knight, stepped forward, attempting to offer a warm, familiar smile to soften the tension. I stepped back, avoiding his approach with quiet professionalism.

"Serena..." Austin Knight muttered, staring at me as if he were seeing a ghost.

"Mr. Knight, in a professional setting, please address me by my title. I am Director Ward."

The sheer bewilderment on his face was almost comical. He was still stuck in the past, operating under the assumption that the moment he called my name, I would come running to lick his boots like a loyal dog.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Knight. We will await the audit results," I said, offering a polite, empty smile.

With that, I turned and led my team out of the Knight Group headquarters. I didn't expect him to run after me, his heavy footsteps echoing down the marble hallway.

"Serena! Wait! You... you've changed so much."

I paused, raising a hand to signal my team to head to the cars first. Once they were out of earshot, I turned to face him.

"What is it, Austin? Did you expect me to still be that desperate, shameless girl you could summon and dismiss with a snap of your fingers?" I gave him a dry, humorless smile.

His eyes rimmed with red. He looked utterly helpless, his lips parting to offer an explanation, but my patience had run out years ago.

"I am not your wife anymore, Austin. I am not your cure. Go find someone else to save you."

I turned my back on him and walked away, but the cold wind outside immediately dragged my mind back to the past.

Before marrying Austin, my life had been a series of closed doors. I couldn't afford college tuition, we barely had enough to eat, and my mother was constantly battling chronic illness. I wasn't blessed with some genius intellect either; my grades were mediocre at best. I scraped through a local vocational school and immediately went to work.

So when Thomas Knight first approached me, I thought it was a cruel joke. He promised to pay off all my mother's medical bills and give me a substantial sum of money. The catch? I would get none of the Knight family fortune, and I had to dedicate my life to caring for his autistic grandson, Austin.

At the time, Austin was only sixteen.

The first time I met him, he had tripped and fallen on the gravel path. His teeth had cut deep into his lip, leaving a trail of dark blood on the stones. Yet, he seemed entirely numb to it, pushing himself up to keep watering the roses. His face was deathly pale from the shock of the pain, but he didn't make a sound.

My heart ached for him. I immediately called the family doctor.

Thomas watched me from the veranda. He made a proposal: one million dollars upon marriage, and another two million once a child was born. He would cover all other living expenses.

To save my mother's life, I accepted.

When my former classmates heard the news, their reactions were filled with venom.

"So you're basically a legal escort? For a girl from a vocational school, you sure hit the jackpot!"

"I hear that Austin kid is sickly and completely unstable. He's not even normal."

Some of it was mockery, but most of it was pure jealousy.

My impoverished life improved overnight. Looking at that silent, lonely boy, a profound sense of responsibility took root in my chest. He was always quiet, so I spent my days finding small ways to make him smile.

Slowly, I learned his language.

The first time I tried to touch his shoulder, he flinched like a wild animal, pushing me away with a low, defensive growl. Later, I learned that was a sensory trigger. But I didn't give up. I prepared three meals a day for him. At first, he would dump the plates in the trash without a glance, so I began sitting beside him, waiting. If the food got cold, I warmed it up, repeating the cycle until he finally took a bite.

Eventually, I could read him perfectly. A slight reach of his hand meant he wanted water. A twitch of his brow meant he wanted his sketchpad.

In time, he stopped pushing me away. Once, when he had a high fever, I sat by his bed, placing a cool damp cloth on his forehead. He opened his glassy, dark eyes, staring at me for a long time before closing them again.

"Thank you," he whispered.

We were married when we turned twenty. Austin stood at the altar with a blank, unreadable face, refusing to say a word. The minister looked incredibly uncomfortable, but the ceremony finished nonetheless.

That evening, Thomas gave me a meaningful look. I swallowed my pride, put on a lace nightgown, and slipped into Austin's bedroom.

But that night, he threw a pitcher of ice-cold water directly into my face.

I had no idea he would react so violently.

His teeth were clenched, his voice dripping with venom. "Have you no shame?"

I was young, and the sudden rejection burned my face hot with embarrassment. A deep, suffocating wave of humiliation washed over me.

He didn't stop there. His words sliced through me like small knives.

"Get out! You disgust me! They give you some money and you act like a whore!"

"You think you're worthy of being my wife? Get out of my sight, and don't ever come back!"

I fled the room in tears. From that night on, Austin stopped speaking to me entirely. I became a ghost in his house, completely ignored.

Thomas told me to take things slow and not to rush him, warning me that giving up would mean breaching our contract. My mother called me too, her voice sharp with desperation. "Can't you just slip something in his drink? You think they want you? They want a child!"

"Do you want to see your mother die in this hospital bed before you actually try?"

I placed a hand over my flat stomach. My mother had congenital heart disease, and her surgery was incredibly expensive. For her sake, I had to keep trying.

Over the following months, I made myself indispensable. No one knew how to anticipate his needs better than I did.

Perhaps his memory of the incident faded, or perhaps my quiet presence wore down his defenses, but his outbursts grew less frequent. Sometimes, when I did something right, he would offer a faint, awkward smile. Sometimes he would softly call me Serena.

Once, when I burned my hand while making him an omelet, he silently brought over the first-aid kit and dabbed ointment onto my skin, his movements clumsy but gentle.

Eventually, we developed a routine. If I didn't turn on the living room lamps at exactly nine o'clock, he would pace the floor, his breathing shallow and anxious. The moment the warm light filled the room, he would freeze, slowly calming down.

One morning, I caught a bad cold. Fearing I would pass it to him, I wore a mask and tried to slip out of his study as soon as I set down his breakfast.

Austin, who usually kept his head buried in his art books, suddenly looked up. For the first time, his eyes locked onto mine, holding my gaze for several long seconds. Those empty, distant eyes seemed to carry a faint flicker of confusion, as if asking: Why are you different today?

My heart skipped a beat.

But the real shift happened on a stormy night.

The thunder was deafening, shaking the glass panes of the villa. I was in my own room when I heard a low, whimpering sound coming from next door, like a wounded animal.

I rushed in to find him curled into a tight ball at the corner of his bed, his head buried under a heavy duvet, his entire body shaking.

I called his name softly, keeping my distance so I wouldn't startle him. The shaking only intensified.

After a moment of hesitation, I left the main lights off. I sat down on the carpet a few feet away from the bed and began to hum a soft lullaby my mother used to sing to me when I was small. I hummed for a long time, until my throat felt dry and raspy.

Slowly, the thunder rolled away into the distance.

A small gap appeared at the edge of the duvet. In the darkness, I could feel his eyes watching me.

He didn't tell me to leave.

The next morning, everything returned to normal. He didn't even look at me. But when I went into his room later, I noticed he had placed a soft, velvet throw pillow on the exact spot on the carpet where I had sat the night before.

It was his silent invitation.

Small gestures began to build between us. When I swept the floors, he would quietly slide his books to the side of the sofa to give me space. He would eat the meals I experimented with, even when they were so salty they were barely edible.

He still rarely spoke, limiting his vocabulary to "yes" or "no." But we developed our own silent code.

A finger pointed at his throat meant the tea was too hot. Sliding an empty cup toward me meant he wanted more. And I always understood.

When Thomas came to visit, he was astonished by how stable Austin had become. My mother's calls grew less frantic, filled with a desperate hope. "He's warming up to you, isn't he? There's light at the end of the tunnel. Keep pushing, Serena. Get pregnant soon."

During those quiet, ordinary moments, my heart began to soften, like ice melting in warm water.

I even began to allow myself a foolish thought: perhaps this quiet, gentle life was enough for us.

I began to view him as a wounded creature, and myself as the only person allowed close enough to bring him peace. I almost believed that this isolated island of ours was finally growing green.

We spent five years in this comfortable rhythm, becoming silent partners who understood each other's every move. But Thomas was growing impatient for an heir.

Terrified that Austin would retreat into his shell if I pushed him, I kept delaying. Finally, losing his patience, Thomas took matters into his own hands and drugged both of our drinks one evening.

That night was a blur of confusion and sharp pain. Austin was clumsy, rough, and entirely out of control. I felt as though my body were being torn apart, the metallic smell of blood hanging heavy in the dark room.

When I woke up the next afternoon, the room was in ruins.

Austin had smashed everything in sight. He shattered the clay figures we had sculpted together, broke my phone, and in his blind rage, grabbed me by the shoulders, shoving me violently until my head slammed against the wall.

He didn't speak a word, but his eyes were filled with a wild, terrifying fury.

Only when I lay dizzy and bruised on the floor did he finally let go. He threw a single word at me before storming out.

"Divorce."

He didn't return that night.

A torrential rainstorm hit the city, but despite my aching body, I went out into the cold night to look for him. I searched the streets of New Haven until dawn, my clothes soaked through, but there was no sign of him.

Exhausted and running on empty, I finally dragged myself back to the villa, only to find Austin sitting on the sofa.

He was holding a girl named Brooke Davenport.

She was lovely, with the effortless grace and poise of a girl born into high society.

Brooke was whispering in his ear. "You've changed so much since we were kids. You actually have expressions now. I was so surprised when you showed up at my house."

The rain had splattered her hemline, and Austin was gently, clumsily dabbing at it with his handkerchief.

Brooke smiled, accepting his touch naturally.

That was when I realized he had run to Brooke the moment he left. Their families were old friends; they had been childhood sweethearts. Whenever he felt overwhelmed or unsafe, he would go to her garden and wait for her.

They talked about art, music, childhood memories, and mutual investments. Even when Brooke spoke quickly, Austin exerted all his energy to form sentences, trying desperately to keep up with her pace.

He even poured her water without being asked, remembering that she took her tea with a single slice of lemon and no sugar.

The very attentiveness I had spent five years trying to foster in him was on full display. But it was directed entirely at her. It was like a dozen small needles driving straight into my heart.

He wasn't incapable of caring for someone. He simply had never chosen to care for me.

In front of Brooke, he wasn't a helpless patient who needed constant care. He was a man. And I was just the uneducated girl who couldn't understand a word of their sophisticated conversation.

Eventually, Austin noticed me standing in the doorway, his eyes instantly turning cold and dismissive.

Brooke blinked, looking at me. "Is this the girl from the news? Your wife, Serena?"

Austin gave a tight, reluctant nod.

Then he added, his voice dripping with disgust.

"I don't like her. Grandpa forced her on me."

"She's desperate. She crawled into my bed to trap me."

"We're getting a divorce."

I stood frozen in the hallway, the humiliation burning through my veins, leaving me completely hollow.

Brooke offered a polite, strained smile, refusing to comment. She quickly checked her phone, made an excuse about a call, and stood up to leave.

"Let's catch up again soon, Austin. Bye."

She didn't look at me once as she walked past. Her complete dismissal of my existence was the most humiliating part of all.

After that day, Austin began leaving early and returning late, treating me like an absolute stranger.

On his birthday, I spent nearly one hundred thousand dollars, using almost all the savings I had, to buy him a rare sketch by a renowned master artist.

I handed it to him, offering a small, hopeful smile. "Can we try to start over?"

Austin's face remained dark. He pulled out his lighter and set the edge of the sketch on fire, watching it burn to ash in the fireplace.

"Divorce," he repeated, his voice cold.

"I don't want cheap trash."

"Isn't three million dollars enough for you to leave?"

My mouth opened, but no words came out. My mother's surgery had cost seventy thousand, and she had taken the rest to secure her own life, leaving me with barely ten thousand. But I didn't say a word.

His phone buzzed on the table, the screen lighting up with a message from Brooke: Thank you for the beautiful necklace, Austin. I love it.

I saw his fingers, and my eyes fell on his hand. He was already wearing a custom platinum band. The matching one, no doubt, was on Brooke's finger.

I realized then that what we had wasn't love. It was just a routine he had grown used to.

Austin ordered me to stay out of his bedroom. But the very next day, Thomas demanded that I install a hidden security camera in Austin's room. The old man had realized I was losing my grip on his grandson and wanted to monitor him directly.

"He told me to stay out," I pleaded with the butler. "Can't you have one of the maids do it? I don't want him to hate me any more than he already does."

But Thomas's instructions were absolute: if I didn't do it, it would be considered a breach of contract.

I was quietly installing the device when I heard the door click. Austin had returned early to retrieve some files. Seeing me in his room, his face twisted into a mask of pure rage.

He stepped forward and slapped me hard across the face.

"Disgusting," he spat, turning to the maid standing in the hallway. "Sanitize the room. Throw away anything she touched."

I clutched my burning cheek, staring at him. For nine years, I had been treated like a puppet. Thomas controlled me, my mother used me, and Austin despised me. What had I been fighting for?

"Why is Brooke allowed to come and go as she pleases?" I whispered, the question slipping out before I could stop it.

He looked at me as if the question itself were absurd.

Yet, a small, foolish part of me still hoped for a different answer.

Austin's expression remained icy. "I love Brooke. It's that simple."

Nine years of devotion, summarized in a single sentence.

I stepped back, my heel catching on the edge of the velvet throw pillow he had placed on the carpet for me. He grabbed my arm and shoved me away roughly, my hands scraping against the sharp corner of the desk.

"Get out, you leech."

"Why are you so stupid? Do you not understand plain English?"

"None of this belongs to you."

Every word felt like a physical blow.

My classmates and my teachers had always looked down on my poverty. I wasn't some brilliant student. My father had died when I was young, and I had spent my entire life craving financial security, craving a real family. I thought that if I had a child with Austin, our baby would at least have two parents who stayed.

But fortune had never been on my side. I hadn't gotten pregnant that night.

Seeing me stand there in a daze, Austin's frustration turned into disgust.

"What will it take for you to sign the papers?"

"I don't love you, and this isn't your home."

Yet, as I turned to leave, he looked at the maid and muttered, "She looks pale. Call the family doctor."

It was always the same. A cruel blow, followed by a small, confusing act of concern.

I wiped the dust from my hands, looking into his cold eyes. Nine years of companionship, reduced to nothing.

I nodded slowly.

"Fine. I agree to the divorce."