The divorce papers landed on my hospital bed while I was still bleeding. I stared at them. At the elegant signature already scrawled across the bottom. *Marcus Chen*. My husband of five years. The man whose child I'd just miscarried three hours ago. "Sign them, Elena." His voice was cold. Distant. Like I was a business transaction he needed to close. "Sophia's back. You knew this day would come." Sophia. His childhood sweetheart. The girl he'd loved since they were sixteen. The one who'd left him to study abroad and never looked back. Until now. I looked up at Marcus. At his perfect jawline and those dark eyes that used to look at me like I hung the moon. Now they were empty. Impatient. "I lost our baby." My voice cracked. "Three hours ago, Marcus. Our baby." He didn't even flinch. "It wasn't meant to be." He adjusted his Rolex. "Sophia and I want to start fresh. She's willing to give me children. Real heirs to the Chen empire." Real heirs. Like our baby—the one I'd just lost—had been fake. Something inside me shattered. Not my heart. That had broken the moment he'd walked into this hospital room with papers instead of comfort. No, this was something deeper. Something fundamental. My spine. It shattered and then reformed. Harder. Colder. "Where do I sign?" I heard myself ask. Marcus looked surprised. He'd expected me to beg. To cry. To cling to him like I had for the past year while he'd grown more and more distant. I signed my name. *Elena Volkov*. I'd given up that name when I married him. Taken his instead. Chen. Like I could erase where I came from. Big mistake. "You'll be out of the penthouse by Friday," Marcus said, taking the papers. "I'm having movers come for your things. Don't take anything that isn't yours." He left without another word. I lay there in that hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling the cramps still rolling through my body. Physical pain from the miscarriage. Emotional devastation from the divorce. And something else. Rage. Pure, crystalline rage. My phone buzzed. A text from my mother. The mother I hadn't spoken to in six years because Marcus had convinced me to cut ties with my "embarrassing" family. *Lenochka. Your brother told me what happened. Come home. It's time.* I stared at those words. Come home. Home to Russia. Home to the Volkov family. Home to the empire I'd walked away from because I'd been young and stupid and in love with a man who'd promised me forever. I typed back with shaking fingers. *I'm coming home.* I didn't know it then, but that text would change everything. Three days later, I walked out of that penthouse with one suitcase. Marcus didn't even bother to be there. He was probably with Sophia, planning their perfect future. I took a car to the airport. I took a plane to Moscow. And I disappeared. ---