Three Years Later

Calista’s POV

The first thing I learned after leaving Gerald was that heartbreak did not kill me.

It tried.

There were days when getting out of bed felt like dragging myself through wet cement. Days when I would wake up and forget for a few precious seconds that I was no longer Mrs. Deneuve, only to remember everything all over again.

There were nights I stared at the ceiling until sunrise because my mind refused to stop replaying that day.

The divorce papers.

His face.

His voice.

Sign it.

And the worst part wasn’t that Gerald had stopped loving me.

It was that I’d finally realized he’d never loved me the way I’d wanted him to.

Or so I thought.

For a long time, I hated myself for loving him.

I hated that I’d spent three years learning a man who had never asked me to.

I hated every breakfast I’d made, every shirt I’d ironed, every little thing I’d remembered.

I hated the way I’d waited for him to come home.

I hated that I had once believed those small acts meant something.

But eventually, I got tired of hating myself.

And that’s when I started rebuilding.

Not for Gerald.

Not to make him regret losing me.

Not even to prove that I could survive without him.

I rebuilt myself because I realized something that should have been obvious from the beginning.

I had spent so much time trying to become the perfect wife for a man who never asked me to be one that I’d forgotten to become someone for myself.

So I started there.

With myself.

Three years had passed since I walked out of the Deneuve mansion.

Three years since I'd last seen Gerald.

Three years since I'd heard his voice.

And for the first year, I thought I'd never stop missing him.

I felt like I would die without him

That is how sickening love unreciprocated it. It hurts so bad that I don’t even wish for my enemy to experience it.

Those years were the worst years of my life, but it shaped me to be who I am now

I did eventually stop missing the idea of Gerald

Not completely.

But enough.

Enough to breathe without him.

Enough to wake up without immediately reaching for my phone.

Enough to walk past a restaurant we'd once visited without feeling like my chest had been ripped open.

Enough to hear his name without wondering what he was doing… if he has eaten… if he is happy… if he ever did miss my fucking ass… (I doubt it)

Eventually, Gerald Deneuve became what he should have always been.

A part of my past.

And I became someone else.

Someone I barely recognized when I looked in the mirror.

The woman staring back at me now wasn't the girl who had once stood outside Gerald's office with a flask of homemade lunch, nervous about whether her husband would be happy to see her.

She wasn't the woman who had stood in the hallway holding a breakfast tray while another woman walked out of her husband's bedroom.

She wasn't the wife who had signed divorce papers with trembling hands because she was too proud to beg.

That woman was still somewhere inside me.

But she wasn't in control anymore.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror.

My hair fell in long, dark waves down my back.

My makeup was subtle, but deliberate.

My dress hugged my body perfectly without trying too hard to announce itself.

The woman looking back at me looked calm.

Expensive and Untouchable.

That was the word people had started using.

Untouchable.

I almost laughed the first time I heard it.

Because there had been a time when one man's silence could destroy my entire day.

Now?

I could walk into a room filled with billionaires, politicians and people whose names appeared on magazine covers and not feel the slightest need to prove that I belonged there.

I didn't need their approval.

I'd finally stopped needing anyone's.

A knock sounded on my bedroom door.

"Miss Monroe?"

I turned.

"Come in."

The door opened and my assistant stepped inside.

"Your car is ready."

I nodded.

"What about the documents?"

"Already sent to the board."

"And the reporters?"

"Every major outlet that matters has confirmed attendance."

A faint smile touched my lips.

"Good."

She hesitated.

"There's one more thing."

I picked up my earrings.

"What?"

"Someone from Deneuve Industries confirmed that Gerald Deneuve will be attending tonight."

Dear ex husband…

My mind sang, as my fingers paused

Just for a second.

A very small second.

Then I continued putting on my earrings.

"Okay."

She watched me carefully.

"Do you want me to make arrangements so you don't have to—"

"No."

I looked at her through the mirror.

"There's no need."

"But if you don't want to see him—"

"I don't."

I fastened the second earring.

"But that doesn't mean I'm going to rearrange my life because he might be in the same room."

She nodded.

"Understood."

She started to leave.

"Wait."

She turned.

I looked at my reflection again.

"Is everything ready?"

"Yes."

"Then let's go."

The ballroom was already crowded when I arrived.

Cameras flashed the second I stepped out of the car.

For a moment, I simply stood there.

Three years ago, I would have hated this.

The attention.

The whispers.

The way strangers looked at me as though they were trying to decide whether I deserved to be there.

Tonight, I barely noticed.

I walked through the entrance.

Heads turned.

Conversations lowered.

A few people stared openly.

I heard my name several times.

“Is that Calista Monroe?”

“Wait… that’s her?”

“I thought she left the country.”

“She looks completely different.”

“That’s the woman who married Gerald Deneuve, right?”

“Wasn’t that marriage years ago?”

I kept walking.

There was no reason to answer them.

The room itself seemed to shift around me.

People moved aside without realizing they were doing it.

Not because they knew me.

Not yet.

Because confidence had a strange way of making people assume you belonged somewhere.

I reached the main hall.

A waiter offered me champagne.

I took a glass.

Then I saw the enormous screen at the front of the ballroom.

A presentation was about to begin.

The host stepped onto the stage.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you all for joining us for tonight’s annual media and business summit.”

I barely listened.

I’d come for one reason.

Truth Hurts had spent the last several months preparing an investigation that would change the direction of the industry.

Tonight was the first time we were announcing the next phase publicly.

I glanced toward the stage.

The host smiled.

“And before we begin, we’d like to acknowledge someone whose presence tonight is particularly significant.”

My brows drew together.

The lights dimmed slightly.

The screen behind him came alive.

A logo appeared.

TRUTH HURTS

The room erupted in whispers.

The host continued.

“For over three decades, Truth Hurts has built its reputation as the most trusted independent journalism and investigative media organization in the country.”

I watched the screen.

Images of old newspaper covers flashed across it.

Major scandals.

Corporate investigations.

Political exposés.

Cases that had been buried until Truth Hurts dragged them into the light.

I had grown up around that logo.

But nobody in this room knew that.

Nobody except the people who needed to.

The host smiled.

“Tonight, we are honored to introduce the person who will lead Truth Hurts into its next era.”

My fingers tightened slightly around my glass.

The lights moved.

The crowd turned toward the entrance.

And I walked.

The whispers stopped.

Completely.

I stepped onto the stage.

The host handed me the microphone.

For a few seconds, I said nothing.

I looked across the room.

Faces I’d seen in newspapers.

People who could make and destroy careers with a single phone call.

People who had once looked through women like me.

People who would never have given the old Calista Monroe a second glance.

Now they were staring.

Waiting.

I smiled.

“Good evening.”

Applause broke out.

I waited until it faded.

“Most people know Truth Hurts as a media company.”

The screen behind me changed.

“But Truth Hurts was never built to protect the powerful.”

Another image appeared.

“Truth Hurts was built to hold them accountable.”

The room grew quieter.

I looked around.

“And that responsibility has now been entrusted to me.”

The host stepped forward.

“Miss Monroe, perhaps you could tell everyone a little about your connection to Truth Hurts.”

A strange calm settled over me.

This was the moment.

I looked directly into the cameras.

“My grandmother founded Truth Hurts.”

A ripple of surprise moved through the room.

“She spent her entire life building an organization that refused to bend for money, influence or fear.”

I paused.

“She passed away last year.”

The room went silent.

“And before she died, she made one final decision.”

I looked toward the screen.

“My name was placed on the succession documents.”

The host stared at me.

“So you are saying—”

“I am the new CEO of Truth Hurts.”

The room exploded.

Cameras flashed from every direction.

People started talking over each other.

Questions came from every side.

“Miss Monroe!”

“Are you saying you’ve been running Truth Hurts?”

“Why did you remain anonymous?”

“Why did nobody know about this?”

“Was your grandmother the reason you disappeared from public life?”

I raised one hand.

The room gradually quieted.

“I didn’t disappear.”

My eyes moved over the crowd.

“I simply stopped living where everyone could see me.”

That earned another wave of murmurs.

I smiled faintly.

“And now I’m ready to be seen.”

Across the ballroom, he was there

My dear ex husband: Gerald Deneuve.

POV….

Gerald deneuve had stopped listening to the man beside him.

He hadn't heard a single word for the past thirty seconds.

He was staring at the stage.

At her.

Calista.

His fingers tightened around the glass in his hand.

For a moment, his mind refused to accept what his eyes were showing him.

It couldn't be her.

Not the Calista he remembered.

That woman had always been beautiful.

Soft, and warm, and submissive

She had smiled easily, way too easily

She had looked at him like he was the most important person in the world.

The woman standing on that stage wasn't soft.

She wasn't waiting for anyone.

She wasn't looking for anyone's approval.

She stood beneath the lights like she owned them.

Like she belonged there.

Like she had been preparing for this moment her entire life.

Gerald's breathing slowed.

"Calista..."

He hadn't meant to say her name aloud.

The man beside him glanced over.

"Do you know her?"

Gerald didn't answer.

He couldn't.

His eyes remained fixed on her.

Three years.

Three fucking years.

And she had changed so much that for a second, he wondered if he had imagined the woman he'd married.

Then she turned her head.

Their eyes met.

Across the crowded ballroom.

Everything inside him stopped.

Calista saw him.

Gerald waited.

He didn't know what he expected.

Anger.

Shock.

Maybe even the slightest trace of the woman who had once loved him.

Anything.

She looked at him for exactly one second.

Then she gave him a small, polite nod.

Nothing more.

No smile.

No hurt.

No hesitation.

She turned away, and Gerald's stomach dropped immediately, but time didn’t stop for him. The room continued moving around him.

People were still talking.

Cameras were still flashing.

The host was still introducing her.

But he heard none of it.

Because for the first time since he'd known Calista Monroe, she had looked at him like he was nobody.

And somehow, that hurt more than all the tears he'd seen in her eyes the day she left.

His gaze returned to the stage.

Truth Hurts.

CEO.

Calista Monroe.

His former wife.

The woman he'd once believed needed his money, his name and his protection.

A cold realization settled over him.

She had never needed any of it.

The question struck him so suddenly that he almost laughed.

If Calista had always been connected to something this powerful...

Then why the hell had she ever married him for money?

And more importantly—

**what had she been hiding from him all those years?**