Chapter 3

Stella's POV

I sat in the wet grass for hours, holding those divorce papers. The ink was already smudging in the rain, but I could still read the words clearly enough: "Wife receives no assets, property, or financial support."

I'd signed them. Victoria told me they were temporary separation papers. "Just until things calm down," she'd said with that sweet smile.

I was so stupid.

My phone—Nathan's old phone he'd thrown at me once—had three percent battery left. I stared at the contact list. Dad's number was still there. One call and this nightmare could end.

But I couldn't do it. Couldn't crawl back and admit he was right about everything.

"I'll figure this out myself," I said to no one.

Three days later, I was digging through a dumpster behind a grocery store.

The bread was only one day expired. The banana had a brown spot but was mostly good. I stuffed them into my torn jacket and kept moving. Central Park wasn't far. I'd found a bench there that the cops didn't check until morning.

A woman walked past with her daughter. The little girl stared at me. "Mommy, why is that lady so dirty?"

"Don't look at her, sweetie." The woman pulled her daughter closer, like poverty was contagious.

I caught my reflection in a store window. Matted hair. Bruises turning yellow-green. Clothes that smelled like garbage and desperation. The MIT genius. The CEO's daughter. The girl who had everything.

Gone.

That night, a woman approached my bench. Well-dressed. Kind smile. "Honey, are you okay? Do you need help?"

I almost cried. "Yes. Please."

"I run a restaurant downtown. We're always looking for servers. Room and board included."

"Really?" My voice cracked. "I'll work hard. I promise. I'll do anything—"

"I know you will." Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up."

The "restaurant" had blacked-out windows and a bouncer at the door.

Inside, women danced on platforms in lingerie—or less. Music pounded through speakers. Men crowded around, throwing bills.

My stomach dropped. "This isn't—"

"A restaurant?" The woman's kind smile vanished. "No, sweetie. But you ate my food for three days. Slept in my car last night. That costs money."

"I didn't know—"

"Guards!" She snapped her fingers. Two men grabbed my arms. "Either you work off your debt, or we sell you somewhere much worse. Your choice."

They dragged me to a basement room. Five other girls sat on dirty mattresses, all with the same hollow eyes.

"Don't fight," one whispered. "It only makes it worse."

The owner handed me a sequined bra and a smile. "Stage in twenty minutes. Make me proud."

I thought about running. But the guards were everywhere. And where would I go? Back to the park? Back to Nathan?

The stage lights blinded me. Men's faces leered from the darkness. Money hit the floor around my feet. Someone yelled, "Take it off!"

I closed my eyes and tried to be somewhere else. MIT. Dad's study. Anywhere but here.

After my "shift," a man grabbed my wrist. "How much for private time?"

"I'm not—I don't—"

The owner appeared, all false sweetness. "She's new. Still training." She turned to me, voice dropping. "But you will. Eventually."

"No." The word came out stronger than I felt.

Her hand cracked across my face. "No? Let me explain how this works." She nodded to the guards. "Put her in the box."

The box was a storage closet. Three feet by three feet. No windows. No light. They locked me inside with no water and no food.

"Two days," the owner said through the door. "Then we'll see if you're ready to behave."

In the darkness, I finally broke. I cried for my baby. For my destroyed body. For the life I'd thrown away. I felt along the walls until I found a broken piece of mirror.

The edge was sharp.

It would be so easy. Just one cut. Deep enough. Then the pain would stop.

I pressed the glass to my wrist. Felt it bite into skin.

"Don't." A voice outside the door. One of the other girls. "Please don't. I tried that last month. They just stitch you up and put you back to work."

"I have nothing left," I sobbed.

"You're alive. That's something."

Was it though?

Two days later, sirens screamed outside. Doors crashed open. "Police! Nobody move!"

The raid happened so fast. One moment I was on stage, the next I was wrapped in a blanket while an officer took my statement.

"Do you have family? Someone we can call?"

I hesitated. Pride versus survival. Finally, I whispered Marcus's number. "But don't tell him—don't tell my father how you found me. Please. Just say I want to come home."

The officer's face was gentle. "Okay, honey."

Marcus answered on the first ring. When he heard my voice, he started crying. "Stella! Oh God, we've been searching for three months! Your father—" His voice broke. "He's dying, Stella. He's been asking for you. Waiting for you."

The world tilted. "What?"

"Stage four cancer. The doctors said... He's been holding on to see you one more time."

All those ignored calls. All those deleted voicemails. While I was drowning in my pride, Dad was dying.

"I'm coming," I said. "I'm coming right now."

The mansion looked the same. Beautiful. Imposing. Home.

Marcus met me at the door, and his face crumpled when he saw me. Bruises. Hollow cheeks. The infection spreading from my untreated wounds.

"Stella, what did they do to you?"

"Where's Dad?"

I ran upstairs, ignoring the pain in my ribs. His bedroom door was open. The man in the bed looked so small. So fragile.

"Dad?" My voice broke.

His eyes opened. Tears spilled immediately. "Stella. My baby girl. You came back."

I collapsed beside the bed, sobbing. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I was stubborn and stupid and I should have listened—"

"Shh." His hand, paper-thin and trembling, touched my hair. "You're safe now. That's all that matters."

"I lost everything. The baby, the ability to have more children, I signed away my rights—"

"Did you sign a prenup?"

I shook my head. "We never had one."

Something flickered in his eyes. Relief? "Then you're entitled to half his assets in California. We can fight this."

"Dad, I don't care about the money—"

"I do." His voice was weak but fierce. "Stella, listen to me. I'm leaving you everything. Carter Tech. The properties. All of it. But that's not enough." His grip on my hand tightened. "Promise me you'll make them pay."

"Dad—"

"Promise me. Don't be soft. Don't forgive. They don't deserve it."

I looked into his dying eyes and saw the truth. Mercy was what got me here. Trust was what destroyed me.

"I promise."

He smiled. "That's my girl." His eyes closed. His chest rose once more, then stilled.

"Dad?" I shook him gently. "Dad!"

But he was gone.

At the funeral, I stood in black designer mourning clothes, watching them lower my father into the ground. The girl who'd scrubbed blood off kitchen floors was gone too. Someone harder stood in her place.

Marcus handed me a folder after the service. "Your father's will. And a letter."

I opened it with shaking hands.

*Stella,

If you're reading this, I'm gone. But I've made sure you'll never be helpless again. Carter Tech is yours. $800 million in assets. More than enough to destroy anyone who hurt you.

Don't cry for me. Get angry. Get even.

Make them sorry they ever touched my daughter.

All my love,

Dad*

I folded the letter carefully. "Marcus, call an emergency board meeting. Tell them Stella Carter is taking over. Immediately."

His eyes widened. "Right away, Miss."