Chapter 4
I walked right past him.
"Mrs. Blackwell—" Marcus hurried after me, his leather shoes clicking against the concrete. "Mr. Blackwell has instructed me to—"
"I'm not Mrs. Blackwell anymore. And your employer has no authority over me."
I kept walking, pulling my suitcase behind me. The apartment I'd rented online was a fifteen-minute cab ride from here. I just needed to get into a taxi before—
Marcus stepped in front of me, blocking my path. His face was apologetic but firm. "Ma'am, Mr. Blackwell wanted me to inform you that he's filed an injunction against the divorce proceedings. Until the court reviews it, the divorce is not finalized."
My blood turned to ice.
"He can't do that."
"His legal team filed it this morning." Marcus handed me an envelope. "These are the documents."
I tore it open. Legal jargon swam before my eyes, but the key phrases jumped out: *motion to delay... pending review... marital assets... contested grounds...*
He was holding me hostage. Legally, financially, administratively—he was trapping me in a marriage I wanted no part of.
My hands shook, but not from weakness. From rage.
"Tell Liam Blackwell," I said slowly, "that if he wants a war, I'll give him one."
Marcus blinked. He clearly wasn't used to this version of me. The old Penelope would have cried. Would have begged. Would have climbed into that black car and driven straight back to her cage.
I turned on my heel and hailed a cab.
In the backseat, I pulled out my phone and made a call I never thought I'd make.
"Professor Whitmore? It's Penelope Hudson. I need a favor."
Professor Whitmore had been my academic advisor at Ashford Medical University. He was also, coincidentally, a practicing attorney who specialized in family law before switching to academia.
"Penelope! My God, where have you been? I've been trying to reach you for three years—your research was nominated for the Harker Prize, did you know that?"
I didn't know. Of course I didn't know. Liam had confiscated my academic email and told me the university had "moved on."
Another lie. Another chain.
"I didn't know," I said quietly. "But I know now. Professor, I need legal help. My husband is contesting our divorce, and I need the best family lawyer you know."
"Done. I'll connect you with Rebecca Ashworth. She's never lost a case."
When I arrived at my rented apartment—a tiny studio with white walls and morning sunlight—I sat on the bare floor and cried. Not from sadness. From the overwhelming weight of everything I'd given up and everything I was reclaiming.
That afternoon, I met Rebecca Ashworth at her office. She was sharp-eyed, no-nonsense, and visibly disgusted when I told her my story.
"He controlled your finances, isolated you from your career, had his mistress bully you openly, and now he wants to force you to stay married for his inheritance?" She slapped the file shut. "I'm going to bury him."
"There's more," I said. "His grandfather's will names me specifically. I don't know why. But whatever the reason, it gives Liam motivation to keep me trapped."
Rebecca leaned back. "Then we need to find out why that will names you. That's the leverage."
I nodded. There was something buried in the Blackwell family's history—something that connected me to Liam's grandfather. In my previous life, I was too broken to investigate. But not this time.
That evening, I started my new position at Wrenfield Medical. The chief of neurology personally welcomed me.
"Dr. Hudson, your research on neural pathway regeneration was groundbreaking. We're honored to have you."
I put on my white coat, and it felt like armor. Here, I wasn't the pitiful wife of Liam Blackwell. I was a doctor. A researcher. A woman with a mind sharp enough to terrify anyone who underestimated her.
On my third day at the hospital, I was paged to the VIP ward for a consultation.
"New patient," the nurse explained. "Elderly male, severe neurological decline. The family is very private—requested our top specialist."
I walked into the room, chart in hand, and froze.
Lying in the hospital bed, frail and barely conscious, was a man I recognized from photographs in the Blackwell estate.
It was Liam's grandfather. Edward Blackwell. The man who wrote the will.
And he was supposed to be dead.
"Mrs. Blackwell—" Marcus hurried after me, his leather shoes clicking against the concrete. "Mr. Blackwell has instructed me to—"
"I'm not Mrs. Blackwell anymore. And your employer has no authority over me."
I kept walking, pulling my suitcase behind me. The apartment I'd rented online was a fifteen-minute cab ride from here. I just needed to get into a taxi before—
Marcus stepped in front of me, blocking my path. His face was apologetic but firm. "Ma'am, Mr. Blackwell wanted me to inform you that he's filed an injunction against the divorce proceedings. Until the court reviews it, the divorce is not finalized."
My blood turned to ice.
"He can't do that."
"His legal team filed it this morning." Marcus handed me an envelope. "These are the documents."
I tore it open. Legal jargon swam before my eyes, but the key phrases jumped out: *motion to delay... pending review... marital assets... contested grounds...*
He was holding me hostage. Legally, financially, administratively—he was trapping me in a marriage I wanted no part of.
My hands shook, but not from weakness. From rage.
"Tell Liam Blackwell," I said slowly, "that if he wants a war, I'll give him one."
Marcus blinked. He clearly wasn't used to this version of me. The old Penelope would have cried. Would have begged. Would have climbed into that black car and driven straight back to her cage.
I turned on my heel and hailed a cab.
In the backseat, I pulled out my phone and made a call I never thought I'd make.
"Professor Whitmore? It's Penelope Hudson. I need a favor."
Professor Whitmore had been my academic advisor at Ashford Medical University. He was also, coincidentally, a practicing attorney who specialized in family law before switching to academia.
"Penelope! My God, where have you been? I've been trying to reach you for three years—your research was nominated for the Harker Prize, did you know that?"
I didn't know. Of course I didn't know. Liam had confiscated my academic email and told me the university had "moved on."
Another lie. Another chain.
"I didn't know," I said quietly. "But I know now. Professor, I need legal help. My husband is contesting our divorce, and I need the best family lawyer you know."
"Done. I'll connect you with Rebecca Ashworth. She's never lost a case."
When I arrived at my rented apartment—a tiny studio with white walls and morning sunlight—I sat on the bare floor and cried. Not from sadness. From the overwhelming weight of everything I'd given up and everything I was reclaiming.
That afternoon, I met Rebecca Ashworth at her office. She was sharp-eyed, no-nonsense, and visibly disgusted when I told her my story.
"He controlled your finances, isolated you from your career, had his mistress bully you openly, and now he wants to force you to stay married for his inheritance?" She slapped the file shut. "I'm going to bury him."
"There's more," I said. "His grandfather's will names me specifically. I don't know why. But whatever the reason, it gives Liam motivation to keep me trapped."
Rebecca leaned back. "Then we need to find out why that will names you. That's the leverage."
I nodded. There was something buried in the Blackwell family's history—something that connected me to Liam's grandfather. In my previous life, I was too broken to investigate. But not this time.
That evening, I started my new position at Wrenfield Medical. The chief of neurology personally welcomed me.
"Dr. Hudson, your research on neural pathway regeneration was groundbreaking. We're honored to have you."
I put on my white coat, and it felt like armor. Here, I wasn't the pitiful wife of Liam Blackwell. I was a doctor. A researcher. A woman with a mind sharp enough to terrify anyone who underestimated her.
On my third day at the hospital, I was paged to the VIP ward for a consultation.
"New patient," the nurse explained. "Elderly male, severe neurological decline. The family is very private—requested our top specialist."
I walked into the room, chart in hand, and froze.
Lying in the hospital bed, frail and barely conscious, was a man I recognized from photographs in the Blackwell estate.
It was Liam's grandfather. Edward Blackwell. The man who wrote the will.
And he was supposed to be dead.