End Of Mourning

Inside their bedroom, Anita went straight for her safe. Her fingers trembled only slightly as she unlocked it. This was her private haven. No one knew her code. Not even David.

She pulled out a stack of thick folders, bound in leather sleeves, labeled in her careful, neat handwriting. One by one, she laid them out on the bed.

AURORA MEDI-TECH HOSPITAL.

Her first major investment. A state-of-the-art medical center she secretly funded through a shell company to avoid attention.

BLEU ROSE FASHION HOUSE.

A global name, but it started as her personal project. She designed the first ten collections under a pseudonym.

NOVAHILLS PROPERTY DEVELOPMENT.

One of the top real estate firms in the country. She'd poured millions into it when no one else would touch it.

There were more: silent shares in multiple cosmetic brands under David's conglomerate, technology startups, and even a few influential media outlets.

Then there were the red files. They were thicker and more dangerous. Each one was marked with a name.

Minister Collins. He once tried to blackmail her into funding his re-election; she had audio.

Naomi Quinn. A journalist turned influencer who'd peddled lies for a price. Anita had the receipts…literally.

Monica Grey. A model under David's company who tried to blackmail David into taking her as a mistress.

Chairman Wu. A board member who tried to sabotage one of her projects when she said no to dinner.

And more.

The evidence she had could destroy them. She'd held onto it, not out of fear, but out of power. Thanks to her, those people became David's dogs. But now, she'd set them loose.

While David was polishing his sweet image, Anita was dirtying herself from the shadows, helping her husband build a clean empire.

With a heavy breath, she zipped everything into a briefcase. It was time to cut herself free from the Blackwood name. She'd take that crown off his head and rise as the queen of that empire.

Just then, her private phone buzzed. She had an email, but no ID. She froze for a moment, then picked it up.

There was no voice. Just a message. A PDF.

She opened it.

Her eyes scanned quickly and then widened in disbelief. Her bank accounts had long been frozen on claims of fraudulent activities. Her shell companies were emptied. The establishments she invested in had been sold and transferred. All her investments were either sold or voided. And the blackmail evidence she had on people had been leaked in fragments or discredited.

A final message blinked at the bottom of the screen.

[ No one's on your side now, Anita White. Your husband made sure of it. And you'll be saving yourself from trouble if you'd shut up about what you know and not bring trouble upon yourself. ]

David.

A low, raw sound tore from Anita's throat, swelling until it exploded into a scream so guttural it shook the walls. She dropped to her knees, accidentally scratching her arm against a piece of furniture – but the pain barely registered.

She clutching the briefcase to her chest as if it was the child she'd failed to bring into this world.

Anita wailed. This was her future. This was the only thing she had left. And he took it too.

Angry, bitter, sorrowful tears streaked her face, but her eyes were full of rage.

David stripped her bare, until she had nothing but her name — and even that now echoed with shame.

Anita Wales Blackwood, or Anita White?

Her heart trembled. She didn't dare entertain the latter. How dare she address herself as a White? What rights did she have? Does she have no shame? After all she'd done?

Perhaps, this served her right. Maybe, this was her retribution for what she did to her family – her mother and father. Just maybe…

Anita choked, struggling to breathe.

"Why, David?" she whimpered. "Why have you made me a villain when I made you a god?"

Anita lay there, broken and undone.

For a while, no sound was heard from her. She went still, so still it was as if her body had turned to stone—like she had become one with the cold floor, the blue dress she wore clung to her damp skin like a burial shroud.

Her mind drifted through the silence, echoing with fragments of memories – her father's harsh words, her mother's tearful silence the day she left home, the look on David's face the first time he kissed her hand in front of the world. The lies had always been beautiful. So beautiful she convinced herself they were real.

Her nails clawed the marble.

But there was one thing David didn't know.

One thing he overlooked in all his meticulous planning, in all his perfect dismantling of her world:

Anita White!

One and only daughter of Reginald White and the former heiress to the White Empire.

Her chest heaved with a tiny bit of hope as she slowly rose to her feet. Her body trembled. It wasn't clear if it was from the air conditioner or the pain and betrayal she was buckling in.

With her quivering hand, she reached for the hem of her dress and pulled it over her head. She'd lost a lot of weight and skin was pale. And the hospital smell still clung to her like a second skin, reminding her of what she'd lost.

She breathed, striding toward the bathroom. Her steps were heavy, shoulders once straight had hunched and the once proud goddess, although trying to maintain her poise, looked like a fallen statue – chipped, cracked, and aching.

The bathroom lights flickered on, casting a cold, sterile glow over her reflection. She paused, staring at the woman in the mirror. Anita barely recognized herself.

Her lips, usually tinted with a proud shade of red, were dry and pale. Her eyes, once sharp and calculating, brimmed with the kind of sorrow that couldn't be hidden behind mascara. Bruises bloomed faintly along her arms – not from violence, but from the crash, from the chaos.

Her blonde hair with dark roots –signature of the White family– usually styled in a sleek, perfect bob, now hung limp around her face like a wilted crown.

Anita swallowed, hard.

She leaned closer to the mirror, her breath fogging up the glass. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, revealing her figure once more.

She'd lost a lot of weight, thanks to the miscarriage and stress.

Slowly, she stepped into the shower and turned on the water. Scalding hot. She needed to burn the scent of failure, of betrayal, off her skin. The water hit her like a thousand needles, yet she didn't flinch.

She stood there until the mirror fogged, until her silent sobs faded, until the ache in her chest numbed just enough to think.

When she stepped out, she was empty. Hollow. But in that emptiness, there was space. And in that space, a spark of hope remained.

She pulled a towel around herself and walked back into the bedroom. The briefcase still sat on the bed like a coffin of her past.

She looked away from it and headed for her walk-in-closet.

Anita got into a simple black lace dress that stopped just below her knees.

She wore no makeup, no accessories, and slid into a black six inch stiletto, took a black purse, and complemented her looks with a black veiled hat and dark shades.

She looked like one going to a funeral, except that she wasn't, but had already begun mourning her child, her husband, and his family.

With one last glance at herself in the full length mirror, she sauntered out of the room with one destination in mind...