The result was the same.

Khloe moved closer, her face illuminated by poorly concealed satisfaction.

“Alex, maybe Sophia’s phone died, or she doesn’t have service.”

She paused before adding, “Maybe she’s waiting for us in the terminal. Let’s collect the bags first.”

Alexander nodded and followed the crowd toward baggage claim.

He watched suitcases circle the carousel, but my pink luggage never appeared. A knot of unease began forming in his stomach.

He opened iMessage and attempted to text me, only to discover that his messages were turning green instead of blue. The word “Delivered” never appeared.

Khloe leaned over, observed the screen, and failed to suppress a small smile.

“Alex, what if Sophia didn’t come on purpose?”

Alexander’s face hardened.

Without responding, he grabbed his luggage and strode out of Kahului Airport. Khloe hurried after him, and together they took a taxi to the luxury resort in Wailea that I had booked.

At the front desk, an employee checked the reservation.

“Did Mrs. Mendoza not join you? We have only two guests present. Will she be arriving later?”

Alexander swallowed his anger.

“Just check us in.”

With the keycard in hand, he hurried to the oceanfront suite and pushed the door open. The enormous room was empty.

There was no sign of me.

He attempted to reach me through every possible channel—calls, text messages, and emails—but received no response.

Khloe sat on the sofa pretending to comfort him while secretly admiring the lavish room.

Alexander paced back and forth.

Then his phone buzzed.

A text had arrived from an unfamiliar number.

He opened it immediately.

Alexander,

Happy honeymoon.

I wanted to enjoy this moment with you, but I cannot accept the idea of a honeymoon for three. I will not interfere with your time with Khloe.

I should also mention the money in our joint account, the Hamptons house we purchased together, and part of your company ownership. My attorney has filed for a temporary court restriction preventing the movement of those assets. By now, the relevant accounts and properties should be frozen.

Enjoy Maui.

My attorney will deliver the divorce papers.

I wish you both an excellent collaboration.

—Sophia

The message was brief, but it struck Alexander with devastating force.

He gripped the phone so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His face lost its color.

“Impossible,” he whispered.

Then his voice rose.

“How could she do this?”

He threw the phone toward the couch. It bounced from the cushion, hit the floor, and cracked across the screen.

Khloe gasped and picked it up.

As she read the message, her triumphant expression vanished.

“Alex, what are we going to do? If the accounts are frozen, how are we going to pay for anything here?”

Alexander ignored her and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean. His chest rose and fell sharply.

He had never imagined that I—always patient, agreeable, and accommodating—would act before he had time to prepare.

He called the company’s finance department, hoping to arrange an emergency transfer, only to discover that both his personal and business accounts were inaccessible.

He attempted to contact his attorney, but the call went directly to voicemail.

It did not take long for him to realize that I had prepared for that possibility as well.

Khloe stood beside him, looking helpless. Her earlier confidence had completely disappeared.

She had believed that joining Alexander in Maui would give her a luxury vacation while strengthening her position as the new woman in his life.

Now, without access to money or reliable help from New York, they were trapped inside the very trip they had arranged to humiliate me.

Alexander forced himself to breathe slowly.

He turned toward her.

“Call your family or friends. Ask someone to wire emergency money. We need cash for immediate expenses. Then contact the company’s vice president and tell him to resolve the account problem.”

Khloe nodded frantically and began making calls.

No one answered.

While they scrambled for help, a black sedan stopped in front of the Vance Law Firm on Park Avenue in Midtown Manhattan.

I stepped out in heels and entered the sleek skyscraper. The elevator carried me directly to the eighteenth floor.

The moment the doors opened, Mr. Vance’s paralegal approached.

“Mrs. Mendoza, Mr. Vance is expecting you in the conference room.”

I followed her into an elegant, soundproof room.

Mr. Vance sat beside the window reviewing documents. When he saw me, he stood.

“Sophia, please sit down.”

He offered me a glass of water.

“Did you bring the documents we discussed?”

“Everything is here.”

I removed a thick leather folder from my designer tote and placed it on the table.

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