Chapter223 Miranda Has to Get a Divorce!
The words hit Miranda like a punch to the chest.
Clifton's leg was going to heal.
Which meant the agreement between them, the one built on nothing but convenience and mutual benefit, was reaching its end.
Once he recovered, he would step back into his rightful place as the Prescott heir. And she would walk away with a generous settlement, erased from his world completely.
The thought sent a wave of something bitter and hollow rising up her throat. She couldn't even name what she was feeling. She just knew it hurt.
She pushed it all down hard and looked up at him with a smile, brighter than usual.
"Congratulations, then." Her voice came out light. "But whoever's behind all this has been hiding well. Please be careful."
Clifton looked at the genuine worry in her eyes. Something in his chest softened.
"I will," he said quietly. "Don't worry."
That same night, Clifton left Prescott Manor.
No long goodbyes. No ceremony. Just gone, like any ordinary evening out.
But Miranda knew. This time was different.
Late that night, alone in their bedroom, the central heating kept the temperature perfectly steady. Even so, Miranda lay in bed feeling cold all the way to her fingertips.
She shifted toward the other side of the mattress without thinking, and her hand found nothing but empty, cool sheets.
She stared at the ceiling as Clifton's face played on repeat in her mind.
Sleep never came.
The next morning, Miranda stood in front of the bathroom mirror with faint shadows beneath her eyes. She looked exhausted, and she knew it.
She turned on the cold water and splashed her face several times. The shock of it cleared her head and forced her emotions back behind the wall where they belonged.
Then she sat down at her vanity and carefully covered the dark circles with concealer.
By the time she was done, the woman in the mirror looked composed again. Polished. Untouchable.
She drove away from Prescott Manor and headed straight to the hospital. She hadn't visited her brother in days.
When Miranda pushed open the door to Christian's VIP room, a doctor was in the middle of giving him an injection.
She stayed quiet and waited near the door until the doctor finished and wheeled the cart out.
Then she walked over and looked at the cotton ball taped to her brother's arm.
"What was that for?" she asked softly.
In her memory, Christian's post-surgery routine had been mostly IV drips. Nutritional support. Anti-inflammatories. A separate injection was unusual.
Christian reached over with his free hand and gently ruffled her hair, the way he always had since they were kids.
"Don't panic," he said, smiling. "It's a special medication. Clifton had it brought in from overseas. Supposed to speed up nerve and bone recovery."
He paused, and his expression grew more serious.
"Dad isn't getting any easier to deal with. I can't keep letting you handle everything alone. I need to get better. Fast."
Miranda's throat tightened.
She wasn't sure if it was because of what Clifton had quietly done, or because of what her brother had just said. Either way, the emotions she had been holding back all night pressed hard against her chest.
She didn't let them out. Not here.
Meanwhile, across town at the Martinez estate, Mrs. Martinez sat with her phone in hand, video-calling Isabella, who had just landed somewhere far away.
The woman on the screen looked pale, shaken, and absolutely terrified. Knowing that her daughter would be living out her days in some tiny, forgotten town that barely showed up on a map made Mrs. Martinez's blood boil.
All because of Miranda. That scheming little witch had stolen everything Isabella was supposed to have. Clifton. The Prescott name. All of it.
"Mom!" Isabella sobbed, her voice breaking apart. "I don't know anyone here. I can't understand a word anyone says. Someone almost grabbed my phone off the street just now. I'm scared. I want to come home."
She lifted her right hand, wrapped in bandages, completely numb.
"I want Miranda dead. Do you hear me? I want her dead!"
Mrs. Martinez kept her voice calm and gentle even as her heart shredded watching her daughter fall apart.
"Isabella, listen to me. Stay calm. Don't do anything rash. Once I take care of Miranda, you'll be able to come home with your head held high. I promise."
That seemed to reach her. Isabella's breakdown slowly faded to quiet tears.
The moment the call ended, every trace of warmth vanished from Mrs. Martinez's face.
She dialed another number immediately.
"What have you found?" she asked, her voice cold and clipped.
Miranda had destroyed her daughter's future. She was not going to get away with it.
The man on the other end spoke in a low, steady tone.
"Ma'am, we've confirmed it. Miranda's father doesn't seem to know his daughter remarried into the Prescott family."
Mrs. Martinez's eyes sharpened.
A plan began to take shape in her mind.
She ended the call a few minutes later and stared out the window, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across her face.
Enjoy it while it lasts, Miranda. You're about to be thrown out of Prescott with nothing left but your reputation in ruins.
--
That afternoon, at Lancaster Group headquarters.
Dominic had just wrapped up a meeting when his secretary handed him an envelope from a same-day courier.
He frowned, tore it open, and a stack of photographs spilled across his desk.
He looked down.
His expression went rigid.
Every photo showed Miranda with a man. Close. Familiar. Comfortable in a way that made his jaw clench.
Miranda's face was clearly visible in every single shot. The man's was not. Only his back. And the wheelchair he sat in.
Along with the photos was a printed letter. The language was ugly, deliberate, and designed to wound. It described Miranda as reckless and shameless, sneaking around with some unknown disabled man behind everyone's backs.
Dominic slammed his palm down on the desk.
The letter didn't bother him. The slander didn't bother him.
What bothered him was that wheelchair.
His daughter. The one he had spent years grooming for a strategic marriage that would benefit the Lancaster name. She had gone and married a cripple instead of the partner he had carefully chosen for her.
It was an insult. Plain and simple.
Dominic stood there fuming, his face tight, his chest heaving.
What could a man in a wheelchair possibly offer? What connections? What power? What did any of this do for Lancaster Group?
No. Absolutely not.
Miranda was getting a divorce. He would make sure of it.