"Genevra, I'm in the middle of a cross-border merger meeting tonight. Stop making a scene." Bryce Crosby's cold, impatient voice came through the phone receiver, competing with the torrential rain hammering against the shattered windshield. Pinned tightly between the deployed airbag and the twisted steering column on the Manhattan overpass, Genevra Jensen gasped for air. Ahead of her in the rain, the taillights of a red supercar flashed and sped away from the crash site. A tearing pain ripped through her lower abdomen. Warm blood soaked through her coat. Blood slid down her light brown hair to the corner of her eye. The calloused outer edge of her right index finger—formed from years of typing code—turned white as she gripped the phone. Five years ago, she had hidden her identity as the legendary programmer "Aro" to become Bryce's dutiful, secret wife and executive assistant. Now, she was bleeding out alone. Before she could say a word about the crash, a soft, tearful female voice echoed from Bryce's end of the line. "Bryce, my ankle hurts..." The call disconnected into a dead tone. Seconds later, passing emergency responders pried the crushed car door open with hydraulic tools. Freezing rain poured into the cabin. Genevra pressed her trembling hands over her barely visible baby bump, her voice barely a whisper as she begged the paramedics. "Save my baby... please, save the baby first." Twenty minutes later, a gurney raced through the emergency room lobby of NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital. The sharp smell of disinfectant filled her nose while a nurse shouted that they needed a family member's signature to authorize immediate surgery. Lying on the gurney in the hallway, Genevra heard an overhead paging announcement directing a special medical team to the top-floor VIP wing for Mr. Crosby's guest. Her chest tightened. She ripped the IV needle from the back of her hand, braced herself against the cold wall, and stumbled into the elevator up to the VIP floor. The elevator doors slid open. Dirk Castaneda, a slightly pudgy trust-fund heir with a dark rose tattoo on his neck who always trailed after Bryce, stepped sideways to block the corridor. He pressed his tongue against his back teeth and sneered. "Well, isn't this Mrs. Crosby? Drenched like a stray dog to check up on your husband?" Genevra ignored his mockery. Clutching her cramping stomach, she stepped around him. Her soaked cashmere coat dragged a dark red trail of blood across the polished marble floor. Dirk's expression shifted slightly at the sight of the blood, but he raised an arm wearing a luxury watch to block her again. "Bryce is inside comforting Aryanna right now. You're only going to embarrass yourself if you barge in." Genevra raised her eyes. Her gray-blue irises held zero warmth, her hoarse voice sharp. "Get out of my way." She shoved open the slightly ajar double wooden doors of the VIP suite. Warm air mixed with expensive perfume hit her face, clashing with the smell of blood on her clothes. In the center of the luxurious room, Aryanna Henderson—the celebrated Silicon Valley tech socialite with wavy blonde hair—sat on the hospital bed draped in Bryce's custom suit jacket, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. Standing beside the bed was Bryce. At six-foot-two in a black shirt, the head of the billionaire Crosby family held a glass of warm water, his gaze focused entirely on Aryanna. The dull thud of the door hitting the wall broke the quiet atmosphere. Bryce frowned sharply and turned around, his dark gray eyes turning icy. Seeing his blood-stained, disheveled wife, his first reaction was to step sideways to shield Aryanna's bed, pulling a custom silk handkerchief from his pocket to wipe a drop of water from his fingertips. "Who gave you permission to follow me here?" Bryce's voice was freezing, filled with disgust. "Aryanna was just in a serious car accident and is in shock. Do you really have to pick a time like this to throw a tantrum?" On the bed, Aryanna shrank back into the duvet, a flash of triumph crossing her ocean-blue eyes before she spoke in a pitiful tone. "Genevra, don't pit women against each other... Bryce was just passing by to check on me." Genevra bit down hard on her pale lower lip, her fingers digging into the wooden doorframe. "Aryanna is in shock? Was the red supercar that illegally changed lanes on the Fifth Avenue overpass and rammed my car into the guardrail also in shock?" Bryce's face darkened. Showing no concern for her injuries, he took two steps forward and looked down at her. "Enough. I lent her that car. The legal team and the insurance company will handle the liability. You don't need to use it as an excuse to make trouble here." A violent cramp suddenly seized Genevra's lower abdomen. Warm liquid completely soaked through the hem of her skirt. Her legs gave out, and she slid down the doorframe onto the floor. Bryce instinctively reached out a hand to catch her, but when his gaze hit the pool of blood on the floor, he froze. He pulled his hand back mid-air. "Playing the victim again?" He let out a cold laugh, adjusting his cuffs from above. "Genevra, resorting to tricks like this just to compete for my attention turns my stomach." Genevra raised her head. Her gray-blue pupils reflected the ruthless face of the man she had loved for five years. Every bit of warmth left in her chest turned to ice. She didn't shed a single tear. Pressing her blood-smeared right hand against the cold marble floor, she pushed herself back up and stood straight. "Bryce Crosby," she said, her voice completely flat. "From this second on, we are strictly business." Hearing her unusually calm tone, a strange irritation flickered in Bryce's chest. He tapped his index knuckle against the face of his wristwatch. "Suit yourself. Go to the legal department tomorrow and sign a written apology." Genevra braced a hand against the wall and turned around, walking out the door without looking back. Outside, Dirk stared at the blood pooling at her feet and opened his mouth to speak, but Genevra's freezing glare forced him half a step back. She stepped into the descending elevator alone. The moment the metal doors slid shut, her vision went black, and she collapsed unconscious onto the cold elevator floor.

When Genevra woke up, she was lying on a gurney inside a private OB-GYN clinic in Manhattan, transferred there after the hospital ER stabilized her initial shock. The glaring surgical light overhead stung her eyes, and a hollow, sinking sensation in her stomach made her chest tighten. A female doctor on duty handed a surgical consent form to her with a solemn expression. "Ms. Jensen, severe internal bleeding caused placental abruption. The male fetus of your twins no longer has a heartbeat. We must perform a dilation and curettage immediately." At the word "twins," Genevra's fingers shook violently. Tears finally spilled over the corners of her eyes in the empty corridor. "Doctor, can neither of them... be saved?" The doctor sighed and handed her a tissue, unaware of the tiny second gestational sac hidden deep behind the hematoma. "The impact was too severe. The male fetus absorbed most of the external trauma. We must operate now, or a severe uterine infection will threaten your life." Trembling, Genevra signed her own name under the line marked for patients without accompanying family. She was wheeled into the freezing operating room as anesthesia flowed slowly into her vein. Cold metal instruments clinked inside her body. Half-conscious, Genevra clenched her jaw tightly while the monotone beeping of the heart monitor echoed in her ears. Two hours later, the procedure ended. The doctor handed her a sealed, small medical metal box. "This contains the fetal tissue preserved according to your request. I am sorry for your loss." Genevra held the freezing metal box with both hands, pressing it tightly against her chest as silent tears soaked the collar of her hospital gown. Refusing the doctor's advice to stay for observation, she changed back into her blood-stained coat, placed the metal box deep inside her handbag, and walked out into the pouring rain to hail a yellow cab to the Crosby estate on Long Island. The cab passed through the wrought-iron gates and stopped in front of the brightly lit main mansion. Enduring the sharp contractions in her abdomen, Genevra stepped out of the car, her steps unsteady but her spine straight. She pushed open the heavy carved oak doors. The scent of expensive cigars and black tea filled the foyer. Sitting beneath the crystal chandelier was Elder Crosby, the patriarch of the Crosby family. The old butler took her wet coat with a cold expression, not even offering her a glass of warm water, his eyes full of contempt for a woman from a declining family. Elder Crosby sat on the high-backed leather sofa without lifting his eyelids, his fingers rubbing a solid gold pocket watch. "Barging into the main house reeking of blood. Did your manners go to the dogs?" Genevra lowered her eyes and pressed her lips together, hiding her handbag slightly behind her back. "I'm sorry. I had an accident on the road." "I heard you ran to the hospital tonight to cause a scene in Aryanna's ward and embarrassed Bryce in front of everyone?" Elder Crosby slammed his teacup onto the table with a sharp clatter. A dull ache pressed against Genevra's chest. She raised her gray-blue eyes to look directly at the old man. "Aryanna was driving recklessly and rammed my car." "Shut your mouth!" Elder Crosby snapped, his gaze sharp. "Aryanna is the heiress of the Henderson family and will expand our group's tech empire in Silicon Valley. You're a nobody who climbed into Bryce's bed using dirty tricks. What right do you have to compare yourself to her?" The servants standing around lowered their heads, smirking as they watched the show. The old butler stepped forward and tossed a thick book of family rules onto the coffee table. "By the master's rules, for talking back to your elders and causing trouble, go to the side hall and copy the family rules fifty times. No dinner tonight." Genevra looked at the gold-edged rulebook, a mocking smile curving her pale lips. "That won't be necessary," she said, taking a slow breath. "I won't copy it." Elder Crosby stood up abruptly, slamming his gold cane onto the Persian rug. "What did you say? Do you really think carrying a Crosby child gives you the right to rebel in this house?" Hearing the words "carrying a Crosby child," Genevra gripped her handbag until her knuckles turned white. To this family, she wasn't a legal wife; she was just a cheap breeding machine used to pass the family trust review. "You'll have to find someone else to fulfill the inheritance clauses of the trust fund." Genevra dropped the sentence coldly and turned toward the stairs leading to the second-floor guest rooms. "How dare you! Stop right there!" the butler shouted behind her. Genevra didn't pause, walking straight up the spiral staircase. She pushed open the door to her cold, empty side bedroom, locked it from the inside, and slid down against the wooden panel onto the carpet, hugging the metal box in her bag. Outside the window, lightning cut through the night sky. She reached over to the nightstand drawer, pulled out her black Moleskine notebook, flipped to a blank page, and wrote two phrases at the top in firm strokes: Divorce, Project Genesis.

As the first rays of morning sunlight pierced through the heavy curtains of the side bedroom, Genevra stood up from the carpet and changed into a black turtleneck sweater and jeans. Her face was pale, but her eyes were clear. Walking into the walk-in closet, she shoved aside the haute couture gowns and jewelry Bryce had bought for her, pulling a worn black backpack from a locked box at the bottom of the wardrobe. A sharp knock sounded at the door. The old butler spoke arrogantly from the hallway. "Madam, the Elder and Mr. Crosby are waiting for breakfast downstairs. You should be down making the black coffee and hand-milled oatmeal." Genevra zipped up her backpack, walked to the door, and pulled it open. She looked coldly at the startled butler. "Starting today, have the paid housekeeping staff handle the chores at the Crosby estate." The butler's face turned livid, his mouth twitching as he prepared to lecture her, but the sharp intensity in Genevra's eyes made him step back. Genevra brushed past him and walked toward the small study at the end of the hall. Passing a trash can, she pulled the estate manager's keyring from around her neck and dropped it inside with a metallic clatter. She entered the guest study, locked the door, and pulled an unbranded, dark gray military-grade encrypted laptop from the inner compartment of her backpack. The screen booted into a black command-line terminal. Genevra's calloused fingers typed a thirty-two-digit dynamic key. A blue glow lit up the monitor, opening a classified communication channel under the codename "Aro." In the bottom right corner, unread messages flashed from Ezra Levy, the top venture capital mogul on Wall Street and her fellow disciple under the national engineering titan, Professor Hughes Preston. She put on noise-canceling headphones and hit Enter to connect the encrypted voice call. A low, refined male voice filled with protective warmth came through immediately. "Aro? You're finally online." "Ezra, it's me," Genevra said softly, her tone calm. On the other end of the line, Ezra pushed back from his mahogany desk, his dark green eyes widening behind his silver-rimmed glasses. "Five years. You disappeared for five whole years for that loveless marriage. The Professor and I thought you gave up coding for good!" "I'm awake now," Genevra said, glancing down at the callus on her right index finger. "The Crosby family isn't worth wasting another second of my intellectual assets." Ezra let out a sharp, satisfied laugh. "About time! The Professor just secured the lead contract for the Department of Defense's classified aerospace project, 'Project Genesis.' The core algorithm architecture is in a deadlock. Only your neural model in the entire country can break it." "I'll take it," Genevra replied without hesitation, her fingers already flying across the keyboard. "But I need a completely clean, independent identity and full legal isolation from the Crosby Group." "Leave everything to me," Ezra said firmly. "Your position as the second-largest voting shareholder of NexaCorp has been kept warm for you. Wall Street's highest-level NDA will be in your hands tomorrow." Genevra pulled up an unfinished orbital deduction base code from five years ago. Complex matrix formulas reconstructed rapidly across the screen. In just ten minutes, she corrected the core orbital perturbation parameters that had stumped a team of top national academicians for three months, encrypting and sending the package to Ezra's terminal. A sharp intake of breath came through the headphones, followed by the snap of a folder closing. "God... your calculation speed is even faster than five years ago. That fraud Aryanna stole the scrap model you threw away at seventeen to parade around as a tech goddess. It's an insult to science." "She's just a clown. Ignore her for now," Genevra said, closing the laptop screen. "In three days, at the closed-door session of the Wall Street Tech Summit, I'll officially sign the onboarding agreement." After cutting the encrypted call, she packed the computer into her backpack and glanced in the full-length mirror. The submissive, eager-to-please posture of the past five years was gone. Downstairs, the low roar of a Maybach engine echoed, followed by a heavy door slam and brisk footsteps across the marble foyer. Genevra unlocked the study door, slung the backpack over her shoulder, and walked down the spiral staircase. At the bottom, she came face-to-face with Bryce, who had just returned from the hospital wearing last night's custom suit, his tie slightly loosened. Seeing his wife dressed in black with an old backpack heading for the front door, Bryce's dark gray pupils contracted. "Where do you think you're going dressed like that?" Bryce strode forward and grabbed her wrist tightly. "Wasn't last night's farce enough for you?" Genevra yanked her wrist out of his grip without changing her expression, her gaze level with his chest. "To resign from the company, and to have a lawyer draft our divorce agreement." Bryce let out a cold, arrogant laugh. "Divorce? Genevra, with your pathetic family background and an executive assistant's salary, you couldn't even afford to rent a studio apartment in Manhattan without the Crosby family." Standing nearby, the butler and maids exchanged mocking smiles, watching the delusional soon-to-be ex-wife. Genevra didn't even bother looking up at him. She stepped sideways, pulled open the heavy oak door, and walked out into the morning light. "That's none of your business, Mr. Crosby."