Ch. Divorce My H 29 Divorce My H 29

“I think you’re mistaken. My name is Emily,” I said firmly, standing my ground. 

Preston Urie’s smirk didn’t falter. “Cut the act, Zoe. I know exactly who you are.” 

My heart sank, but I kept my face neutral. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

He leaned casually against the cabin wall, his sharp eyes locked on mine. “You can drop. the disguise. It’s useless. I own the agency that made you ‘vanish.” 

My stomach dropped. 

“So what?” I asked, crossing my arms. “Are you going to tell them I’m alive?” 

Preston chuckled, the sound low and almost mocking. “Not yet.” 

“Not yet?” I repeated, my voice rising. “What does that mean?” 

“It means I have a condition,” he said, his tone calm but firm. 

“What condition?” I asked warily. 

“I need a fake wife,” Preston said, his smirk returning. 

I blinked, caught off guard. “A fake wife?” 

“You heard me,” he said. “There are some… business dealings that require me to appear married. You’re already good at pretending, so why not put those skills to use?” 

I shook my head immediately. “No. Absolutely not.” 

I had spent five years in a loveless marriage, trapped in a web of lies and betrayal. I wasn’t about to sign up for another one, fake or not. 

“All I want is a peaceful life,” I said, my voice firm. “Away from Travis, away from everyone who hurt me. That doesn’t include playing house with you.” 

Preston shrugged, unfazed by my rejection. “Then I guess I’ll have to tell the world you’re 

alive.” 

My fists clenched. “Why are you doing this? What’s in it for you?” 

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Let’s just say I’ve got my reasons. But for now, let’s focus on getting you where you need to go. I’ll navigate the yacht for you.” 

“You’re kidding,” I said, narrowing my eyes. 

“Nope. This yacht is mine, and I’m the only one who knows how to pilot it,” he said with a smug grin. 

I stared at him, torn between disbelief and frustration. 

“Fine,” I said through gritted teeth. “But stay out of my way.” 

Preston simply shrugged, turning to leave the room. 

“Whatever you say, soon–to–be Mrs. Urie.” 

“As if.” 

I slammed the door to my cabin shut and leaned against it, my heart pounding in anger 

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and disbelief. I can’t believe Preston is here! 

I ripped off my disguise, tossing the wig and makeup wipes onto the vanity. It didn’t matter anymore. Preston already knew who I was. 

I turned on the television, needing a distraction, but the screen only made my mood worse. 

The news anchor was speaking in a serious tone, the headline flashing across the screen: Travis Harper claims foul play in Zoe Hart’s death. 

The footage cut to Travis, standing in front of a row of microphones, looking somber yet composed. 

“I refuse to believe my wife would take her own life,” he said, his voice steady but filled with emotion. “Zoe and I were deeply in love. We were building a family together.” 

I froze as he continued. 

“She was pregnant with our child,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “We were planning our future. Someone out there is trying to ruin us, spreading lies about my wife and me. But I won’t rest until justice is served.” 

My hands tightened into fists as he went on. 

“I am more than willing to cooperate with the investigation,” he said. “There’s no truth to the allegations about Zoe’s mother or about Madison Moon. These are malicious rumors. All I want is to find the person responsible and make them pay.” 

I turned off the television, disgusted by his performance. 

“Liar,” I muttered, pacing the room. “You’ll never admit the truth, will you?” 

But I wasn’t about to let him twist the narrative any further. 

I opened my laptop and created another dummy account. 

This time, I wasn’t posting photos or stirring up gossip. I sent a private message directly to 

Travis. 

The evidence I had collected about my mother’s operation–the agreements, the financial transactions, the hospital records–I attached them all. 

I know what you did, Travis. I know everything. 

His reply came within minutes. 

Who is this? What do you want? 

I smirked, typing my response. Money. A lot of it. 

He hesitated, then replied again. How much? 

I leaned back in my chair, a plan forming in my mind. 

Enough to ruin you, I typed. 

Travis would give me the money. He wouldn’t have a choice. And when he did, I’d make sure he had nothing left–not his fortune, not his reputation, nothing. 

The yacht lurched slightly, and I felt the engines hum to life. Preston was already navigating, steering us away from the port. 

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I closed my laptop and stared out the window at the open water. 

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