Never Forgive: His Betrayal, Her Justice

My father died because a drunk socialite, Kenya Cline, blocked the ambulance carrying him to the hospital. She laughed while filming the chaos for her followers.

When I tried to bring her to justice, my husband, Cornell, drugged me and deleted the video evidence from my phone. Just because Kenya Cline is the daughter of his primary investor.

He let her move into our house, where she mocked my father's death. He held me down while she poured scalding coffee on my neck.

"An eye for an eye," he said calmly.

At Kenya's birthday party, they framed me for stealing a necklace and forced me to walk across burning coals to prove my innocence.

The final straw came when Cornell had my father's body thrown into the ocean, just to protect the killer, Kenya Cline.

He thought he had broken me. But my father, a cautious lawyer, had left me two gifts: an ironclad post-nuptial agreement that entitled me to half of Cornell's billion-dollar empire, and a secret, encrypted copy of the video he thought he'd erased. He had no idea he hadn't just destroyed his wife; he had created his executioner.

Chapter 1

The phone rang, a shrill, ugly sound that cut through the quiet of the apartment. Chloe Welch looked up from her canvas, a streak of cerulean blue on her cheek. It was the hospital.

"Is this Chloe Welch?" a rushed voice asked.

"Yes," Chloe said, her heart starting to pound.

"Your father, Arthur Campbell, was in an accident. He's at New York General. You need to come immediately."

The world tilted. Chloe dropped the phone and scrambled for her keys, her mind a blank wall of panic. She called her husband, Cornell Welch, but his voice was such a cold and unconcern baritone on the other end.

"Cornell, it's Dad. There was an accident. I'm on my way to the hospital."

"I'll meet you there," he said instantly. "I'm leaving the office now. Don't worry, Chloe. It will be okay."

His words set my mind at rest, but the drive through Manhattan traffic was a special kind of hell. Every red light, every honking taxi felt like a heavy blow. She finally broke free onto a clearer stretch of road, only to see flashing lights ahead. A cherry-red sports car was parked sideways, completely blocking the two-lane street.

An ambulance was stuck behind it, its siren wailing helplessly.

Chloe slammed on her horn. A young woman with platinum blonde hair and a glittering dress leaned out of the sports car's window. She laughed, holding up her phone to film the chaos.

"Look at them," she giggled to someone in the car with her. "So desperate."

It was Kenya Cline. An influencer, a socialite, and the daughter of Cornell's main investor. Chloe knew her. She was a permanent fixture in their lives, a spoiled brat who had never faced a single consequence.

"Move your car!" Chloe screamed, leaning out her own window. "You're blocking an ambulance!"

Kenya glanced over, her eyes, hazy with alcohol, showing a flicker of recognition. A smirk played on her lips. "Make me," she mouthed, then turned back to her phone.

Furiously, Chloe laid on her horn, outing a solid, unending blast. Other drivers joined in, a chorus of rage against the entitled girl in the red car. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a police car arrived. The officer forced a giggling, stumbling Kenya to move her vehicle.

The ambulance shrieked past. Chloe followed, her hands shaking so hard she could barely grip the steering wheel.

She found Cornell in the emergency room waiting area, his handsome face etched with concern. He wrapped his arms around her.

"Any news?" he asked.

"No," she whispered, burying her face in his chest. For a moment, she felt safe. Cornell was a tech billionaire, a man who moved mountains. He could fix this. He could fix anything.

A doctor finally came out, his face grim. "Ms. Campbell?"

Chloe's blood ran cold.

"We did everything we could," the doctor said, his voice gentle. "Your father suffered a major cardiac event. The delay in his arrival... it was critical. I'm so sorry. We lost him."

The words didn't make sense. Lost him. A simple phrase that shattered her entire world. Her knees gave out, and Cornell caught her, holding her up as a wave of blackness threatened to pull her under. Her father, her only parent, the quiet, steady lawyer who had raised her on his own, was gone.

And it wasn't just an accident. He could have been saved.

Grief quickly hardened into a cold, hard knot of anger in her chest. She had seen the person responsible. She had seen Kenya Cline, drunk and laughing, as she held her father's life in her hands and threw it away like trash.

The next day, Chloe went to the police. She gave a statement, her voice shaking but clear. She described Kenya's car, her drunken state, the way she deliberately blocked the ambulance. She had the license plate number memorized.

"We'll look into it, ma'am," the detective said.

Chloe waited. A day passed. Then two. She called the station. The detective was evasive.

Finally, a week after her father's death, there was a break in the case. An arrest was made. But it wasn't Kenya Cline. It was her personal driver, a man in his fifties with a tired, defeated face, who confessed to everything. He claimed he had taken the car without permission for a joyride.

It was a lie. A blatant, insulting lie. Chloe had seen Kenya with her own eyes.

She had been meticulous. Stuck in traffic behind the ambulance, she had taken a video on her phone. It was shaky, filmed through her windshield, but it was clear enough. It showed Kenya's face, laughing in the driver's seat. It showed the time stamp. It was irrefutable proof.

She prepared a folder for the district attorney, printing out stills from the video, writing a detailed timeline. This was what her father, a lawyer, would have done. Be methodical. Be prepared.

That night, she confronted Cornell in his home office, the sleek, minimalist space that overlooked Central Park. The folder of evidence was clutched in her hand.

"They arrested a scapegoat," Chloe said, her voice flat.

Cornell looked up from his laptop, his expression unreadable. "I heard. It's a complicated situation, Chloe."

"It's not complicated," she snapped. "Kenya Cline killed my father, and her family is paying someone to take the fall. We have to show the DA my video."

Cornell stood up and walked around the desk. He was a tall man, charismatic and powerful, used to commanding every room he entered. He reached for her, but she flinched away.

His face tightened almost imperceptibly. "Chloe, we have to be sensible about this."

"Sensible? What's more sensible than the real truth?"

He sighed, like a patient husband dealing with an emotional wife. It was a look she was starting to hate. "Kenya's father, Douglass, is my primary investor. The Cline family and the Welch family have relationship for generations. Our new merger... it's worth billions. It secures our future. Your future."

Chloe stared at him, a horrifying suspicion dawning. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, " Douglass is taking care of it. He feels terrible about what happened. He's ensured the driver will be compensated. The man's family will be set for life."

The breath left her lungs. "Compensated? My father is dead, Cornell. Dead. And you're talking about money?"

"It was a tragic, regrettable accident," he said, his words precise and cold. "Kenya was foolish. She's being punished."

"Punished? How? By getting a new car?"

"This isn't helping, Chloe. You're being hysterical."

The word hit her like a slap. Hysterical. The classic dismissal. She felt a tremor of pure rage. "I am not being hysterical. I am grieving. And I want justice for my father."

"Justice is being served."

"No! A lie is being served! And you... you're helping them. You're choosing your business deal over my father's life."

"That's unfair," he said, his tone hardening. "I am protecting our family. Our legacy. What's done is done. We can't bring him back, but we can secure our lives."

Chloe felt a profound, soul-crushing disappointment. This man, who she had loved, who she had put her own artistic career on hold for, was a stranger. He saw her grief as an inconvenience, a problem to be managed.

"I have the video, Cornell," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "I will take it to the DA myself."

His eyes went cold. For the first time, she saw the narcissist behind the charming mask, the man obsessed only with power and his public image.

"Don't be a fool, Chloe."

"Give me a reason why I shouldn't."

He didn't answer. He just walked to the bar cart and poured two glasses of whiskey. He handed one to her. "Drink this. It will help you calm down."

Her hand was shaking. She looked at the amber liquid, then back at his face. She saw no love there. No shared grief. Only calculation.

"We'll get through this," he said softly, his voice once again the smooth, comforting tone she knew so well. It was a performance. "Tomorrow, we'll talk about setting up a charitable foundation in Arthur's name. A big one. It will be a wonderful way to honor his memory."

Chloe felt sick. Honor his memory? By burying the truth of his death under a pile of money?

She felt a sudden, overwhelming wave of dizziness. The room spun. She put her hand on the desk to steady herself. She had barely taken two sips of the whiskey.

"Cornell..." she slurred, her tongue feeling thick. "What was in...?"

His face swam before her. She saw him pick up her phone from the desk, his thumb moving expertly across the screen.

"Just a little something to help you sleep," she heard him say, his voice seeming to come from a great distance. "You've been under so much stress. You need to rest."

The last thing she saw before the darkness consumed her was her phone, now in his hand, and the evidence folder she had so carefully prepared.

When she woke up, a splitting headache pounded behind her eyes. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows. She was in their bed, still in yesterday's clothes.

Her phone was on the nightstand. She snatched it, her heart hammering against her ribs. She went to her photo gallery. The video of Kenya Cline was gone. She checked her recently deleted folder. Empty. She checked her cloud backup. Nothing.

He had wiped it. All of it.

She frantically looked for the paper folder. It was gone too.

He had drugged her. He had drugged his own wife to destroy the evidence that would bring her father's killer to justice. All for a business deal.

The man she married didn't just choose profit over her grief. He had actively, cruelly, and methodically conspired against her. He had participated in the cover-up. He was an accomplice.

The love she'd felt for him curdled into something cold and dead. In its place, something new and terrible began to grow. It was a quiet, methodical resolve. He thought he had broken her. He had no idea what he had just created.

Her father, the cautious lawyer, had always been wary of Cornell's immense power and wealth. Years ago, shortly after their wedding, he had sat her down. "Chloe, I love that you're happy," he'd said, "but men like Cornell... they see the world differently. I want you to be protected."

He had made her sign a post-nuptial agreement. It was ironclad, drafted by his own hand. At the time, Chloe had thought it was morbid, unnecessary. She loved Cornell. He loved her.

Now, it was her key. It was her escape. And it would be the seed of her revenge.

She laid back on the pillows, the silken sheets feeling like a cage. She closed her eyes and let the tears of grief and betrayal finally fall. But they were not tears of defeat. They were a promise. A promise to her father.

Cornell Welch and Kenya Cline would pay. She would burn their empires to the ground. She would make them pay for what they did, not with money, but with their freedom, their reputations, their entire world. And she would do it all with a smile on her face. The war had just begun.