After calmly organizing her thoughts, she arrived at two firm realizations.
She had been reincarnated—Hedy Everett was now Irene Morgan.
The previous soul in this body had been a foolish girl hopelessly obsessed with Lennon.
Her mother had passed away after falling ill, and her father was nothing more than a cowardly, broken man.
A knock at the door startled her from her reflection.
A cool, detached voice came from the other side.
"May I come in?"
Quickly, she rolled up the oversized pant legs and rushed to open the door.
Standing there was a tall, stoic man holding a stack of documents.
"Ivan."
Her mind dug through inherited memories, and the name surfaced clearly.
Expressionless, Ivan Chavez extended the paperwork and a pen toward her.
"Mr. Marshall instructed me to deliver the divorce documents. Once you sign, I'm to escort you out."
She scanned the paperwork briefly, recalling the butler's earlier words.
Today marked the second anniversary of Lennon and Irene's marriage—and its official end.
Had he drafted this agreement in under an hour? His hatred must run deep.
Without hesitation, she flipped through the pages, signing "Irene Morgan" cleanly where needed.
In under half a minute, she was done.
"Here," she said, handing everything back to Ivan and clicking the pen shut.
He looked at her, eyes wide with disbelief. He clearly hadn't expected this to go so smoothly.
Lennon had told him she would resist, maybe even force would be necessary.
"You're not going to read it?" Ivan asked, still holding back from accepting the papers.
Irene raised an eyebrow, her tone flat. "No."
"Aren't you the least bit interested in what you're walking away with?"
His frown deepened, puzzled by her indifference.
Hitching up her pants, she offered him a calm smile.
"There are only two possibilities. Either I'm left with debt—or with nothing. I assume Lennon's legal team tailored this deal perfectly in his favor."
Ivan's expression darkened. He finally took the papers from her hands.
"Mr. Marshall simply doesn't want you leaving with any part of his wealth."
"Be sure to thank him for me," she replied coolly.
None of it mattered to her. It was the previous Irene who had pined after Lennon—not her.
She didn't care whether he lived or died. She had no desire to stay married to a man who could try to strangle his own wife.
This life was a second chance—and she was determined to make it count.
Ivan's eyes flicked to the bruises on her neck.
"Shall I call a doctor?"
She blinked, then remembered the marks. Reaching up, she brushed her fingers over the tender skin.
The memory of suffocating gripped her, and she gave her head a shake to clear it.
"No, that's not necessary. I'll be fine," she replied, brushing it off.
"Then you should get your belongings," Ivan said, back to his usual curt tone.
She nodded and stepped out of Lennon's room barefoot, tugging at the waistband of her borrowed pants.
Her own bedroom was on the far side of the mansion.
Lennon had wanted to avoid crossing paths with her so badly, he had her moved as far away as possible.
It took nearly two minutes to reach it.
The room had once been a storage closet, converted shortly after their wedding into her living quarters.
Irene slipped through the narrow doorway with ease.
It was a cramped space—just a bed and a dressing table squeezed so tightly there was barely room to move.
She didn't have much to pack. A few scattered cosmetics, some clothing—that was all.
She changed into her own clothes and stuffed the rest into a suitcase.
"All done. I'm off. Hopefully, we never cross paths again, Ivan. Goodbye!" she called out with casual confidence, dragging her suitcase behind her across the marble hallway.
Just then, the elevator doors slid open with a soft ding.
A sharply dressed woman in a business suit stepped out, heels tapping against the floor with brisk authority.
"Irene, just where do you think you're going?"
The voice was cold, clipped, and unmistakable.
Irene paused, eyes narrowing as she recognized the speaker.
"Alice?"
Alice Jenkins. Her half-sister—and a master manipulator with a forked tongue.