The Beneficiary Name Was His Childhood Sweetheart

The only condition I set for marrying Harrison Locke, the heir to the Locke Group empire, was that he buy my mother a seven-figure life insurance policy. Beyond that single term, he insisted on keeping our finances strictly split the bill —a bizarre, non-negotiable stipulation for a man with his staggering wealth. We were an agreement, not a couple. We clicked, precisely because we never crossed the line into emotional entanglement. That is, until my mother had a devastating car accident during a torrential storm, and I desperately needed the emergency funds. I worked up the nerve to go to Harry’s office to beg for a loan, but he slammed his hand down on the table, the sound echoing through his pristine executive suite. “Hundreds of thousands, just like that? My money doesn’t just appear out of thin air, Scarlett. We agreed: it’s strictly AA!” Defeated, I raced to the insurance company, only for the representative to inform me, without mercy: “The policy is indeed your mother’s, Mrs. Locke, but she is not the beneficiary.” A cold dread prickled my skin, and I frowned in confusion. I had been there. I’d watched my mother sign the papers myself! The staff member tapped a polished nail against the policy’s beneficiary line. The recipient of the multi-million-dollar payout was clearly listed as Genevieve White.

1 I didn’t even have time to process the shock before the five million dollars in the account was swiftly drained to zero. My final shard of hope was extinguished. I went back to Harry’s company. He was engrossed in a meeting, not even lifting his head. “I forgot to ask earlier,” he said, his voice flat. “What exactly did you need to borrow money for?” Twenty minutes earlier, the hospital had called. My mother was gone. If I had just gotten that insurance money. If his precious childhood sweetheart hadn’t swooped in to empty the account to fund her extravagant shopping spree. Maybe things would have been different. My entire body trembled, and every breath tore through my chest. “Harrison,” I choked out. “We’re getting a divorce.” The words finally got his attention. He looked up, a momentary flicker of surprise in his icy eyes. Meeting his confused gaze, I placed the insurance policy statement squarely on his mahogany desk. A shadow of guilt crossed his face, but he wouldn’t look directly at me. “They must have made a clerical error. Is this really worth threatening divorce over?” I let out a desperate, bitter laugh. He was lying. I’d heard the exchange myself at the insurance company just moments before. The manager had called him. “Mr. Locke, your wife showed up trying to claim the funds. Thankfully, I stalled her in time. Ms. White just completed the transfer.” Harry’s voice, cold and dismissive, had crackled through the phone. “Well done.” “I told you her family were grifters. First, they strong-armed my parents into pushing Scarlett onto me, and now her mother tries to pull an insurance scam. What’s the difference between her and some back-alley fraudster?” “I’m glad I had foresight. I promised Gigi—no matter who I married, my money would only ever go to her.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. I was merely an obligation forced upon him, and my mother was a “scam artist.” This was why, for years, he had guarded his wealth from me like a thief. I would cook a meticulously planned, romantic candlelit dinner, only to have him insist on splitting the bill for the ingredients at the end of the meal. Meanwhile, Genevieve White—Gigi—could casually use his unlimited black card, and I never saw him question a single charge. Suddenly, a wailing sob broke the brittle silence. “Please, don’t fight over me! I shouldn’t have spent your money, Harry. Mrs. Locke, I’ll return everything right now.” Gigi began dramatically ripping off her designer bags and shedding layers of jewelry. A sharp edge of a diamond bracelet grazed my cheek, and a thin line of blood traced its path down my face. Harry didn’t even flinch. He glared down at me, anger radiating off him. “Gigi can spend my money however she likes! I earned it running my company; it has absolutely nothing to do with you!” he roared. “And for God’s sake, there are countless old women trying to pull these stunts. You should check the facts before you come here crying!” He flung the words at me, then spun on his heel, ushering a tearful Gigi into a nearby changing room. The physical sting of the cut on my face was a fraction of the agony in my chest. I withdrew my gaze, picking up my phone and dialing the single hidden contact: Connor. “Help me get out of this,” I whispered into the phone. “I’m ready to fulfill our five-year agreement.”

2 I spent three days weeping through my mother’s memorial service. Harrison spent those same three days commissioning an extravagant, top-tier fireworks display to cheer Gigi up. I posted my grief, a raw, endless stream of memories and pain, on my private social media. He never once looked at it. I used to be like any girl, begging him to just hit ‘like’ on a photo. The response was always a cold, sharp sarcasm. “My time is valuable, Scarlett. It supports an entire company and the Locke name. Can you split the bill for that minute?” Just like when I had swallowed my pride and begged for a loan for my mother’s medical care. I wanted to tell him the terrifying reality of the situation, but his face was an impenetrable mask of annoyance. “Hundreds of thousands, just like that? My money doesn’t just appear out of thin air, Scarlett. We agreed: it’s strictly splitting the bill!” When I tried to speak again, Gigi stepped in, playing the perfect diplomat. “Mrs. Locke, you don’t need an excuse to buy designer bags, but ladies of our stature need to develop good habits! Harry is just looking out for you.” Hearing that, Harry had immediately looked at me with a flash of undisguised disgust, seeing only a greedy social climber. “Stop talking. I have a meeting in five minutes.” That was the moment I ran, grabbing for the final straw—the insurance company. I discovered it was a mere shroud, concealing the ugliest, most rotten part of our marriage. An inexpressible, suffocating ache lodged in my throat. Exhausted, I dragged myself back to the house. Harry had a housekeeper bring me a glass of milk. It was his pathetic attempt at an olive branch. Harry sighed, an air of put-upon martyrdom around him. “Did you really have to disappear for three days over a few hundred thousand? When did you get so childish?” “I finally managed to calm Gigi down. Don’t start another scene.” Holding the warm glass, a wave of coldness washed over my soul. My father had been Harry’s father’s driver. He’d been mortally wounded during an unexpected work accident. On his deathbed, my father entrusted me to the Lockes. I agreed to the marriage, honoring his last wish and sacrificing the path I had already been on. We went from initial sharp-tongued rivalry to what everyone assumed was a slow, enviable development of love. No one knew the truth. Aside from that one insurance policy for my mother, I had never once been interested in Harry’s vast fortune. It wasn’t until Gigi permanently returned to our lives that I truly understood my negligible value to him. If even a single insurance policy—my sole request—was a lie, then what about the rest? What was real? I was too tired to fight. I placed the milk down, the glass clicking softly on the marble counter. “She’d be much happier if you divorced me.” The next second, Harry exploded, slamming his fist on the table, his face a mask of fury. “Scarlett Reed! Your father’s remains had nowhere to go, and I built him a private memorial garden! Your mother was in and out of the hospital, and who do you think was discreetly footing the bills? I haven’t even confronted you about her insurance fraud yet!” “Scarlett, are you brave enough to actually leave?” My heart gave a heavy, painful lurch, and I finally forced myself to tell him the truth. “She’s already…” Before I could finish, his phone shrilled. Gigi’s sickly sweet voice, full of artificial concern, spilled from the speaker. I couldn’t bear to hear it. I turned and retreated to the bedroom to pack my things. That’s when an anonymous number sent two texts: [Harry was desperate to keep me from leaving the country after our last fight. He grabbed the steering wheel from your father, which is why he crashed.] [Why else would anyone build a mausoleum for a low-life driver, or marry a low-born woman like you?] 3 My body froze, my mind a terrible, echoing void. My father’s death was not an accident. It was the collateral damage of their selfish, reckless game. The door swung open behind me. Harry stood in the doorway. I stared into his eyes, my voice a broken rasp. “Did my father’s death have something to do with you?” A tiny, foolish piece of me still hoped. Maybe the text was a cruel prank. Maybe he wasn’t capable of such callousness. But the words he spoke next shattered that last fragile hope. “It was just a fluke accident. I paid a massive settlement, and he’s at peace now.” Boom. The sound was internal, the total collapse of everything I had hoped for. His eyes held no panic, only a faint, condescending sense of beneficence. A simple settlement, casually trading away my father’s life… Harry spoke again, his voice layered with sharp warning. “Don’t you dare bother Gigi with this. Tomorrow is her birthday. Put on something festive.” The next day, running a high fever, I was hauled out like a puppet by Harry and brought to Gigi’s birthday gala. The hot-pink dress he’d chosen for me felt grotesque, a sartorial insult. Gigi, the picture of innocence, wore a breathtaking princess gown on stage while Harry serenaded her with a painfully sincere rendition of her favorite song. Envious murmurs floated around the room. “If Scarlett hadn’t elbowed her way in, those two would be the perfect power couple.” “It’s heartbreaking. Their childhood romance destroyed by a gold-digging interloper. Why is she wearing that grim expression today?” … My heart felt like it was being sliced apart as I listened, while Harry continued his passionate tribute on stage. Then, the massive screen behind him, which had been showing vintage photos, suddenly flickered to black. It came back online, displaying a sequence of Gigi’s private, intimate photos. A collective gasp swept through the crowd. Before anyone could react, Gigi started shrieking and lunged at me. “Mrs. Locke, what did I ever do to you? You’ve destroyed my reputation in all of Manhattan!” I stumbled backward, a bewildered knot forming in my brow. “What are you talking about—” The words died in my throat. She snatched a decorative blade from a table and quickly scored a tiny, theatrical line on her wrist. The scratch was barely three centimeters, yet Harry’s face crumpled in panic. When he looked at me, his eyes were full of icy disappointment. “Scarlett! I told you to leave Gigi alone! Why are you always stirring up drama?” “Apologize to her. Now.” I stood stubbornly still. “I didn’t do anything. I won’t apologize.” Gigi began to sob louder, dropping dramatically to her knees. “Mrs. Locke, I know you hate me. I’ll never bother Harry again. I’ll leave you both in peace!” With a flourish, she scrambled up, dragging her skirt behind her, and ran onto the balcony, a terrifying ten-story drop to the street below. “Gigi, stop! Don’t do anything rash! This isn’t your fault!” Harry was in utter turmoil. He violently grabbed my arm and forced my knees to the floor. I looked up into his crimson, terrified eyes. He ground out the words through clenched teeth. “Apologize. Right now.” “What if I don’t?” Seeing my rigid defiance, a dangerous darkness swirled in his eyes. He slowly pulled out his phone. “I think you remember exactly how you paid for your father’s funeral expenses. Do I need to refresh your memory?” 4 In that instant, my blood ran backward. The night my father died, I had been unable to secure the medical funds, knocking on every door. A low-end fixer—a nightclub owner—found me. His proposition was to talk and drink with his clients. When I refused, they broke my wrist and photographed my degradation. Harry, seeing the chaos, had intervened. He confiscated the pictures and saved me from that hell. I had been naive enough to see him as my savior, my hero. I was wrong. He’d kept the images—every last one—stored on his phone, ready to be weaponized. I stared at the screen, every cell in my body trembling uncontrollably. Harry’s gaze was soft, but his words were utterly venomous. “Don’t make me do this. Just apologize. It’s Gigi’s birthday.” He began to mouth a silent countdown. An overwhelming wave of pure degradation crashed over me. I forced myself to stand and walk to Gigi. “I’m trash. I spread your private photos. I am sorry.” I bowed deeply, a gesture of absolute surrender. Seeing this, Gigi finally smiled in triumph and stepped safely back onto the patio. “But… everyone saw my body. An apology won’t fix how hurt I am…” Harry lovingly tapped her nose. “What will make it better, my little birthday girl?” Gigi didn’t answer. She grabbed Harry’s phone and tapped furiously on the screen for a moment. The next second, the most explicit photo of me was projected onto the colossal screen. I was stripped, immobilized, with someone forcing liquor down my throat. The room erupted in vicious, sneering laughter. “I never thought the supposedly ice-cold Mrs. Locke was this kind of trash! Stripping for anyone, huh?” “Look at that figure! She must be a D-cup. Never could tell under all those clothes.” “I guess she came here tonight to give us a show! Maybe she’ll strip again, ha ha ha!” … Staring at the nightmare on the screen, my tears finally broke. That night was the trauma that I could never, ever forget! “Gigi, delete the photo now!” Harry hesitated for a brief, agonizing moment, then moved to protect Gigi. “She’s just being playful, Scarlett. Don’t make a scene. We’ll handle this after the party.” I lunged, trying to snatch the phone, but Harry shoved me back with brutal force. I lost my footing and tumbled backward, crashing down the ten-step staircase from the stage. In that single, shattering moment, it felt like my internal organs had ruptured. All I could do was watch the humiliating image cycle across the screen. Harry’s absolute indifference shattered the final fragments of my heart. I don’t know when the music stopped. I weakly opened my eyes. Gigi was standing over me, looking down with a vicious, triumphant smirk. “What are you doing…” She tossed the heavy, decorative candelabra in her hand onto the highly flammable stage decorations, watching the flames lick up the fabric. I dragged my useless legs, trying to crawl away. But a colossal decorative pillar, its base already engulfed in flames, swayed, then crashed down onto my body. Harrison, who had casually turned to leave the stage, caught the shockwave of the scene. His heart seized in a sudden, violent terror. “Scarlett is still in there!”