Claire’s POV
On the eve of Vanderbilt Corporation’s fifth anniversary, a grand gala was held at the Grand Liora Hotel’s ballroom. Annual bonuses were handed out in sleek white envelopes, accompanied by luxurious gifts as a token of appreciation for the employees' loyalty. The room was bursting with applause, laughter, and the dazzling glow of crystal chandeliers.
I stood at the very back of the crowd, silent behind the cheerful employees who cheered each time their names were called.
On stage, Avery—the CEO’s personal assistant—handed out envelopes to each employee with a wide smile and a friendly tone.
“Claire?” Her voice called me out. But her smile vanished in an instant, replaced by a flat, almost cruel expression.
I stepped forward slowly. She handed me an envelope—much thinner than the others.
My hand reached for it. I opened it carefully.
And in a blink, my world collapsed.
A termination letter.
“Is this a mistake?” I whispered, barely audible, my voice trembling as I stared at Avery in disbelief.
She looked at me coldly. A mocking smirk curled at the corner of her lips.
“This company doesn’t need filthy women like you.”
I turned, glancing around. The once-familiar faces were now filled with disgust, staring at me as if I carried some disease. Whispers spread through the crowd, echoing over the music that now sounded painfully off-key.
Then came the sound of polished shoes tapping against marble floors—measured, echoing.
Grant.
My husband.
The CEO of Vanderbilt Corp.
The same man who used to kiss my forehead every morning and say I was his luck. Now, he stood at the edge of the stage… frozen, unreadable.
“Grant…” I tried to reach him, touching the sleeve of his suit. But he pulled back—rejecting me.
“What’s going on? Why?” I asked, my voice almost inaudible.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled out a brown envelope and threw it at me.
Photos spilled out, fluttering to the ground like a storm of curses. One by one, they revealed their secrets.
Gasps spread around me.
There I was—in each photo. Holding luxury-brand shopping bags, hugging an older man. In one picture, I kissed him on the cheek. In another, we were walking hand-in-hand through the mall, too familiar… too intimate.
The man’s face was blurred. But mine was crystal clear.
“Grant…” I choked out. “It’s not what you think.”
He let out a bitter laugh. “I gave you everything, Claire. And this is how you repay me?” His voice rose. “You think I’d keep a whore in my company?”
I shook my head weakly. “Don’t call me that…”
His eyes burned with contempt. “I can’t risk this company’s name just because you’re my wife—or a so-called founding partner.”
That hurt more than anything. Because I was a founding partner. I had brought in the first investor, assembled the core team, and even contributed part of my own savings to keep the company afloat during a near-bankruptcy two years ago.
And now?
All erased. All discarded.
And it wasn’t over yet.
A woman from my department cried out, “She was supposed to be our role model! Turns out, she climbed to the top using filth!”
It stabbed me like a blade. I had begged management on my knees to protect their jobs. I had bled for them.
I straightened my spine. My voice quivered. “It’s not what it looks like. That man is a major client—he treats me like his own daughter.”
Avery chuckled beside me. Sweet, yet venomous. “Really? Is that how you make them happy? By satisfying them in bed, Mrs. Claire?”
My fists clenched. But I held back. I turned to Grant. Our eyes met. I still had hope.
“Grant…” I whispered. “You believe me, don’t you?”
His gaze was one I’d never seen before. Cold. Lifeless.
“Funny,” he said softly. “You really think everyone here is stupid enough to believe your pathetic excuse?”
Before I could respond, he played his final card.
A video.
He held his phone up and played the clip—casting it across the big screen for everyone to see.
In the footage, I was being carried into a hotel room by a man.
Once again, only my face—smiling playfully—was clearly visible. The man’s face remained out of frame.
I let out a weak chuckle. A misunderstanding, clearly. The older man was my father. The man in the video—my uncle.
It happened just a few days ago. I had twisted my ankle from wearing heels too high. I was about to call Grant for help, but my uncle—impatient as always—carried me in without a second thought.
But Avery struck first, crushing my truth before I could voice it.
“If the first man treated you like his daughter…” she smirked, “what’s the story this time? Is this one your uncle too? Or maybe your little brother?”
“Give us a real explanation for this crystal-clear video, Claire,” Grant added coldly.
I looked at him. My body trembled. My voice wouldn’t come.
“Whore!”
“Slut!”
“Get out before you taint the rest of us!”
Screams—spat from people I once protected—rained down on me.
A bottle struck my head. Blood trickled down my temple, staining my evening gown.
I looked at Grant.
He didn’t move. He didn’t flinch. Just stared—as if I were a stranger.
And then, I saw it.
Avery was watching him.
Grant was holding her hand. Tightly.
