Dear Ex-Husband, Stop Begging Me!

I made my boyfriend Charles. I was the silent force behind his company, now the country’s number one architecture firm.

I had just closed a billion-dollar deal, and I was expecting a proposal on the night of the celebration after seeing a receipt of a diamond ring in his pocket.

I couldn’t contain my excitement as the lights dimmed, the spotlight hit the stage, and they called me. Applause thundered. I squeezed Charles’s hand one last time and walked up the steps.

I stood at the podium, blindingly happy.

"Thank you," I said into the microphone. "This project is built on trust. On integrity. On a vision that..."

Behind me, the massive LED screen flickered to life. It was supposed to show the renderings of the skyline. Instead, a collective gasp ripped through the room.

I turned around. My blood froze.

On the screen, looming twenty feet high, a slideshow of filth began to play. It wasn't just one photo; it was a montage. Me, entering the Ritz elevator with the CEO of Al-Fayed. Me, adjusting my dress while leaving a suite at the Four Seasons with the head of Urban Planning. Timestamps flashed in the corner like a police evidence log, painting a picture of a woman who didn't close deals with her brain, but on her knees.

Then, the audio tore through the speakers, booming off the ballroom walls.

"I’ll do whatever it takes to get this signature. My body is part of the package. Just tell me what you want."

It was my voice. But it was spliced, chopped, and rearranged from innocent conversations about architectural models and site visits into a grotesque confession of prostitution.

"What is this?" I whispered, backing away from the screen as the crowd erupted into gasps and jeers. "This isn't real!"

"Nadine?"

Charles’s voice cut through the chaos like a whip. He was standing at the foot of the stage, the spotlight catching the tears already streaming down his face. He didn't look like my partner. He looked like a man whose soul had just been crushed.

"Is this how you did it?" he shouted, his voice trembling with theatrical devastation. "Is this how you got the contracts? With them?"

"Charles, no," I pleaded, the microphone picking up my trembling voice. "This is fake. You know this is fake!"

"How could you?" Charles shouted, his voice cracking with theatrical grief. He stormed up the stairs, grabbing the microphone from my hand. "I trusted you! I gave you everything! And you... you prostituted yourself for a contract?"

"No!" I screamed, reaching for him. "Charles, stop! You know I didn't—"

"Don't touch me!" he recoiled as if I were contagious. He turned to the crowd, his eyes wet with fake tears. "I had no idea. I am horrified. Sterling Architecture does not condone this filth."

He turned back to me, his eyes cold and dead. "You’re fired, Nadine. Get out. You’ve humiliated me enough."

"Charles, please," I sobbed, the room spinning. The flashes of cameras were blinding me.

The floor seemed to tilt. The faces in the crowd—people I had worked with, laughed with—were sneering at me. The betrayal hit me physically, a punch to the gut that sucked the air from my lungs.

Black spots danced in my vision. My knees gave out. The last thing I saw was Charles turning his back on me to apologize to the investors.

When I woke up, I was in a hospital room.

"Ms. Ross? You fainted from extreme stress," the doctor said. "Your blood pressure spiked dangerously high. You need to be careful, Ms. Ross. It’s not just you anymore."

I froze. "What?"

"You're pregnant," he said flatly. "About six weeks."

The world stopped. Pregnant.

I instinctively touched my stomach. A baby. Charles’s baby.

Hope, fragile and desperate, bloomed in my chest. This changed everything. He was angry, yes. He thought I had cheated. But if he knew... if he knew we were having a family, he would listen. He would look at the evidence. He would see it was a setup.

I fumbled for my phone on the bedside table. My hands were shaking so hard I dropped it twice. I dialed Charles.

It rang once. Twice.

"Hello?"

"Elaine?" I asked, confused. Elaine was his executive assistant. "Why do you have Charles’s phone? Put him on. It’s an emergency."

"Oh, Nadine," Elaine purred. "He’s a little busy right now. He’s in the shower.”

"What are you talking about?" I snapped, panic rising. "Put him on!"

"He doesn't want to talk to you," she said, her voice dripping with venom. "You’re finished, Nadine. The board is already drafting the press release. You’re the corporate whore who nearly ruined the firm. Goodbye."

The line went dead.

I ripped the IV out of my arm. Blood trickled down my wrist, but I didn't care. I had to get to him. I had to tell him about the baby.

I stumbled out of the hospital, ignoring the nurses calling after me. I hailed a cab, still wearing my ruined emerald gown, and gave the address of the penthouse Charles and I shared.

The door to the master bedroom was ajar.

"God, you were amazing tonight," Charles’s voice drifted out.

"I told you the video would work," Elaine’s voice purred. "Did you see her face? She actually thought you were heartbroken."

I froze, my hand hovering over the door handle.

"It was perfect," Charles chuckled, the sound of ice clinking in a glass following. "The board ate it up. They’re already talking about scrubbing her name from the company history. Sterling Architecture is finally mine, free and clear."

"So," Elaine giggled, "are you going to dump her officially?"

"Not yet," Charles said, his voice dropping to a sinister, predatory low. "Why rush? She’s desperate now. Broken. I bet she’ll come crawling back, begging for forgiveness. We can still have some fun with her. Besides, she’s still the best architect I know. Maybe I’ll hire her back as a freelancer... for minimum wage. Keep her under my thumb a little longer… while we’re together."