A dull blade sawed back and forth across my chest, each stroke stealing my breath.
Thirty years. Thirty years, and all I'd ever had was his body—never his heart.
I looked out at the guests below, their whispers rising like steam. Those eyes that once glittered with envy had transformed into something worse: pity. Curiosity. Each glance a needle finding its mark.
Slowly, I unpinned the corsage from my chest and placed it in his palm. When I spoke, my voice came out sharp enough to cut—a tone I'd never used with him before.
"Duke. I built half of EmpireStar Group with my own hands. You don't get to hand my shares to some bastard child."
"You want your little mistress to take what's mine? Then get out of my company first."
I didn't cling. Didn't cry. Didn't make a scene.
I was fifty-five years old. I knew what mattered now.
I turned and walked out of that banquet hall without looking back.
I didn't go home. Instead, I drove to a small cottage on the outskirts of the city—the place where I kept the ugliest secrets of my thirty-year marriage.
Evidence of Duke diverting my shares during the company's early days. Records of his backroom deals with key players over the years. Every gray-dollar transaction, documented down to the cent.
I'd kept it all as insurance. I never imagined I'd actually need to use it.
I pulled open the bottom drawer and tore the old share transfer agreements to shreds. Then I made a call.
An hour later, the information about Stacy arrived on my phone.
Duke had bought her a mansion overseas. Luxury cars. The works.
Nine years ago, they'd had a daughter together. Now Stacy was pregnant again—blood tests confirmed it would likely be a boy.
Over there, they called themselves husband and wife. The neighbors all addressed Stacy as "Mrs. Stephens."
Her social media was filled with hundreds of videos documenting their cozy little family life.
Duke—hair more silver than black now—beaming as he played with their child.
Duke teaching their daughter to write, his face split with joy.
Duke supporting a pregnant Stacy as they walked into an obstetrics clinic.
Every caption dripped with happiness. Daddy's teaching penmanship today! Family trip with our little one!
Ordinary photos. The kind any family might take.
They burned my eyes like acid.
So while I'd been pulling all-nighters reviewing proposals, haggling with executives over every fraction of a percentage point—my husband had been showering his mistress with my money.
And the girl I'd sponsored. The one I'd given $300,000 a year to fund her education. She'd repaid me by servicing my husband.
Even giving him the heirs she thought he deserved. One after another.
I forwarded everything to my private attorney with a single instruction:
"I want a divorce. Duke Stephens walks away with nothing and gets thrown out of the company."
It was late when we both arrived home.
Nearly sixty years old, both of us worn down by the day's chaos. Duke tossed his jacket aside and collapsed onto the sofa, rubbing his temples. Even exhausted, he maintained that cultured composure of his.
"Gertrude. You embarrassed yourself today. Storming off in front of all those guests."
I held back the bitterness, the rage churning in my stomach.
"What was I supposed to do? Stay and let everyone watch me be humiliated?"
"You've already moved your mistress into my life. Was there really any point continuing that anniversary farce?"
He frowned slightly, his tone almost bored.
"We've weathered thirty years of storms together. I thought you'd understand."
"We fought our way here through mockery and doubt. And now I'm nearly sixty with no heir of my own."
"Stacy is thirty-two years younger than me. Sweet. Considerate. She knows her position is... delicate. She's never once complained, never demanded anything. All she wants is to give us a worthy child—to repay our kindness." He spread his hands, the picture of reasonableness. "What has she done wrong?"
I kept my voice level. Barely.
"So that entitles you to hand her my company?"
