Chapter 9%
My hand paused on the seatbelt buckle, and finally, the tears began to fall.
“Baby, Mommy will get you something even better.”
Paul had been kneeling at the gate of my villa for three days straight.
“Wife!” His voice was hoarse from screaming. “I know I was wrong!“}
I stood behind the floor–to–ceiling windows, staring at his pitiful figure in silence.
Once upon a time, I might’ve opened the door without hesitation. But now? All I felt was a cold, nauseating disgust.” Sharing this rotten cucumber of a man with other women for so many years, what could be more pathetic?}}
I picked up the phone and dialed the security desk. “Please remove the gentleman outside.“}
Then I turned away and headed back to my room. Just as I reached the door, my phone screen lit up.
A private investigator had sent the latest batch of photos.
Three hours ago, Paul had been caught in a nightclub VIP booth, passionately kissing a young model.
Later, he got cleverer. Switched tactics. Started putting on the “devoted husband” act.
The divorce ruling hadn’t yet been finalized, and while he still had access to some money, he began showering me with gifts.” Early the next morning, the front door was buried beneath a mountain of luxury boxes.
Hermès bags, Cartier bracelets, Van Cleef & Arpels necklaces. Every piece was something I had once casually said I liked. Right in the center sat a photo frame, our wedding portrait, smiling like strangers.
I picked up the phone and called property management. “Have all this junk cleared out. I don’t want a trace left behind.”}
بر
That afternoon, my daughter’s kindergarten teacher called. “Margot’s dad dropped off a cake. He said it’s for her birthday.”
I told the teacher to throw it away.
Paul called me right after. “Brie, you don’t have to forgive me, but I’m still Margot’s father!“}
I replied coolly, “Paul, listen carefully, her last name is Hathaway, not Chalamet.”
“You’ve got your precious sons, don’t you?”
“Stay out of my daughter’s life. Try again, and I’ll make you wish you were never born.“}]
When he realized he couldn’t use my daughter to guilt me, he switched tactics, playing the victim.
He stood outside my company building, holding an LED sign that read, [Please forgive me, wife.]}
He started showing up at restaurants I used to visit, playing the same piano piece, always the one from our wedding.
The most absurd part? He even fed the media a press release about “a wealthy couple rekindling after a brief rift.”
I had Legal send a cease–and–desist on the spot.
Then the real blow came from the private investigator. It turned out that Dakota was only the beginning.
Over the past five years, Paul had been using my money to fund at least six mistresses, scattered across three cities.
The most revolting part? He fed each one of them the same tired script. “My wife was arranged. There’s no love between us.“}
“I’ll divorce her and marry you, just give it time.”
“Here, take this secondary card. Spend whatever you want.”
And every single one of those cards was tied to my main account.
On the day the divorce ruling was finalized, Paul finally cracked.
He barged into my office, dragging his lawyer along.
“Brie, let’s talk about asset division.”}
“You sure you want to do that?”
I smiled calmly and motioned for the staff to begin the PowerPoint presentation that our legal team had prepared.
The first slide showed photos of Paul and Dakota playing lovers in the Maldives, an indulgent trip that cost five million.
aleyes, an
The second? A sleek, nine–million–dollar apartment he had gifted to the young model.
And the final slide froze on a clause circled in red, Clause 7 of our prenuptial agreement. “The cheating party leaves with nothing.“)
His lawyer didn’t say a word. He packed his briefcase and walked out.
One month later, Paul, now broke, was photographed drowning his misery in a bar.
The once high–flying President Chalamet had to run a tab just to afford a drink.
Not long after, the kindergarten’s surveillance video was anonymously leaked online.
At first, it only made rounds in private circles.}
