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?"

Perhaps Duke saw the sorrow pooling in my eyes. He sighed, his tone softening.

"Gertrude, I know I've wronged you. But I'm doing this for the child."

"Stacy's position is already... delicate. And she's pregnant. Without shares to her name, how is she supposed to hold her head up in high society? Our child would be whispered about too."

"Stacy and I have already discussed it. If you're willing, you can travel overseas—go wherever you like. If you'd rather stay with the company, we can arrange a quiet position for you. Something comfortable. You can retire in peace. We certainly won't leave you wanting for money. Just ask, and it's yours. We won't mistreat you."

"Haven't you noticed how smoothly business has been going these past six months? The master said it himself—Stacy's child is a lucky heir, destined to bring glory to the Stephens name."

I laughed. It tasted like vinegar.

A grown man believing this nonsense. A lucky heir?

Why not call it what it really was—a bastard born of betrayal. But of course, he'd spin it into something gilded.

And apparently, I now needed their permission to spend money I'd earned myself.

"Duke, don't you find this shameful? Since when do mistresses and gold-diggers get to strut in and steal the nest?"

"A lucky heir? As if the company was hemorrhaging money before this child existed?"

His expression darkened. Finally, the words spilled out.

"What would you know about it? You can't even bear children. If you could, do you think I would've let Stacy carry my heir?"

"We're doing this for your own good. Don't be ungrateful."

"Think it over carefully. If you can't come around... I have no problem replacing Mrs. Stephens."

The door slammed behind him.

I stared at the trembling frame, then crumpled onto the sofa.

I sat there, hollow, until dawn.

Early the next morning, Victor Whitney called.

"I studied all the materials last night, just as you requested."

"It's entirely feasible."

"Unless he'd prefer to spend the rest of his life in prison."

My voice came out quiet. Steady.

"Good. Prepare to move."

At three o'clock that afternoon, I summoned every senior executive to the boardroom.

I wore a black tailored suit, ten-centimeter heels clicking against the marble, my face revealing nothing.

Behind me followed Attorney Whitney and three senior forensic auditors. Each one carried a stack of files thick enough to break a table.

The conference room fell silent. Every eye locked onto me.

Duke had already claimed the head of the table. Stacy was draped against his side, wrapped in Chanel haute couture, wearing the smug little smile of someone who believed she'd already won.

Gone was the timid girl who used to look at me with grateful eyes.

The board members exchanged whispers. Their gazes held a cocktail of pity and the gleeful anticipation of spectators at a trainwreck.

Duke's brow furrowed when he realized I wasn't backing down. His voice carried its usual impatience.

"Gertrude, are you done making a scene? If you've come to your senses, come sign the papers."

"If you keep embarrassing everyone, you can forget about being Mrs. Stephens at all."

Stacy's eyes lit up. She pressed closer to Duke, her voice honeyed.

"Ms. Sullivan, I know this must be painful for you. But Duke and I are truly in love. I felt for him—having no heir. And the baby—"

"Shut your mouth."

I swept her with a glacial glance and walked straight to the seat beside the head of the table.

"Before you say another word, let me make something clear. You are nothing but a mistress who can't survive daylight. An ungrateful wretch. What gives you the right to speak in this room?"

Stacy's face flushed scarlet. Whatever she'd been about to say died in her throat. Her eyes, brimming with tears, turned to Duke.

A flash of anger crossed his gaze.

"I've already had my lawyer start the paperwork for the share transfer. Starting today, Stacy will be the company's largest shareholder and will replace you as Vice President. She has every right to be here."

Duke's voice dripped with condescension as he continued, "Aren't you always going on about your poor health? Why not take a trip overseas to recuperate? Don't worry—Stacy will wire you some money afterward. Consider it repayment for your ten years of... service."

I let out a cold laugh and slapped a document onto the conference table.

"Duke, let's get one thing straight. This conference room—this entire company—was built with my money. Every chair you're sitting in, every computer on every desk, was purchased with funds from my accounts." My gaze cut through him like a blade. "So tell me: what right do you have to offer me a handout?"

I turned to Stacy, my smile sharpening. "And you—repaying my kindness? By sleeping with my husband and throwing your escort money at me as thanks?"

The color drained from Stacy's face. Her composure crumbled, and she threw herself into Duke's arms, her voice a pitiful whimper.

"Duke, you know I never wanted any of this. How can she say such things about me..."

Duke's expression turned thunderous. "Gertrude, don't push your luck!"

"Fine—I'll pay back every cent from back then, with bank interest," he snarled. "But stop acting so high and mighty, like I've been freeloading off you all these years."

His finger jabbed in my direction. "Keep humiliating Stacy, and I swear I'll throw you out with nothing. You'll be sweeping streets for a living."

I couldn't help but laugh.

Playing the victim while standing on a pedestal of lies. She thought scrubbing her past clean would erase what she'd done. And him—the audacity of a man who'd built his throne on my fortune, now threatening to cast me out.

Thirty years. EmpireStar Group was no longer the modest startup I'd funded with a few hundred million. Through our combined efforts—my efforts—it had grown into a multi-billion-dollar empire. And now he had the shamelessness to offer me back my "original investment"?

I picked up the microphone from the table. My voice, laced with mockery, echoed through the conference room.

"Duke, let me show you what 'pushing your luck' actually looks like."

On cue, Victor began distributing documents to each board member.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, "before you is a complete financial audit of EmpireStar Group since its founding, along with a detailed record of Mr. Stephens' asset transfers over the past decade."

He paused, letting the weight of his next words sink in.

"Our investigation reveals that Mr. Stephens has transferred a total of eighty-six million dollars to Ms. Stacy Jenner during his marriage—funds derived entirely from Ms. Sullivan's pre-marital assets. Last year alone, thirty million was funneled into Ms. Jenner's overseas accounts to purchase luxury goods and a private villa."

"Ms. Sullivan intends to pursue full legal recovery of these assets."

Murmurs rippled through the room. Board members flipped through the documents, their expressions darkening as they absorbed the staggering figures. Someone muttered under their breath, "A parasite eating the company from the inside."

Duke shot to his feet, trembling with rage. "That's my money! I can transfer it to whoever I want—it's none of your business!"

"Your money?" I arched an eyebrow and hurled a share authorization agreement at his face.

"Did you forget about this, Duke?"