My Husband Called Me A “Stupid Wife” While Spending Millions On His Mistress. Then Her Billionaire Husband Showed Up At My Door With A $150 Million Offer. Should I Take The Money Or Go For Total Destruction?
The Discovery and the Stranger
My plan to divorce my cheating husband came to a screeching halt the moment the husband of his mistress showed up at my door. He offered me $150 million with one bizarre condition: postpone the divorce for 3 months.
What was the real plan behind this insane offer? Before the story begins, let me know in the comments where you’re all tuning in from.
The rain in New York this afternoon seemed to understand the state of my heart.
It fell in a torrential downpour, creating a gray curtain that obscured the view of the Midtown Manhattan skyline. I stood motionless before the massive plate glass window of our 30th-floor penthouse.
I watched the streets below, already choked with rush hour traffic. The vehicle lights blurred on the wet asphalt, creating a bleak abstract painting.
Normally at this hour, I’d be busy in the kitchen preparing a special dinner for Mark, my husband. I always made sure everything was perfect, from the cleanliness of our home and the calming scent of aromatherapy to his favorite meal.
I, Eleanor Vance, daughter of a respected family from the Upper East Side, had dedicated my entire life, my education, and my potential solely to being a devoted wife to Mark Peterson. But this evening was different.
There was no aroma of cooking, no soft jazz music that I usually played. There was only the rumble of thunder occasionally clashing with the painful thud of my own heart.
In my hand, Mark’s smartphone felt cold. The sleek device had been left on the nightstand when he rushed out this morning.
I shouldn’t have opened it. I should have trusted his cliché excuses about a sudden meeting or a business trip out of state.
But the notification that popped up on the lock screen destroyed everything. It was a message from Chloe.
“Chloe: Hey babe, thanks for the transfer from my shopping spree earlier. You still coming to my place tonight? I miss you so much. Don’t forget to tell that stupid wife of yours you’re working late.”
The message was short, but its destructive power was greater than an atomic bomb to my 5-year marriage. “Stupid wife”—those words echoed in my head, spinning like a broken record.
So this was how they saw me. Mark, the man whose status I had elevated, whom my father had introduced to important business colleagues until he could become someone, apparently thought I was stupid.
My hand trembled as I unlocked the phone screen. Coincidentally, I knew the password: our anniversary.
How ironic. Inside, I discovered another world.
Mark had hidden intimate photos of them in the Bahamas when Mark had claimed to be at a business conference. There were vulgar texts that made my stomach churn and the most painful part: proof of massive money transfers to this woman named Chloe.
Meanwhile, just last week, Mark had told me his business needed a capital injection and asked me to cut back on spending.
I whispered, my voice caught in my throat. “The nerve.”
The tears I’d been holding back finally spilled, streaming down my cheeks. They felt hot, burning my skin.
I threw the phone onto the expensive Italian leather sofa. I didn’t need to see anymore.
The evidence was more than enough. My dignity as a woman, as a wife, and as a Vance had been trampled.
I walked toward the master bedroom, my steps heavy. I pulled a large suitcase from the closet.
Tonight, the moment Mark came home, I would throw the divorce papers in his face. I would leave.
I didn’t care if I had to return to my parents’ home on the Upper East Side with the status of a divorcee. It was better to live simply than to live in a luxurious lie.
However, my thoughts drifted to my parents’ situation. My father’s business had been in a steep decline.
Our family’s historic brownstone, my grandfather’s legacy, was facing foreclosure. All this time, I had hoped Mark’s success could help restore our family’s fortunes.
But it turned out he was squandering his money on that home-wrecker. The sound of the apartment doorbell rang, shattering my thoughts.
I flinched. Was Mark home early, realizing he’d forgotten his phone?
Rage instantly flared in my chest. Good.
The sooner he was back, the sooner I could throw him out of my life. With wide strides and ragged breaths, I walked to the front door.
I didn’t even bother to wipe the tear stains from my face. Let him see.
Let him know how broken I was. I swung the door open forcefully.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve showing your fa—”
My words died in my throat. The person standing at the door was not Mark.
Before me stood a tall man, perhaps in his early 30s. He wore a suit that looked incredibly expensive, but it was now soaked through from the rain.
Water dripped from the ends of his jet-black hair onto the shoulders of his sharp suit. His face was handsome with a strong jaw and a straight nose, but his expression was as cold as ice.
His eyes bore into me, sharp, as if they could scan my very soul in seconds. An aura of power emanated strongly from him, making me instinctively take a step back.
His voice was deep, resonant, and full of intimidation. “Eleanor Vance.”
It wasn’t a question but a statement. I swallowed hard, trying to gather what little courage I had left.
“Yes, that’s me. Who are you? If you’re looking for my husband, he’s not home.”
The man didn’t answer immediately. He just stared at me.
Then his gaze dropped to my still-trembling hands, then shifted back to my swollen eyes. The corner of his lip lifted slightly, forming a thin, cynical smile.
He said flatly. “I know your husband isn’t home. He’s currently at the Hermes Boutique on Madison Avenue, buying a handbag for my wife.”
My heart stopped for a beat. “What?”
He said succinctly, as if the name alone explained everything. “I’m Julian Croft.”
And it did. Who didn’t know Julian Croft, the owner of Croft Enterprises?
He was the young magnate whose face frequently graced the covers of business magazines as one of the wealthiest men in America. He was the definition of old money—born rich, powerful, and intensely private.
But wait, what had he just said? “Your wife.”
I murmured, realizing the horrifying connection. “Chloe. Chloe is your wife.”
Julian nodded slowly. He didn’t look angry, nor did he look sad.
His face was as blank as a concrete wall. “May I come in? We have business to discuss, and this isn’t a conversation to be had in a doorway.”
I hesitated for a moment. Letting a strange man into the apartment when my husband wasn’t home was improper.
But considering what I had just learned about Mark, those social norms felt irrelevant. Besides, this man was a victim too, just like me.
I said finally, opening the door wider. “Please.”
Julian stepped inside. His scent washed over me as he passed—a mixture of rain, expensive tobacco, and a masculine woody cologne.
He didn’t seem impressed by our apartment’s interior, which I had once considered quite luxurious. For someone like Julian Croft, this place was probably no better than a storage unit.
He stood in the middle of the living room, declining when I offered him a seat. His eyes swept across the room, then landed squarely on Mark’s phone lying on the sofa.
He said, without looking at me. “You know everything, don’t you?”
I answered bitterly. “I just found out. His phone was left behind.”
