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?
Julian turned to face me. A flash of lightning outside illuminated half his face, making him look even more mysterious.
“What’s your plan now? Cry? Rage? File for divorce?”
I retorted sharply. “That’s none of your business. But yes, I’m divorcing him tonight. I refuse to live with a traitor.”
Julian cut in quickly. “Don’t.”
I furrowed my brow, confused. “Excuse me? Who are you to tell me what to do?”
Julian stepped closer to me. The distance between us was now only a few feet.
I could see the raindrops still clinging to his eyelashes. He said, his tone one of absolute command. “Don’t divorce him tonight. Don’t cause a scene. Don’t let him know that you know.”
I laughed, a hollow sound. “You’re insane. Your wife and my husband are having an affair, destroying our marriages, and you’re asking me to stay silent? I am not some foolish woman who will tolerate being cheated on.”
Julian said calmly, a stark contrast to my emotional outburst. “I’m not asking you to accept the affair. I’m offering you a deal.”
I asked. “What kind of deal?”
Julian replied, his eyes glinting dangerously. “True revenge. A divorce will only set them free. Mark will be free to be with Chloe, and you’ll be left with the status of a divorcee and a broken heart. Is that fair?”
I fell silent. His words struck a nerve deep inside me.
Julian commanded. “Come with me now. We’ll talk somewhere more suitable. This place has too many traces of that bastard.”
I argued. “I can’t just leave with a stranger.”
He cut in, saying my name with a strange familiarity. “Eleanor. Your family on the Upper East Side needs money, don’t they? Your father has a $2 million debt due next month. If it’s not paid, that brownstone will be seized.”
My blood ran cold. How could he know?
My family’s financial troubles were a closely guarded secret. I asked. “How do you know that?”
He answered arrogantly. “I know everything. Come with me, and I’ll give you a solution you never imagined. Or stay here, divorce your husband, and watch your family crumble piece by piece.”
The choice felt impossible. But looking into Julian’s eyes, which were filled with conviction, a glimmer of hope sparked amidst my despair.
I glanced at the open suitcase in the bedroom, then back at Julian. “Fine. I’ll go.”
The $150 Million Strategy
Julian didn’t smile. He just gave a curt nod and turned toward the door as if he knew from the start that I wouldn’t be able to refuse him.
I grabbed my purse, locked the door to the apartment that now felt like a personal hell, and stepped out. I followed the stranger’s upright back into the elevator, descending into an uncertainty greater than the storm raging outside.
The drive from my apartment in Tribeca to the financial district was eerily silent. I sat in the passenger seat of Julian’s luxurious black sedan.
The car’s interior smelled of expensive leather and was completely soundproof, muffling the cacophony of horns and the relentless drumming of New York’s rain outside. His private driver navigated the potholed streets with such smoothness it felt like we were floating.
Julian sat beside me, engrossed in a tablet. The screen’s light reflected on his serious face.
He hadn’t uttered a single word since we left the apartment lobby. His silence made me increasingly anxious.
What was I doing following a strange man in the middle of the night? But every time I wanted to protest, the image of the texts on Mark’s phone and my father’s weary face burdened by debt haunted me.
The car turned into the entrance of one of the tallest skyscrapers in the area. A valet opened the door respectfully, greeting Julian as Mr. Croft.
We were escorted to a private elevator that shot us straight to the top floor. My ears popped slightly from the change in air pressure.
The elevator doors opened to reveal an exclusive, ultra-private lounge. The room was dimly lit, illuminated only by the soft glow of crystal chandeliers and the city lights of New York filtering through the surrounding glass walls.
The atmosphere here was a stark contrast to the chaos in my heart—calm, cold, and sophisticated. Julian led me to a private room in the corner.
Its walls were made of thick glass, offering a panoramic view of the city’s lights, which looked like rivers of gold flowing below. The rain streaking down the glass added a melancholic touch.
Julian gestured to a plush velvet sofa in a deep maroon color across from him. “Sit.”
I sat down stiffly, clutching my handbag. A waiter appeared, brought two drinks, and then left silently, leaving us alone in the tense silence.
The room’s air conditioning felt piercingly cold, or maybe it was just me trembling with fear. Julian took a small sip of his drink and placed the glass on the black marble table that separated us.
He looked at me directly, his gaze sharp and intimidating. “Let’s get straight to the point,” he said, his baritone calm.
He reached into his inner suit pocket, pulling out a checkbook and a gold pen. He wrote something quickly, tore out the check, and placed it in front of me.
He commanded. “Take it.”
I looked at the piece of paper hesitantly. Slowly, I reached out and picked it up.
My eyes widened as I saw the string of zeros. I had to count them twice to make sure I wasn’t mistaken.
$150 million. My hand trembled so violently that the check fell back onto the table.
I asked, my voice choked. “What… what is this for?”
Julian replied flatly, as if that amount of money was mere pocket change to him. “That’s your price. Or more accurately, the price of your time.”
He continued. “That money is enough to pay off all your family’s debts, buy back any assets they’ve mortgaged, and secure a comfortable life for you and your parents for seven generations.”
I swallowed, trying to process this insane situation. “What do you want from me? I’m not a prostitute.”
Julian let out a small laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I have no interest in your body, Eleanor. What I need is your status as Mark Peterson’s wife.”
He leaned back into the sofa, folding his arms across his chest. “As I said, Chloe is my wife. Our marriage is purely on paper, a business alliance between the Croft family and hers, who are also influential. But she violated our agreement by having a public affair and embarrassing my name. And your husband—that ambitious but reckless fool—is her partner.”
I demanded. “Then why don’t you just divorce Chloe? Why involve me?”
He explained. “Because in business, timing is everything. I am in the middle of a massive acquisition that involves Chloe’s family. If I divorce her now, or if this cheating scandal explodes, my company’s stock will become volatile and the acquisition could fail. The losses would be far greater than the number on that check.”
Julian leaned forward, his gaze intensifying. “I need 3 months. 3 months to finalize my business dealings and move my assets to protect them from the divorce settlement. During those three months, I need things to be quiet. No scandals, no divorces.”
I was beginning to understand, though it felt surreal. Julian continued. “So your task is simple. Don’t divorce your husband yet. Go back home. Act as if nothing happened. Be the sweet, obedient, and foolish wife they think you are. Let them feel safe in their affair. Close your eyes, cover your ears.”
I exclaimed emotionally. “You’re telling me to live under the same roof with the man who betrayed me and pretend to be happy? That’s torture.”
Julian corrected coolly. “It’s strategy. You think crying and filing for divorce now will make you a winner? No. Mark will gladly divorce you. Then he’ll twist the narrative to make you look like an incompetent wife. You’ll walk out of that house with nothing but your shattered pride.”
He pointed to the check on the table. “But with this money, and with your patience for 3 months, you can destroy him at his most vulnerable moment. When he feels like he’s on top of the world, when he thinks he has it all, we bring him down together.”
