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?
I fell silent, staring at the check again. $150 million.
An amount that could save my father from a heart attack over his debts. An amount that could restore the honor of the Vance family name.
I asked softly. “3 months?”
Julian affirmed. “3 months. 90 days. After that, this money is entirely yours and you are free to divorce him. I’ll even help you hire the best lawyers to ensure Mark is left with nothing.”
My mind raced. My emotional side screamed in protest—I wanted to spit in Mark’s face right now.
But my rational side, the side of a businessman’s daughter that I had suppressed for so long, began to see the logic in Julian’s plan. This wasn’t just about money; it was about taking control.
If I divorced Mark now, he’d likely be happy to be with Chloe. But if I waited, if I let Julian orchestrate everything, Mark’s downfall would be absolute.
I looked at Julian, searching for any doubt in his eyes. But I found only cold, steely determination.
This man was dangerous—very dangerous. And now he was inviting me to be his ally.
I asked, trying to be realistic. “How can I be sure this check will clear?”
He answered casually. “You can cash it tomorrow morning. It’s a cashier’s check. Consider it a down payment. Trust is expensive, Eleanor, and I’m willing to pay a high price for it.”
I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the cold air of the room. The image of Mark’s fake smile, Chloe’s text, and my father’s aging face flashed before me.
The pain in my chest slowly morphed into something else—something colder and harder: vengeance. With a now steady hand, I took the check and put it in my purse.
I said firmly. “I agree. Three months. No less, no more.”
Julian smiled faintly. This time, it seemed a little more genuine, or perhaps it was just the satisfaction of a successful negotiation.
He raised his glass. “To a deadly patience.”
I didn’t return his toast. I just looked at him sharply. “Remember one thing, Mr. Croft. I’m doing this for my family, not because I’m afraid of you or my husband. So don’t you ever think about betraying me either.”
He replied. “I am a man of my word, Eleanor. You’re safe with me.”
That night, on the top floor of a New York skyscraper under a relentless downpour, I signed a contract with a devil in disguise. I sold my patience for $150 million and prepared to play the greatest role of my life.
Mark Peterson, enjoy your final moments of happiness, because the real storm has just begun.
The 90-Day Charade
The morning sun in New York shone brightly, as if mocking the remnants of the storm that had raged in my heart the night before. Its heat penetrated the windows of our master bedroom in Tribeca, creating a stuffiness that even the maxed-out air conditioner couldn’t fully dispel.
I sat on the edge of our king-sized bed, staring at my reflection in the vanity mirror. Dark circles under my eyes were faintly visible despite being covered with expensive concealer.
This was day one of the 90 days of hell that Julian Croft had promised. The roar of a sports car engine echoed from the garage.
It was Mark. My husband was home.
My heart pounded, not from longing or love, but from a mixture of disgust and anger that I had to suppress with all my might. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a moment, and pictured Julian’s cold face and the $150 million check now safely stored in my private bank vault.
That was my mantra now. The bedroom door opened slowly.
Mark walked in, his face haggard, wearing the same shirt from yesterday morning. The faint, cloying scent of an unfamiliar woman’s cheap perfume wafted from him, mixed with the smell of sweat and last night’s alcohol.
He asked, his tone artificially cheerful. “Honey, you’re awake?”
He approached, intending to kiss my cheek. On reflex, I tilted my head slightly, pretending to adjust my earrings, so his lips only brushed my hair.
I replied. “Hi Mark, you’re home late. I was worried last night. You didn’t answer your phone.”
Mark laughed nervously. He took off his watch and placed it on the vanity with a stiff movement.
He said. “Yeah, sorry about that babe. The storm was crazy last night, right? My phone died and I left my charger at the office. With the gridlock traffic and flooding everywhere, I had to stay at Dave’s apartment. It was too dangerous to try and force my way home.”
Lies. Dave was on a cruise in the Caribbean with his wife; I’d seen his wife’s Instagram posts two days ago.
But I just smiled the fakest smile I had ever produced in my life. “Oh, I see. I’m just glad you’re safe. I was just worried something had happened to you.”
I felt like I was going to vomit, uttering those words of concern to the man who had just spent the night in another woman’s arms. Mark said, visibly relieved that I didn’t press him further. “You really are the best wife.”
He started unbuttoning his shirt. “I’m going to take a shower. I feel so grimy. I have another meeting with investors this afternoon, so I’ll probably be home late again.”
I replied. “Okay, Mark. Don’t work too hard.”
As soon as the bathroom door closed and the sound of running water began, my smile vanished. My body trembled with suppressed nausea.
I glanced at his dirty shirt lying on the floor. There was a faint pink lipstick stain on the collar—the same shade Chloe often wore in her Instagram photos.
I immediately grabbed my secret phone, a new one Julian had given me last night along with a prepaid SIM card not registered in my name. I typed a short message. “Target just got home. Alibi is staying at a friend’s place due to the storm. We’ll be going out again this afternoon.”
A reply from Julian came in seconds, short, concise, and emotionless. “Let him. Don’t ask too many questions. Focus on clearing the funds today. Pay off your family’s debts in cash discreetly. Leave no digital trail Mark can trace.”
I deleted the message immediately. That afternoon, after making sure Mark had left—not for an investor meeting, of course, but likely to return to his mistress—I had my driver take me to a central bank branch.
The process of cashing the check went smoothly, thanks to a powerful letter of introduction prepared by Julian. The bank staff treated me like royalty.
When my new account balance showed that fantastical number, I felt breathless. This was real.
I had truly sold my marriage. From the bank, I went straight to my parents’ home on the Upper East Side.
The old colonial-style brownstone looked gloomy. The wall paint was peeling in some places, and the small front garden was no longer as well-kept as it used to be.
In the living room, I found my mother sitting, lost in thought, holding her rosary beads. Her face looked tired, far older than her actual age.
I called softly. “Mom.”
She looked up, her eyes misty. “Eleanor, you didn’t say you were coming.”
