My Husband Left Me And Our Newborn In The Rain Because He Didn’t Want To Dirty His Car Seats. He Threw $20 At Me And Told Me To Take The Bus. He Doesn’t Realize I Actually Own His Company. What Should I Do?

I didn’t care that I was soaked to the bone. All I could think about was keeping my baby warm.

People hurried past me with umbrellas, giving me looks that ranged from curiosity to disgust, and some with pity, though none offered to help.

“It’s okay, my love,”

I whispered to my little one, who had started to cry loudly from the cold and the noise of the storm.

“Your father is a cruel man, but I promise you this is the last time we will ever be treated like trash.”

Each step I took on that slippery sidewalk was accompanied by a vow whispered in my heart. They thought I was just Olivia, a poor orphan girl who got lucky marrying Ethan, a rising young entrepreneur.

They had no idea who I really was. They didn’t know that the tech startup Ethan was so proud of was only afloat because of a silent, massive infusion of cash from my father.

They didn’t know that the Escalade they were riding in, the luxury apartment they lived in, and the lavish lifestyle they flaunted were all thanks to the connections I provided. I had kept silent all this time.

I had hidden my identity as the sole daughter of the owner of Davenport Holdings, one of the largest real estate and mining conglomerates in the country. All because I wanted to be loved for who I was.

I wanted Ethan to love me as Olivia, not as the heiress to a multi-billion dollar fortune. But today, under the cruel torrent of a New York City storm, my eyes were wide open.

That sincerity never existed; there was only greed and arrogance. I dragged my feet up the stairs of the pedestrian overpass toward the bus stop.

My breath came in ragged gasps, and my vision started to blur. I could feel postpartum bleeding increasing from the physical exertion, but I didn’t stop.

I wouldn’t collapse here. I would survive.

I would get home, and after that, I would make them pay for every single raindrop that touched my son’s face this afternoon. The crosstown bus was packed shoulder-to-shoulder.

The smell of sweat, cheap perfume, and damp clothing filled the air, chilled by the blasting central AC. I was squeezed near the door, desperately trying to create a small pocket of space amidst the crush of tired commuters heading home.

No one offered a priority seat. Those were already occupied by people pretending to be asleep or staring intently at their phones, oblivious to a soaking wet woman holding a newborn and grimacing in pain from a recent surgery.

The pain in my abdomen intensified every time the bus lurched to a stop or shuddered over a pothole. My legs were shaking violently.

It felt as if my bones could no longer support my weight. Rainwater dripped from the end of my cardigan, pooling on the floor of the bus, making me feel even smaller and more pathetic.

Thankfully, my baby had fallen back asleep after I had briefly nursed him in a corner of the bus shelter, now protected and warm inside my thin jacket.

“Ma’am, you can sit here.”

Suddenly, an elderly man in simple clothes stood up from his seat. He was carrying a large sack, which he had placed at his feet.

He looked worn and far from wealthy, but his heart was infinitely more noble than my well-dressed husband’s.

“Thank you, sir. Thank you so much,”

I said, fighting back tears.

I sat down slowly, wincing as my back touched the hard plastic seat. The man gave me a genuine smile and moved to stand by a pole.

How ironic. A stranger who likely struggled to make ends meet had more compassion than the man who was supposed to love and protect me.

I tried to regulate my breathing, resting my head for a moment against the fogged-up bus window. Outside, the lights of Manhattan skyscrapers began to glitter, their arrogant glow seeming to mock the poverty below.

My hand reached into my bag and pulled out my smartphone, its screen cracked at the corner from when Jessica had thrown it in a tantrum because I hadn’t topped up her data plan last month. An Instagram notification popped up.

My husband’s account was live. My heart fluttered.

I shouldn’t open it. I should just focus on getting home.

But the pain in my heart needed validation. I needed to see just how cruel they could be so that any last shred of doubt about destroying them would vanish completely.

My trembling finger tapped the notification. My phone screen lit up with a scene that was a 180-degree contrast to my current situation.

It showed the interior of a high-end, all-you-can-eat steakhouse in Soho, famous for its exorbitant prices. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling.

Steam rose from a tabletop grill laden with sizzling, high-marbled Wagyu beef, an array of fresh seafood, and organic vegetables. The camera panned to my husband, Ethan, who was laughing heartily, holding a pair of tongs.

His face was flushed and shiny from the heat and his own glee. Next to him, my mother-in-law was fanning herself after taking a spicy bite, but her face was beaming with triumph.

Jessica, my sister-in-law, was filming, occasionally turning the camera on herself.

“What’s up, everyone? We’re back with the Ethan Experience!”

Jessica’s shrill voice came through my single earbud.

“Tonight we’re celebrating my big bro Ethan’s latest success. The deal is closed, the cash is flowing, so we’re eating good! Woohoo!”

I saw the viewer count was quite high, around 300 people. Ethan loved to cultivate an image of a successful young entrepreneur on social media—a false, fragile image.

“Ethan, you’re the man for treating everyone,”

Jessica read a comment from a viewer.

“Of course he is. My brother is the real deal, not some poser.”

She paused dramatically, then the camera swiveled to my mother-in-law, Sharon.

“How’s the steak? Better than your favorite daughter-in-law’s cooking at home?”

My mother-in-law let out a mocking laugh, her mouth still full.

“Haha! Oh, Jess, don’t even compare Japanese A5 Wagyu to Olivia’s bland casseroles. It’s like comparing heaven and earth.”

“Besides,”

She added.

“I’m so glad she’s not here. She just brings the mood down, you know how she is, always gloomy, probably bad for business. Now that she’s gone, the air feels fresher and the food tastes better.”

My chest tightened, not from asthma, but from a rage that was boiling up inside me. They were talking about me as if I were a plague.

Ethan chimed in with a chuckle.

“Hey, Mom, don’t be like that. I feel a little bad for her. She’s probably getting soaked on a bus right now. She said she wanted to be independent; well, we’re testing her independence.”

“Besides, she doesn’t fit into our circle. Her style is so provincial. She doesn’t know how to act when I take her to meet clients or to fancy places like this. It’s just embarrassing.”

“So true, Ethan!”

Jessica exclaimed.

“Plus, she’s always telling these stories about being the daughter of some rich guy who’s just living a simple life. So delusional, right guys? Claims her dad owns mines or something, but she shops the clearance rack at Target. What a liar. Good thing my brother is so patient with his useless wife. She’s just a pretty face, and even that’s probably washed off in the rain by now. Haha!”

My tears stopped flowing. This time they dried up instantly, replaced by a fire burning in my chest.

Enough. I had been patient enough.

I had humbled myself enough to respect a husband who clearly had no self-respect. I had suppressed my own ego as a sole heiress for a love that turned out to be a complete sham.

They called me a liar. They called me delusional.

Fine. I would show them who was truly delusional.

I would show them who was living a lie. I closed the Instagram app with a sharp tap.

My hands, still trembling, were no longer shaking from sadness but from an adrenaline-fueled courage. I searched for one name in my phone’s contacts, a name I hadn’t called in two years, honoring my promise to Ethan to live independently.

“Mr. Harrison,”

I whispered as I pressed the call button. It only rang twice before a deep, authoritative voice answered.

“Miss Olivia! My goodness, you finally called. Your father and mother have been worried sick, especially knowing you just gave birth. How are you, ma’am? Where are you? I can have a car pick you up immediately.”

I took a deep breath, fighting back a sob so my voice would sound firm.

“Mr. Harrison, don’t send a car just yet. I’m on my way to the safe house. I need your help right now. This is an emergency.”

Mr. Harrison’s tone instantly shifted, becoming sharp and serious. He was my father’s right-hand man, the most trusted person in charge of all our family’s assets and affairs.

“Tell me what to do, Miss Olivia. Who has troubled you?”

“Freeze everything, Harrison,”

I ordered coldly.

“Freeze every asset my father provided for Ethan and his company under my name. The supplementary credit cards he holds access to, the corporate accounts funded by my father, the company car, the apartment whose lease is paid by my father’s office. Cut it all off now. This very second.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end, then the sound of rapid typing on a keyboard.

“Understood, ma’am. Are you certain? This will have an immediate and catastrophic effect on his business operations, on Ethan.”

“I’m certain, Harrison,”

I said, emphasizing every word.