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?

“If she’s really a Davenport, we’re finished, Ethan. Those people are powerful; they could make us disappear from this city without a trace.”

The audio feed captured Sharon’s broken sobs, soon joined by Jessica’s fearful crying. Ethan was silent, but I could picture his ashen face as he stared out at the wet streets of New York.

He had just realized he’d thrown away the gold mine that had been sleeping next to him. He had just woken a sleeping tiger.

I turned off the tracking app. That was enough.

I had heard what I needed to hear. They were now on their way to the apartment, thinking they at least had a roof over their heads for the night.

How pitiful. They had no idea that the surprise waiting for them in the lobby would be far more painful than a declined credit card.

Cardboard boxes filled with their designer clothes were already waiting. Tonight, the dark New York sky would be their roof, and the cold night wind would be their blanket of regret.

The MTA bus finally reached my stop. I stood up slowly, carrying my peacefully sleeping baby.

The rain had subsided to a light drizzle. I stepped off the bus with a steady heart.

My steps were no longer pained or faltering. The physical agony seemed to have vanished, replaced by a new strength.

I was no longer Olivia, the abused wife. Tonight, I had become Olivia Davenport again, and this game was far from over.

I leaned back against the plush passenger seat of the Rolls-Royce Phantom my father had sent to pick me up. The silence inside this car was so profound and calming, a stark contrast to the storm of emotions I had just endured on the crowded MTA bus.

My father’s personal driver, Daniel, navigated the rain-slicked Manhattan traffic with practiced ease. In my hands, a large tablet displayed a real-time feed from a security camera.

Yes, the game wasn’t over. I wouldn’t miss a single second of their downfall.

Mr. Harrison, with his usual efficiency, had already gained access to the security cameras in the lobby of the apartment building where Ethan and his family lived—an apartment whose lease had been paid by my father’s company without Ethan’s knowledge. Through the high-resolution screen, I was the sole audience member for the most satisfying reality show imaginable.

The tablet showed the opulent lobby of a luxury building in Midtown. Its Italian marble floors gleamed under a massive crystal chandelier.

Normally, Ethan would stride through this lobby with his chin held high, giving the concierge an arrogant nod as if he owned the place. But tonight was different.

Ethan’s black Escalade pulled up to the glass doors. On the screen, I could see his stiff posture as he got out.

He didn’t go straight inside but paused, rubbing his face roughly as if gathering his last scraps of courage. The light rain had plastered his expensive, now wrinkled shirt to his skin.

My mother-in-law, Sharon, emerged from the passenger side. Her face, usually glowing from expensive spa treatments, was now puffy and tear-streaked, her mascara running in black rivulets down her cheeks.

Jessica followed, still glued to her phone, probably blocking the flood of hateful comments on her social media. They walked into the lobby.

I turned up the volume on my tablet to hear the audio from the microphone at the reception desk. Ethan approached the automated security gate that separated the public lobby from the private elevator bank.

He took out his key fob and tapped it against the sensor. Beep.

The indicator light flashed red. The turnstile remained locked.

Ethan frowned. He tapped it again, harder this time.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Red again.

“Damn it!”

Ethan cursed, his voice echoing in the quiet lobby.

“Why is every piece of technology conspiring against me today?”

“Now what, Ethan?”

Sharon asked wearily, slumping onto a plush sofa in the waiting area.

“I’m exhausted. I just want a hot shower and my bed. Don’t tell me the elevators are broken too!”

“It’s not the elevator, Mom. The key fob isn’t working,”

Ethan said, his voice laced with panic.

He rubbed the fob against his pants as if trying to wipe away some imaginary dust and tried again. Still nothing.

A security guard who was standing near the door approached them. This was the same guard who always greeted Ethan with a deferential nod, but tonight his gaze was cold and professional.

Behind him, a familiar figure emerged: Mr. Henderson, the building manager.

“Good evening, Mr. Williams,”

Mr. Henderson said, his tone flat, devoid of its usual sycophantic warmth.

“Evening, Mr. Henderson. Good thing you’re here,”

Ethan said, forcing a smile.

“My key fob seems to be malfunctioning. Could you open the gate for us manually? My family and I are very tired.”

Mr. Henderson didn’t move. He crossed his arms over his chest, a clear signal of bad news.

“I’m afraid your fob isn’t broken, Mr. Williams. Your access was intentionally deactivated as of 8:00 p.m. this evening.”

Ethan stared, dumbfounded.

“What do you mean, deactivated? I’m a resident here! I pay a hefty maintenance fee every month!”

“That’s precisely the problem, sir,”

Mr. Henderson said, pulling out his own tablet and showing Ethan the screen.

“According to our records, your unit, 35B, has six months of overdue rent. A guarantor has been covering the late fees, which is why we haven’t taken action. However, this afternoon, we received official notice from that guarantor, Davenport Properties Incorporated, that they are rescending all guarantees and terminating the lease agreement under the name of Ethan Williams.”

My heart skipped a beat hearing my father’s company name spoken aloud. I could see the color drain from Ethan’s face.

His legs looked unsteady.

“Wait, hold on,”

Ethan stammered.

“Six months? But the rent is always auto-transferred from my wife’s account! My wife handles all of that!”

“I’m not privy to your domestic arrangements, sir. All I know is that the funds were not received and the guarantor has terminated the contract. As per management policy, when a primary guarantor withdraws due to a breach of contract, the unit must be vacated immediately.”

“Vacated?”

Sharon shrieked, jumping up from the sofa, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“What do you mean you’re kicking us out in the middle of the night? Do you have any idea who my son is? He’s a CEO! A wealthy man! You can’t do this!”

Mr. Henderson looked at Sharon with a condescending pity.

“Ma’am, your son’s CEO status is irrelevant when the rent isn’t paid. And I’m sorry to say, the vacating procedure has already been completed.”

Mr. Henderson gestured toward a dimly lit corner of the lobby near the emergency exit. Piled there were about ten cardboard boxes—worn brown boxes stamped with the logos of instant noodle brands and bottled water, starkly out of place against the five-star luxury of the lobby.

The rain hadn’t stopped by the time I arrived at my parents’ estate on the Upper East Side. The mansion stood majestically on a full city block, its ornate 10-foot-high wrought iron gates separating our world from the chaos of New York City.

White marble columns supported a grand portico, and a sprawling manicured lawn featured a large fountain at its center. I entered through a side gate to avoid attention and went straight to my childhood bedroom, which the staff had already prepared.

My mother’s personal stylist and makeup artist were waiting.

“Oh, Miss Olivia!”

Cried Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper who had helped raise me, her eyes welling with tears as she saw me in my simple hospital dress.

“Are you all right? Where is the baby? Let me take care of him.”

“The baby is fine, Mary. He’s in the nursery with his nanny,”

I replied with a faint smile.

“Right now, I need your help. I have to look perfect in 30 minutes.”

In a short time, a transformation occurred. The plain dress and cheap cardigan were gone.

I was now wearing an elegant, champagne-colored silk gown that draped gracefully over my body, still comfortable for my postpartum condition. My hair was styled and swept up, and my face, once pale, was now touched with subtle but powerful makeup that concealed the dark circles under my eyes and brought out an aura of class I had long suppressed.

I gazed at my reflection in a large, gilt-framed mirror. The character of Olivia, the mousy housewife, was dead.

Standing here was Olivia Davenport, the sole heiress to a formidable business empire.

“What’s their status, Harrison?”

I asked over the intercom.

“They’ve just been dropped off by a taxi at the main gate, ma’am,”

Mr. Harrison reported from the security post.