Part 1The Ex-Wife’s Billion Dollar Payday

I was at the clinic for my second-trimester checkup when I ran into my husband’s mistress.

The color drained from her face the second she saw me. I didn’t even blink. I barely registered her presence. After all, Justin had cycled through three or four women in the past few years. What was one Daphne Shaw in the grand scheme of things? If I allowed myself to get worked up over this kind of cliché, I probably wouldn’t live long enough to see this pregnancy through.

What I didn’t expect was for Justin to be the one throwing a tantrum when I got home.

"I told you from the beginning, everything in the Crawford empire belongs to you and the kids. Did you really have to go out of your way to harass Daphne?" he demanded, hurling a Baccarat crystal vase against the hardwood floor.

I sat on the velvet sofa, my hands resting instinctively over the slight swell of my stomach. I didn’t say a word.

I just watched him storm out, slamming the door so hard the hinges rattled, undoubtedly running straight back into Daphne’s waiting arms. The housekeeper stood in the corner, wringing her hands, completely entirely at a loss.

Without a word, I pulled out my phone, snapped a photo of the shattered crystal scattered across the floor, and texted it to my mother-in-law.

Emma, take a look at what Justin is doing now…

Barely two minutes after the message delivered, my phone screen lit up. It was an alert from my Chase Private Client app. A wire transfer of fifteen million dollars had just cleared into my account.

* * *

In the beginning, when Justin first started cheating, it didn't take money from his mother to fix it.

I would scream. I would cry. I would point a shaking finger at his face and tear him apart, demanding to know how the boy who was my first love, the man I had been married to for a decade, had turned into such absolute garbage.

When did the screaming stop?

I think it was right around the time Daphne Shaw entered the picture.

She had shown up at a charity gala wearing a simple white silk dress, looking impossibly sweet and unassuming. And just standing there, she looked at least seventy percent like a younger version of me.

When I saw Justin wrapping an arm around her waist, parading her in front of our entire social circle without an ounce of shame, something inside me just… snapped. The fire went out. I didn't even have the energy to be angry anymore.

My only thought was: Let’s just get a divorce.

It was Emma who talked me out of it. She sat me down in her Upper East Side penthouse and told me that while she didn't necessarily adore me, I came from a legacy family. Our backgrounds matched.

"Since your mother passed away, your stepmother has taken over the Stratton estate," Emma had said, her voice cool and pragmatic. "A divorce will only give her a reason to laugh at you. Justin might be a disaster in the romance department, but his earning power is undeniable. The dividends on your shares alone yield eight figures a year. A divorce means liquidating assets. It’s bad for Crawford Industries, and frankly, Gemma, it’s a massive loss for you."

She leaned in, her eyes hard. "Women need to wake up. Stop filling your head with fairy tales."

I was too stubborn to understand it at first. I swallowed the humiliation for six months until I spiraled into a severe clinical depression. But then, after getting caught in a torrential downpour and surviving a fever that nearly landed me in the ICU, something broke open in my brain. It was as if the fever burned away the last of my delusions.

From that day on, I took Emma’s advice. I recalibrated my expectations of Justin.

She also made me a promise: anytime Justin caused me public or emotional distress, she would compensate me accordingly from the family trust.

So, today, for the sheer inconvenience of being falsely accused of harassing his mistress, I was fifteen million dollars richer.

I moved the funds into my high-yield investment portfolio, then walked into the en-suite bathroom to wash my face, calling out to the housekeeper to have the living room cleaned up.

When I came back out, I realized my son, Theo, was home from school.

He walked right past the swept-up glass, utterly blind to the chaos of our household. His eyes were glued to his iPad.

I rested a hand on my lower back and called down the stairs. "Theo. You're back."

He flicked his gaze up to me for a fraction of a second.

"Yes, Mother."

Polite. Cold. Distant. He was exactly like his father.

I didn't push it. I poured myself a glass of warm milk and turned to head back upstairs.

"Mother," Theo called out. "There’s a parent-teacher conference tomorrow. Do you have time to go?"

"I’m pregnant, Theo. The doctor wants me resting," I said softly. "Have your father send someone."

The "someone" Justin would send was, without a doubt, his executive assistant.

Sure enough, the next morning, Daphne Shaw stood on my front porch, her own pregnant belly pressing against her trench coat. She looked terrified, yet she forced herself to stand tall.

"Mrs. Crawford."

I gave a curt nod. "Miss Shaw. I’ll leave my son in your hands today."

Daphne offered a painfully awkward, fragile smile. "Oh, yes. Please don't worry, ma'am. I've been to his school many times."

I knew. From the moment she and Justin got together, I knew about all these little domestic boundary-crossings. But I was too exhausted to ask, and I certainly didn't care to listen to the excuses.

Later, as I was walking toward the home gym for some light stretching, Theo crossed my path.

For once, he hesitated. "Mother?"

"Hmm?"

"Why couldn't you come with me? Miss Shaw is pregnant too, and she's going."

I looked at my twelve-year-old son, my expression flat. "Because I’m spoiled, Theo, and I don't like being inconvenienced."

I paused, letting the silence stretch before delivering the final blow. "Besides, you said it yourself—you think Daphne is gentle and sweet. You like having her at your school. I'm just doing what makes you happy."

Theo’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

He stood frozen in the hallway, his dark eyes dimming as he watched me walk away.