I answered.
“Victoria.”
His voice sounded shaken.
“Why are my accounts frozen?”
I almost laughed.
YOUR accounts?
Interesting choice of words.
“Congratulations on your wedding.”
Silence.
Then:
“You weren’t supposed to find out yet.”
The arrogance stunned me.
Not sorry.
Not ashamed.
Just inconvenienced.
“When exactly were you planning to mention the second wife?” I asked.
Another silence.
Then he said something that erased the last trace of affection I felt for him.
“Alyssa is pregnant.”
As if that justified everything.
As if pregnancy transformed betrayal into righteousness.
As if I should understand.
I ended the call.
The next morning, the real collapse began.
The mansion in Highland Park was legally mine.
The vehicles were financed through entities I controlled.
Several investments existed only because I had personally guaranteed them.
Without my guarantees, banks became very interested.
Very quickly.
By noon, Sebastian’s phone was ringing nonstop.
Lawyers.
Banks.
Partners.
Creditors.
The same people who once treated him like a successful businessman suddenly wanted answers.
And he didn’t have any.
Because behind every success story he told the world stood one inconvenient truth.
Me.
The woman he thought would quietly disappear.
The woman he underestimated.
The woman who finally stopped protecting him.
Then, at 4:22 p.m., another surprise arrived.
A forensic accountant walked into my office carrying a thick folder.
He placed it on my desk.
