When He Stole My Wealth, I Crushed His Fraud

My fingertips lightly traced the thin surface of the ultrasound report. The tiny shadow on the grainy paper, no bigger than a peanut, was the crystallization of three years of marriage between Vincent and me. "Ms. Evelyn, as your private physician, I must warn you again," Dr. Stern had said, his expression grave. "Your heart is already operating at its absolute limit. The high-stress environment of building your startup has severely compromised your health. Getting pregnant now is like planting a ticking time bomb inside your body. If you force this pregnancy, by the second or third trimester, you could face fatal heart failure." I knew that, of course. Stepping out of the hospital, the crisp autumn wind brushed against my face, bringing a slight wave of dizziness. A familiar, dull ache radiated from deep within my chest, like a rusted needle slowly twisting into my heart. It was a pain I had carried for a long time, a secret I kept hidden from everyone. I took a deep breath of the freezing air, forcefully suppressing the palpitations and the rising nausea, yet the corners of my lips couldn't help but curve upward. This was Vincent's child. Vincent was a freelance painter, with romantic blonde curls and blue eyes that always seemed to harbor a deep, poetic melancholy. Three years ago, ignoring the fierce opposition of my board of directors, I had insisted on a flash marriage with this penniless, struggling artist. To support his dreams, I bought the most expensive detached villa in the city center and built him the best rooftop studio money could buy. I wanted to make sure he never had to bow his head for a single dime, allowing him to immerse himself entirely in his world of art. He always told me I was his sun. And now, our lives were finally going to have a continuation. I imagined how he would react when he saw this ultrasound report. He would probably lift me up and spin me around, laughing like a child. It was two in the afternoon when I arrived back at the villa. The massive house was dead silent. The servants were usually dismissed around this time because Vincent despised even the slightest noise when he was painting. I kicked off my high heels and stepped barefoot onto the cold marble floor, taking care not to make a sound. I wanted to surprise him. The studio was on the third floor. I walked softly up the spiral staircase, my hand clutching the ultrasound report tightly. The heavy walnut double doors of the studio weren't completely closed; a narrow gap remained. Even before I reached it, the familiar, pungent smell of turpentine drifted out. But today, mixed in with the scent of oil paint, was an entirely unfamiliar fragrance—the expensive, heavy scent of tuberose. It was sweet, frivolous, and carried an undeniable, damp musk of s*x. My footsteps faltered. That rusted needle deep in my heart suddenly plunged an inch deeper. Holding my breath, I peered through the c***k in the door. Vincent was fast asleep on the oversized velvet sofa. A cashmere throw was draped carelessly over his body, revealing his broad, naked shoulders covered in faint, red scratch marks. But what truly plunged me into a bottomless abyss were the items scattered on the Persian rug beside the sofa. A pair of pink satin ballet shoes. The delicate ribbons had been violently torn and now hung limply against the intricate patterns of the rug. Right next to them lay a torn, crumpled condom wrapper, still smeared with translucent bodily fluids. Boom. It felt as if all the blood had been instantly drained from my brain. A sharp ringing pierced my ears, accompanied by a violent surge of stomach acid. I clamped my hand over my mouth, biting hard into my palm to stop myself from making a sound. Like a wandering ghost, I pushed the door open. Vincent was sleeping heavily. He didn't stir even as I walked right up to his easel. On the easel sat an almost-finished oil painting. The woman on the canvas was naked, draped only in a whisper-thin veil, leaning forward in a graceful ballet pose. The painted sunlight bathed her skin, making her look divine, yet dripping with ultimate, raw lust. In the bottom right corner, written in an elegant, sweeping script, was a single line: To Stella — My only muse. Stella. I knew that name. She was currently the most sought-after principal dancer in the classical ballet world, renowned for her arrogant, untouchable aura. They called her the "Black Swan of the Stage." And right now, this noble Black Swan had just finished rolling around with my husband in my house, inside the sanctuary of art that I had built for him. I stood there, staring quietly at the painting. Three years ago, Vincent had painted a portrait of me too. But as time went on, he gradually stopped painting me. He would look at me with a gaze full of regret and say, "Evelyn, you reek too much of copper and commerce. You're too rational, too dominant. You make it impossible for me to feel the breath of art." So, this was it. He had found the "breath of art" in someone else's bed. A sudden, agonizing pain hit my chest like a tsunami. It felt as if an invisible, iron hand was squeezing my heart, suffocating me. At the same time, a sharp cramp seized my lower abdomen. I stumbled backward, leaning heavily against the cold wall, gasping for air. In that moment, a normal woman's first reaction might have been to rush forward, smash the easel, slap the cheating bastard awake, and hysterically demand to know why he had betrayed her. But I wasn't a normal woman. I was Evelyn. I was a CEO who had clawed her way to the top through the bloody battlefield of the corporate world. Tears welled up in my eyes, but I forced them back down with sheer willpower. What replaced them was a chilling, trembling coldness. If I exploded now and filed for divorce, what would happen? My tech company was at a critical juncture, preparing for its IPO. Vincent was my legal husband, and because of my idiotic belief in "true love," we had no prenuptial agreement. If we divorced now, without irrefutable proof of his asset transfers or hidden malice, he could easily take half of my personal fortune and even claim a significant portion of my company's equity. He was spending my money, sleeping with another woman, and now he was going to bleed my empire dry? Dream on. My icy gaze swept over the ballet shoes on the floor and the glaringly bright painting. Fighting through the agonizing pain in my chest, I silently pulled out my phone. I took crystal-clear photos of every detail in the studio—the mess on the floor, the painting, and Vincent's naked, sleeping form. Once I had what I needed, I didn't wake him. I backed out of the room as silently as I had entered and returned to my master bedroom. As soon as I locked the bathroom door behind me, my control shattered. I collapsed over the toilet and threw up violently, retching until there was nothing left but bitter bile. Cold sweat drenched my hair. I looked up at the mirror. The woman staring back at me was as pale as a corpse. It was almost laughable. For this man, I had been willing to risk heart failure just to bring our child into the world. I turned on the faucet and splashed freezing water onto my face. Then, I walked into my study and opened my encrypted laptop. I typed in the name "Stella." The search results were flooded with praises for the principal dancer. But hidden within a financial magazine interview from six months ago, I caught a crucial piece of information. "The Grand Wedding of Famous Dancer Stella: Groom Identified as Adrian, Senior Partner at a Top-Tier Law Firm and Legendary Investment Tycoon." Adrian. The moment I saw the name, my pupils contracted. In the investment world, the name Adrian represented cold-bloodedness, ruthlessness, and absolute control. He was an emotionless apex predator. Any prey he set his sights on was devoured whole, leaving not even bones behind. Vincent, you truly are a complete i***t, I thought. Of all the women you could have slept with, you had to touch Adrian's wife. I stared at the screen, looking at Adrian's deep-set, indifferent features, perfectly tailored in an expensive suit. In my mind, a frantic yet meticulously calculated plan began to take shape. I didn't just want a divorce. I wanted Vincent to walk away with absolutely nothing. I wanted him and his precious muse to be ruined socially and professionally. I wanted them to drown in a lifetime of debt. I was going to make sure they fell from their high-and-mighty pedestal of art and splattered into the mud. But to do that, I needed an ally. I needed someone powerful enough, ruthless enough, and who shared the exact same enemy. Using the highest-level network I had built in the business world, I tracked down a private number. I leaned back in my large leather executive chair, one hand gently resting on my still-flat stomach. The life inside me was fragile yet stubborn, a stark reminder that I had to clear every obstacle in my path to protect it. I took a deep breath and dialed the number. It only rang three times before it was picked up. A low, magnetic male voice came through the receiver, carrying an unquestionable, oppressive authority. "Who is this?" I looked at the ultrasound report sitting on my desk—the piece of paper that was supposed to share joy—and my eyes turned as cold as solid ice. "Mr. Adrian, good afternoon," I said, using my calmest, most professional business tone. "This is Evelyn. I have some highly interesting materials regarding your wife. I wonder if you might be interested in discussing a collaboration?"