The Billionaire's Discarded Gem

Chapter 3: The Power Shift

03

The conference room on the 45th floor of Vance Global was made of glass and steel, offering a panoramic view of the Singapore skyline—a view Damien used to think belonged only to him. Now, he felt like an insect trapped in a jar.

"Mr. Thorne," Elara’s voice cut through the air. "You are five minutes late."

She sat at the head of the long mahogany table. Gone was the red velvet dress. Today, she wore a white tailored suit that looked sharper than a scalpel. Her hair was pulled back in a severe, elegant bun. She didn't stand up to greet him.

Damien sat down opposite her. He tried to summon his usual CEO arrogance, but it felt hollow.

"Elara," he started, his voice rough. "We need to talk. Not about business. About last night."

"If you aren't here to discuss the distribution rights for the Ocean’s Tear, you can leave," Elara said, tapping her tablet. "My security team is very efficient."

Damien grit his teeth. "Fine. Business."

He slid a thick folder across the table. "Thorne Corp offers a 60-40 split on profits. We have the best retail network in Southeast Asia. You can’t launch the sapphire collection without us."

Elara didn't even open the folder. She stared at him, her dark eyes filled with a terrifying calmness.

"60-40?" She scoffed. "Your stock dropped 12% this morning, Damien. Your retail network is outdated. And your marketing strategy..." She picked up his proposal with two fingers, as if it were trash, and dropped it into the wastebin beside her. "Is unimaginative."

"Elara!" Damien slammed his hand on the table. "Stop this charade! You are doing this to punish me. I know you’re angry about the divorce, but don’t destroy my company because of a grudge!"

"Punish you?" Elara stood up slowly. She walked around the table, her heels clicking rhythmically. She leaned close to his ear. "Damien, you aren't important enough for me to hold a grudge. This is just business."

"We are still married!" Damien blurted out. "I never filed the papers! I kept them in my safe. Technically, you are still my wife, and half of this company is—"

"Is what? Yours?" Elara laughed.

She swiped her finger across the massive screen on the wall. A document appeared. It bore the official seal of the High Court.

DECREE ABSOLUTE: DIVORCE FINALIZED.

Damien’s face drained of color. "How? I didn't file them."

"I did," Elara said coldly. "My lawyers are expensive, Damien. They processed it the morning I left. Expedited. I have been a free woman for three months."

The door to the conference room suddenly burst open.

"Damien!"

Isabella stormed in. She looked frantic. Her eyes were red, her hair messy. She ignored the secretaries trying to stop her.

"Damien, why aren't you answering my calls? The hospital said my credit card was declined!" Isabella rushed over and grabbed Damien’s arm. Then, she saw Elara.

Isabella froze. Her eyes widened in genuine fear, then quickly narrowed into hatred.

"You," Isabella spat. "You’re the one who humiliated us at the gala. You think just because you found a sugar daddy and changed your name, you can look down on me?"

"Isabella, stop," Damien warned, massaging his temples. "This isn't the place."

"No! She’s trash!" Isabella marched up to Elara. "You’re just a servant, Elara. You’ll always be a servant. Damien loves me. He only married you because I was dying! He pity-married you!"

Elara didn't flinch. She looked at Isabella with the curiosity one might have for a cockroach.

"Dying?" Elara repeated. "Ah, yes. The terminal heart condition. Six months to live... three years ago."

"My heart is weak!" Isabella clutched her chest theatrically. "Damien, she’s stressing me out... I feel faint..."

Damien instinctively reached out to steady her. "Elara, enough. She’s sick."

"Is she?"

Elara pressed a button on a remote control.

The large screen behind her changed. The divorce decree vanished. A video began to play.

It was shaky footage, clearly taken from a hidden camera inside a high-end club. The timestamp was two weeks ago.

On the screen, Isabella was dancing on a table, holding a bottle of vodka. She was laughing hysterically.

"I can't believe Damien bought it!" the on-screen Isabella shouted over the music to a friend. "I just hold my breath and look pale, and he buys me whatever I want. Stupid man thinks I'm dying. I'm going to outlive that boring wife of his by fifty years!"

The room went dead silent.

On the screen, Isabella took a massive shot of tequila and did a cartwheel.

The video ended.

Damien slowly took his hand off Isabella’s arm. He looked at her as if she were a stranger.

"Isabella," Damien’s voice was a low growl. "What is that?"

"It... it's a deepfake!" Isabella screamed, her face pale—for real this time. "She made it with AI! Damien, you know me! My heart..."

"Get away from me," Damien stepped back, revulsion written all over his face. "Three years? You lied to me for three years? I divorced Elara because I thought you were dying!"

"I did it for love!" Isabella shrieked. She turned to Elara, her eyes manic. "You ruined everything! You b***h!"

Isabella raised her hand, aiming a sharp slap at Elara’s face.

Damien lunged to stop her, but he was too slow.

Smack.

But the sound wasn't hand meeting cheek. It was hand meeting hand.

Elara had caught Isabella’s wrist in mid-air. Her grip was iron-tight.

"I am not the woman who washed your dishes anymore, Isabella," Elara whispered dangerously. She twisted Isabella’s wrist, forcing the other woman to her knees with a cry of pain.

Elara looked up at Damien, who stood frozen, broken, and realizing the magnitude of his mistake.

"Get your mistress out of my building, Mr. Thorne," Elara said, shoving Isabella toward him. "Before I call the police for assault."