Double Revenge After One Night Stand

2. I Want A Divorce

***Diana's POV***

'"Besides shopping and spas, what else do I know?" Was that really how he saw me? A useless, vain woman?

This thought made me smirk bitterly, though inside, my heart was bleeding. I was once a supermodel, a woman who shone in her own light. I had a career, like-minded friends, and fans who adored me. But then Anthony had convinced me—no, pressured me—that he needed a wife who could be both presentable in public and the perfect homemaker in private. Little by little, I was pulled away from my beloved career until I was fully trapped in the role of a perfect housewife.

Every day, I wasn’t just meeting his needs; I was upholding his family’s reputation in public, managing their complex social circles, and dealing with his controlling mother. It took nearly all of my energy and time—even the shopping and spas were for thoese purposes. I never enjoyed any of it; I just thought I was doing the right thing. But now? He thought I was useless.

I swallowed the pain and anger, forcing back tears. I didn’t want Megan to see even a hint of weakness in me. Instead, I took out my phone and slammed it onto the desk in front of them.

“How do you explain this photo?”

Their eyes fell on the photo together, and Anthony’s face showed a flicker of confusion before Megan jumped in. “Oh! Did I accidentally send that to you?” She tapped her head as if she had made an innocent mistake, “It’s actually an idea Anthony just came up with. We took a sample photo as a reference, and the slogan was his idea too. I meant to send it to the design team but must have sent it to you by mistake… I’m so sorry for the confusion I caused.”

By mistake? I could feel my blood boiling. I should’ve known—this was Megan’s twisted little show. All she wanted was to piss me off, make Anthony think I was a troublemaker, and get us to fight.

They might not have technically crossed the line, but it was only a matter of time.

“By mistake?” I spat, sarcasm in my voice."Then why don’t you ‘accidentally’ post photos of you hooking up with your married boss on i********:?" I stepped closer, and if looks could kill, she’d be dead right now.

"I... I..." Megan stammered, unable to form a full sentence.

"Enough!" Anthony shouted, stepping in front of her. “She already said it was a misunderstanding. Why are you making such a scene? Megan is my employee, not your maid. You have no right to humiliate her like this.”

I stared at him, shocked. The Anthony who always kept up the image of a perfect marriage in public was now shouting at me— for the reason of defending another woman.

I couldn’t hold back anymore. “Am I your maid then?” I shouted, voice breaking. “Just here for you to humiliate whenever it suits you?”

Anthony froze, all the tension falling into silence. Then his expression shifted, his eyes showing a trace of frustration and impatience. “We’re really busy right now. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?” he said, reaching into his wallet and handing me a credit card. “Here, take it. Buy whatever you want. Consider it my apology for missing our anniversary.”

Looking at that card, a wave of humiliation flooded me.

Somewhere along the way, his apologies had shifted from hugs and kisses to things he could buy me, as though each expensive gift was meant to outweigh the hurt. He knew what he had done. Spending our anniversary day with another woman was a hurt to me, but still, he thought a credit card would somehow make it right.

I took the card from his hand, smirking as I saw the relieved expression on his face. Then I tossed it, watching it spin through the air and land with a loud splash in the fish tank around the corner.

“What are you doing?!” Anthony’s shock turned to anger.

“Take your money and shove it,” I said coldly. Then, I turned on my heel and walked out with all the confidence I once held on the runway.

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I returned to our mansion on the outskirts of the city—the place Anthony had bought as our marital home. Opening the door, I found rose petals scattered across the floor. They were meant as a surprise for our anniversary, but after such a long wait, some had already wilted and darkened—much like how I felt deep in my heart.

I kicked off my heels and followed the trail of petals, dragging my tired legs up the stairs to our master bedroom.

The room had been carefully set up as well. A silky lace lingerie set, the kind Anthony loved, lay on the rose-colored bed sheets. Like myself, it had been perfectly arranged to please him, a gift carefully prepared to win his approval.

I was so exhausted as if I had just run a marathon. I’d been holding myself together all day, but I couldn’t hold it in any longer.

I threw my Hermès bag to the floor, signed tiredly, and took off my cocktail dress. Turning around, my eyes fell on the gilded frame hanging on the wall, holding a large photo of me.

That photo was taken when I was eighteen, the first time I had graced the cover of a high-fashion magazine. There was a purity in my eyes, a hint of defiance in my rebellious look, and a spark of confidence. I was just a newcomer then, only two years into my modeling career, but that cover marked the start of countless honors that followed.

Back then, I was one of the most sought-after models in New York. Agencies, high-end brands, they all came begging me for a contract. The media was filled with stories about me, and for once, I thought I had finally escaped the years of neglect and emotional abuse I had suffered from my parents.

But everything changed quickly. At twenty-one, a senior executive at my agency tried to sexually insult me. I turned him down and, enraged, posted about it on my social media. My post caused a stir, even sparking a movement around the hashtag "No Means No."

But the incident angered the agency’s top management. They hired the best lawyers to find loopholes in my contract, forcing a termination and demanding a massive breach-of-contract fee. Just as I was at my lowest, Anthony appeared in my life.

In truth, we had met long before that year. Anthony and I had been classmates at a private school, where he was three years my senior. We had been drawn to each other at a birthday party, our mutual crush left unspoken until I left home at sixteen, set on a modeling career to make a living. We lost touch.

When we reconnected, he had inherited family wealth and become a billionaire in his own right. He paid off my debts and even bought an agency to serve me exclusively.

Anthony was like a knight in shining armor, slaying evil dragons to protect me. No one could resist his gentle yet powerful charm. Soon, I accepted his proposal.

If only the fairy tale could have ended with a happily-ever-after, sealed in the final lines of a story. But reality, as always, was cruel.

Not long after the wedding, Anthony urged me to quit and focus on family, promising to give me everything—money, fame, endless love. What now feels like ridiculous promises once sounded like the sweetest nectar. I was all too willing to be the devoted wife, putting my all into supporting him, caring for him.

But in just three years, everything changed. “I’ll take care of you” became “I’m supporting you, so stop complaining”. “Spend my money as you wish” turned into “You’re spending my money—so stay out of my business”. His nights away grew more frequent, always under the excuse of work. And today, he had dared to flirt openly with another woman in front of me.

The memory cut a deep wound in my chest. I stepped into the bathroom. Under the dying glow of red candles, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Aside from a slightly fuller figure, I still looked as beautiful as ever. But my face now looked sorrowful, and the spark of confidence and defiance in my eyes had faded.

NO!

I shook my head hard, forcing out all of the sad thoughts. Diana Ashford, the girl who had run away from home adn challenged authority wasn’t someone who would just be beaten down by life.

I wouldn’t sit here, waiting to be discarded by Anthony. I needed to take control. Even if it meant divorce, I’d need proof of his infidelity to strengthen my bargaining power—divorcing a Taylor is no easy task, and I would make sure I got what I deserved.

I filled a glass of water and poured it over the candles, watching the flames go out. Darkness fell over the bathroom. Then, I took out my phone and dialed a number that had been saved in my contacts for a long time, finally ready to be used.

“Hello, I need you to investigate my husband, Anthony Taylor. Yes, the CEO of Eclypse Marketing.”