After He Betrayed Me, I Took His Company

Chapter 2

After I sent it, I just sat there in that freezing hospital chair and didn't sleep a wink the whole night.

The screen kept scrolling through two years of Claire living it up. Paul was in every last one of them. Him peeling shrimp for her, caught in profile. His back to the camera as he crouched down to tie her shoe. The way he'd slide her a card and tell her, all soft and doting, "Buy whatever you want."

I killed the screen.

Back at the apartment, the light was still on. Three years of habit, leaving it burning for whenever he finally dragged himself home.

The key turned in the lock. Paul was home.

He shrugged off his coat and came straight for me, forehead creased.

"Mom out of surgery?" he asked.

He didn't mention why he had ended the "important meeting" early, nor did he notice anything unusual about me.

I looked at him calmly. "Yeah, it's done," I replied.

He didn't seem to notice the coldness in my tone and said matter‑of‑factly, "That's good. The Series A celebration dinner next month, help me take another look at the proposal."

With that, he tossed his briefcase onto the sofa. A velvet jewelry box tumbled out of the side pocket and fell onto the carpet.

My heart gave a jolt. It was that one.

In one of Claire's posts, she held it up and cooed at Paul, who was off‑camera, "This sapphire brooch is so beautiful. Is it a surprise for me?"

So he hadn't forgotten my birthday after all. He had given the gift meant for me to someone else.

Paul bent down to pick up the jewelry box, noticed my gaze, and casually stuffed it back into the bag.

"Why are you looking at that?" he asked.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Paul, what's this about 'Claire's living expenses'?" I asked.

He looked thoroughly annoyed. "Like I already said, it's work. She's the daughter of an important partner, helping me handle business entertainment," he replied.

"Since when does work mean giving her fifty thousand a month? Since when does it mean trips to the Maridia?" I pressed.

"What nonsense are you on about?" He raised his voice. "Camila, can you be a little more mature? Stop dragging feelings into everything."

"I want to know..." I started.

"You don't need to know," he cut me off. "Focus on your responsibilities and get the celebration dinner plan ready."

He was always like this. Using words like "mature," "work," and "stop being ridiculous" to shut down every question and hurt.

In the past, I would have immediately apologized and blamed myself. But tonight, I simply nodded. "Okay," I said.

Satisfied I'd taken the hint, he turned and went into the bathroom.

As I listened to the water running, I opened my chat with Philip. A message had just come through.

Philip: Ms. Stephens, regarding the change of inheritance rights to your father's overseas trust fund, are you certain you want to initiate the process now? Previously, to support Mr. Gonzalez's startup, you voluntarily gave up your primary beneficiary rights.

For that future he was always going on about, I once turned my back on a business empire that was mine for the taking.

Now I'm taking every bit of it back, with my own two hands.

Camila: Confirmed. Thank you.