Bankrupting My Husband’s Fake Perfect Family Chapter 10

Bankrupting My Husband’s Fake Perfect Family Chapter 10: Cornered Rat

“I am not signing a single page of this garbage.”

Julian threw the thick stack of divorce papers across the polished oak table. The pages fanned out, stopping inches from my folded hands.

I examined him from across the pre-trial mediation room. He looked entirely broken. The scratches on his cheek from Chloe’s fingernails had formed ugly, dark scabs. His eyes were bloodshot, surrounded by deep, purple bags. The arrogance he usually carried had completely vanished, replaced by the desperate panic of a desperate man.

“You will sign them,” Sebastian stated, his voice a low, flat hum. He sat beside me, adjusting the cuffs of his immaculate charcoal suit. “Or the state prosecutor accelerates the embezzlement trial to next month.”

“Let them try!” Julian barked. He gripped the edge of the table, leaning forward. “I know how the accounts are structured. I can drag this out in court for years. You won’t see a dime.”

“The accounts are empty, Julian,” I reminded him gently. “There is nothing left for you to fight over.”

“I want half.” He pointed a shaking finger at my face. “Half the liquid assets, the house proceeds, and you drop the corporate fraud charges immediately.”

A short laugh escaped my throat. “You stole four million dollars to buy a house for your mistress. You left our teenagers stranded on the pavement. And you think you get half?”

“I am still your husband!”

“Not for long.” I pushed the pen back toward him. “Sign.”

Julian stared at the silver pen. His jaw tightened, the muscles clenching hard beneath his bruised skin. He realized the financial threats held zero weight.

His expression shifted. A nasty, desperate sneer crawled onto his lips.

“You always played the perfect, untouchable professional,” Julian sneered. “The brilliant auditor. The flawless mother.”

I kept my posture rigid. “Get to the point.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his cracked smartphone. He tapped the screen twice and slid it across the wood.

The phone stopped in the center of the table.

I recognized the image instantly. It was a photograph from our anniversary trip to Paris five years ago. I was lying on the hotel bed, wearing nothing but a sheer silk robe, half-open. My eyes were closed, my posture completely unguarded and intimate.

“I have hundreds of these,” Julian whispered, his tone turning venomous. “Videos, too. Things you begged me to do to you behind closed doors.”

The air in the room turned freezing cold.

“Are you trying to blackmail me?” I asked.

“I will send every single file to the corporate board,” Julian threatened. He leaned closer, his eyes wide and manic. “I will email them to Liam and Mia’s friends. I will blast them all over the internet. Let’s see how the mighty Clara Miller handles her naked body plastered across every screen in the city.”

A sickening wave of disgust rolled through my stomach.

Fifteen years of marriage. Fifteen years of absolute loyalty, and he reduced it to cheap slut-shaming. He wanted to strip away my dignity because I stripped away his bank accounts.

Beside me, Sebastian went completely still.

“You have five seconds to hand over the phone,” Sebastian said. The absolute zero temperature in his voice made the hairs on my arms stand up.

“Screw you, Thorne!” Julian spat. “She’s my wife! I own those pictures!”

Sebastian picked up the heavy crystal glass resting near his notepad.

He didn’t hesitate. He thrust his arm forward, hurling the freezing ice water directly into Julian’s face.

The liquid smacked Julian hard. Ice cubes bounced off his forehead and clattered onto the table.

Julian gasped, sputtering and throwing his hands up to wipe his burning eyes.

“Guards,” Sebastian commanded over his shoulder.

The heavy oak doors swung open instantly. Two massive security men in dark suits stormed into the room.

“Pin him,” Sebastian ordered.

The guards grabbed Julian by his soaked collar. They hauled him out of his chair, dragging him backward.

“Get your hands off me!” Julian shrieked, kicking wildly.

They slammed him against the back wall. The impact rattled the framed legal degrees hanging nearby. One guard shoved a forearm against Julian’s throat, pinning him in place. The other wrenched Julian’s arms behind his back.

Water dripped from Julian’s nose, soaking his collar. He choked, struggling to breathe under the guard’s heavy pressure.

I stood up.

I walked around the long table. My stilettos sank into the scattered divorce papers Julian had thrown on the floor. The sharp point of my shoe tore right through his printed name.

I stopped inches from him.

He looked up at me, his chest heaving. Fear finally broke through his manic rage. He was trapped.

I examined this trembling, pathetic creature. The last shred of attachment I held for the man I married evaporated. The power dynamic finalized right here, against this wall. I wasn’t the victim of a cheating husband anymore. I was the executioner.

“You think a few naked photos will break me?” I asked softly.

Julian swallowed hard. He couldn’t speak around the guard’s arm.

“I built a career tearing down corrupt billionaires,” I told him, keeping my voice perfectly level. “If you leak those photos, I will buy the front page of the Times and print them myself just to prove you can’t hurt me.”

His eyes widened in sheer disbelief.

“You are a coward, Julian.” I tilted my head, studying his bruised face. “You steal. You cheat. You hide behind mistresses and children. Now you try to hide behind revenge porn.”

“I’ll ruin you,” he rasped out, choking on the words.

“You already ruined yourself.”

I reached into the inner pocket of my crimson suit jacket. I pulled out a single, folded sheet of thick paper.

I snapped it open.

“Chloe called you a failure,” I noted, holding the document up. “She demanded money for her son’s hospital bills.”

Julian glared at the paper. “My son needs surgery.”

“Your son?” I echoed. A genuine, cruel smile stretched across my lips.

I slapped the paper flat against his wet chest.

“This is the official medical report from the hospital,” I stated. “My private investigators pulled it an hour ago.”

Julian’s eyes darted down to the text.

“Look at the blood type, Julian,” I whispered, leaning in close enough to smell the cheap soap on his skin. “The boy is AB negative.”

Julian froze. His breathing stopped entirely.

“You are O positive,” I continued, tracing the line of text with my manicured finger. “Chloe is O positive.”

I watched the realization hit him like a physical blow. The color completely drained from his face, leaving him a sickly, terrifying shade of gray.

“Who do you think you’re raising a son for?” I asked.