Bankrupting My Husband’s Fake Perfect Family Chapter 25

Bankrupting My Husband’s Fake Perfect Family Chapter 25: A New Kingdom

I snatched the silver microphone from the master of ceremonies.

His sweaty palm brushed mine. I wiped my hand against the side of my crimson blazer, refusing to carry his nervous energy.

“Step back,” I ordered the MC.

He scrambled away, nearly tripping over the thick black audio cord on the stage floor.

I stood at the center of the podium. Hundreds of perfectly tailored suits and expensive gowns blurred under the blinding stage lights. The entire ballroom held its collective breath.

“Everyone expects a tragedy tonight,” I projected into the quiet hall.

The massive speakers amplified my voice, bouncing it off the gold-leaf ceiling.

“You expect a tearful survivor,” I continued. “A woman broken by betrayal, grasping for your sympathy.”

I locked eyes with David Montgomery in the front row. His face was still pale from the demolition video.

“You will not get that woman.”

David swallowed hard, shifting his weight.

“Apex Holdings is no longer a safety net for mediocre men,” I announced. “We are liquidating underperforming assets and reallocating capital into high-yield tech infrastructure.”

A murmur of shock rippled through the crowd. They wanted a trauma dump. I gave them a financial forecast.

“What about the pending lawsuits against Julian’s shell companies?” a board member shouted from the back of the room.

“I bought the debt,” I answered immediately. “And I am calling it in.”

“That will bankrupt three firms in this room!” David yelled, abandoning his quiet panic.

“Then I suggest those three firms start liquidating their personal assets tonight.”

“You’re out of your mind, Clara.”

“I am in total control, David.”

I didn’t mention Julians name again. I didn’t utter a single syllable about my ruined marriage or the fifteen years I spent playing a submissive housewife. That woman was dead.

“The Clara Art Center is phase one of our new portfolio,” I stated, scanning the terrified faces of the elite. “Phase two is a complete audit of every firm partnered with this gala.”

Beatrice Thorne let out a sharp, audible gasp.

I smiled. A cold, razor-thin expression.

“If your ledgers are clean, my firm will make you richer than you can imagine,” I promised. “If they aren’t, I will dismantle your companies and sell the scrap metal.”

Silence slammed back down over the room. No one dared to speak. No one dared to challenge me.

“Submit your bids by Monday,” I finished. “Otherwise, get out of my way.”

I lowered the microphone.

For three seconds, absolute silence reigned. Then, a single pair of hands started clapping from the shadows near the exit. Sebastian.

The rest of the room scrambled to follow his lead. The applause erupted, hesitant at first, then deafening as survival instincts kicked in.

I walked down the carpeted stairs.

An event coordinator in a headset sprinted into my path.

“Ms. Mercer! The press pool is waiting in the VIP lounge for your emotional statement.”

I shoved the microphone straight into his chest. He fumbled to catch it.

“Cancel it,” I commanded.

“But the sponsors want to know how you survived the heartbreak!”

“Tell them I survived by seizing majority shareholder rights.”

I pushed past him. Sebastian waited at the bottom of the steps. He didn’t offer empty praise or a comforting hug. He simply extended his hand.

I slid my fingers through his. The platinum band on my left hand ground against his silver class ring.

“You just declared war on half the financial district,” he noted.

“I declared a dictatorship.”

“Even better.”

We walked toward the brass exit doors together. My shoes hit the polished stone with heavy, rhythmic thuds. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, scrambling backward to avoid brushing against my sleeves.

“They’re terrified of you,” Sebastian murmured, his thumb tracing my knuckles.

“They should have been terrified of me fifteen years ago.”

“You were too busy playing house.”

“The house burned down.”

“And you built a fortress over the ashes.”

A sudden, sharp laugh escaped my throat. The sound was completely out of place in the tense ballroom, but I didn’t care. I didn’t have to monitor my reactions anymore.

We hit the brass doors. The valet pushed them open.

Flashbulbs exploded instantly. The screaming of the paparazzi hit us like a physical wall.

“Clara! Over here!”

“Is your ex-husband on suicide watch?”

“Are you really letting your teenagers live in a group home?”

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t hide my face behind my purse.

I squared my shoulders. I let the cameras capture every angle of my custom suit, the sharp lines of my jaw, the absolute lack of regret in my eyes. The flashes illuminated the massive diamond on my finger, broadcasting my new alliance to the world.

A reporter shoved a plastic voice recorder past the velvet rope, nearly hitting my face.

Sebastian intercepted it. He grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted.

The reporter yelps, dropping the recorder onto the pavement.

“Back up,” Sebastian ordered, his voice laced with pure threat.

“I just wanted to ask about the mistress!” the reporter whined, massaging his wrist. “Chloe is claiming you framed her for the embezzlement!”

I stopped walking. I looked down at the plastic recorder on the ground.

I lifted my shoe. I brought my heel down hard on the device, shattering the plastic casing into a dozen jagged pieces.

“Oops,” I said. The reporter stared at the broken pieces, his mouth hanging open.

“Send the bill to my office,” Sebastian told him.

He pulled me forward, navigating the sea of screaming journalists. My pulse remained perfectly steady. My heart no longer compromised for anyone. It pumped blood solely for my own survival.

The synergy between Sebastian and me crackled in the cold air. We moved in perfect synchronization. Power, wealth, and lust merged into a flawless balance.

We reached the curb.

The night wind kicked up, sharp and freezing. It caught the hem of my skirt, whipping the red fabric against my calves.

Sebastian pulled the heavy Maybach door open. The privacy glass was already rolled up. The engine purrs, waiting for us.

He shielded me from the closest photographer, his broad back blocking the camera lenses.

“Where to?” he asked, his voice dropping low, meant only for me.

I raised my chin.

“Back to our empire.”