Beg On Your Knees: Erasing My CEO Husband Chapter 05

Beg On Your Knees: Erasing My CEO Husband Chapter 05: The Returned Anniversary Gift

“Where do you want the third one?” The exhausted courier stood panting in the doorway of my cramped, dingy rental apartment, his chest heaving from the climb. He precariously balanced a massive, instantly recognizable orange box against his hip. Two identical luxury boxes already consumed the tiny space between the scratched formica counter and the sagging, thrifted sofa.

“I don’t want any of them,” I said, my voice completely dead.

He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. “Paperwork says delivery to Clara Whitmore”.

“That’s me. And I am explicitly refusing the delivery”.

“Lady, I just hauled these up three flights of stairs. Your building’s elevator is boarded up”.

“I know,” I replied, my voice completely flat. “But they aren’t staying here”.

I stared down at the pristine packaging. Signature ribbons were tied in flawless, perfect bows. This was Julian’s classic, pathetic toolkit for damage control. A limited-edition Birkin for a missed birthday. A Kelly bag for a canceled vacation. Three boxes meant he absolutely knew he had crossed a fatal line.

A violent wave of nausea hit my stomach. The purely transactional nature of our marriage had never looked so grotesque to me. He didn’t see a broken vow; he saw a PR crisis that required a larger financial bribe.

“I need a signature,” the courier insisted, pulling a digital tablet.

from his vest.

“You aren’t getting one”.

“Then what am I supposed to do with fifty thousand dollars worth of leather goods?” he asked in disbelief.

I walked over to the top box. A heavy cream envelope rested under the ribbon, stamped with Julian’s arrogant personal wax seal. “Return to sender,” I instructed firmly.

“To the distribution warehouse?”

“No. To the billing address. Deliver them directly to Julian Vance at Vance Global. Wall Street headquarters”.

I slid my fingers under the wax seal and popped it open effortlessly. I pulled out the thick cardstock.

Clara, let’s stop this nonsense. Wear the red one to the gala on Friday. Love, Julian.

My jaw tightened with pure fury. He still thought this was a simple negotiation. He genuinely thought I was throwing a tantrum that could be smoothly smothered in luxury. I gripped the edges of the card and ripped it cleanly in half.

“Hey,” the courier warned, stepping forward. “If you damage the merchandise, I have to report it”.

“The card is mine,” I told him coldly. I stacked the halves and tore them again. The heavy paper yielded with a sharp, incredibly satisfying rip. I dropped the shredded confetti directly onto the lid of the top box.

I reached into my jeans pocket, pulled out a crisp hundred-dollar bill, and slapped it hard onto his tablet screen. “For your trouble,” I said. “Take them out”.

The courier looked at the cash, then at the torn card. He pocketed the bill without another word. “Yes, ma’am”.

Before he even wrestled the first box out the door, my cell phone rang loudly. I pulled it from the counter.

*Incoming: Chloe – Vance Global.*

Julian’s senior executive assistant. The woman who flawlessly booked his flights, managed his calendar, and apparently, handled his runaway wives.

I swiped the green icon. “Hello, Chloe”.

“Clara,” she started, immediately adopting that practiced, soothing cadence she used on angry shareholders. “The concierge at your old building said you moved out. And now shipping is telling me you’re refusing the apology gifts”.

“They aren’t apology gifts. They’re a severance package”.

“Julian is incredibly stressed right now,” Chloe countered smoothly. “The European merger is in its final stages. The board is watching his every move”.

“Then he should have plenty of time to sleep with Seraphina”.

The line went dead quiet. The suffocating silence stretched tight between us.

“We need to keep this private,” Chloe finally said, dropping the fake

customer-service voice entirely. “Julian asked me to remind you of the non-disclosure clause in your prenup”.

“I didn’t sign a prenup to cover his infidelity”.

“Clara, be reasonable. You’re emotional. Do not blow this out of proportion”.

My knuckles turned stark white around the phone casing. “Tell Julian to stop sending his assistants to do his dirty work,” I said viciously.

“He just wants you to calm down and come ho—”

“My price just went up, Chloe. Tell him that”.

I ended the call sharply. I tapped her contact name. I hit *Block Caller*.

The apartment fell utterly silent. The courier had vanished down the stairwell, taking the insulting orange boxes with him. I walked into the tiny bathroom and gripped the edges of the pedestal sink. I stared at my reflection in the cheap, water-spotted mirror. Five years of perfect blowouts, perfect smiles, and perfect, agonizing silence. I barely recognized the fierce woman staring back at me. Her eyes were hard; her posture was rigid.

I needed liquid cash. David Rosen’s legal retainer was astronomical, and I utterly refused to touch the joint accounts. Julian would freeze those the second he realized I was actually filing papers.

I walked back into the living room and sat on the edge of the

I unlocked my phone and quickly downloaded *LuxeTrade*, a high-end secondhand auction platform. I tapped *Register New Account*. The app asked for a username. I typed *CW_Vintage*.

Account Created. Would you like to list your first item?

I tapped yes. I reached up and unclasped the heavy diamond studs from my ears. Julian had bought them in Milan. I dropped them onto the scratched formica counter. They hit the surface with a sharp, hollow clink. Next, I unclasped the platinum Cartier watch from my left wrist and set it beside the earrings. I snapped a photo of the jewelry under the harsh, flickering kitchen light, purposely not bothering to make it look glamorous. I just needed it gone.

*Starting Bid: $15,000.*

I hit publish. The screen flashed a green confirmation checkmark. The last physical remnants of my toxic marriage were now floating in the digital ether, waiting for the highest bidder. I tossed the phone onto the bed and ran a hand through my hair. The fear was still there, buzzing faintly in the back of my skull, but it was now entirely eclipsed by a cold, relentless drive for freedom.

—

Three thousand miles away, the glass doors of the Vance Global executive suite slid open. Julian stood imposingly behind his massive mahogany desk. The New York skyline stretched out behind him, a glittering testament to his immense power. But his eyes were not on the view.

He stared intently at the center of his office. Three massive orange boxes sat stacked on the priceless Persian rug. He walked around the desk, his polished shoes sinking into the expensive wool. He stopped mere inches from the delivery.

“Mr. Vance?” Chloe hovered nervously in the doorway, her tablet clutched tightly to her chest. “The courier said she refused them”.

Julian didn’t answer. He looked down at the top box. Four torn pieces of thick cream cardstock lay scattered disrespectfully across the pristine ribbon. His handwriting, completely shredded.

Julian crouched down slowly and picked up a piece of the card. His jaw locked. The muscles in his neck pulled tight, a highly visible strain against his tailored collar.

“Did you call her?” he asked, his voice dangerously low.

“I tried, sir. She blocked my number”.

Julian stood up abruptly, crushing the torn paper viciously in his fist. She didn’t take the bags. She didn’t keep the penthouse. She didn’t answer the phone.

For the first time in his meticulously curated, arrogant life, Julian Vance looked at the shredded evidence of his failure and realized one terrifying truth.

Clara wasn’t negotiating.

“Get my lawyers on the line,” Julian ordered, aggressively tossing the crumpled paper into the trash. “Now”.