Betrayed on April Fool’s Day, I abandoned my husband Chapter 06

Betrayed on April Fool’s Day, I abandoned my husband Chapter 06

“She moved in, Clara.”

Maya❖❖❖s voice crackled through the phone speaker.

I sat on the edge of my childhood bed, staring at the glossy photograph the courier had delivered. “Who moved in?”

“Zoe,” Maya snapped. “She packed four massive suitcases and paraded right past the doorman at your old building.”

“Jason hates sharing his closet space.”

“Apparently, he made an exception. She posted a picture of herself drinking espresso in your kitchen this morning.” Maya paused, her breathing loud over the line. “She tagged it ‘Morning bliss with my rock.'”

“A rock,” I repeated.

“It gets worse,” Maya warned. “My brother works at the country club. He saw Zoe❖❖❖s father playing eighteen holes with your father-in-law yesterday. They were smoking cigars and popping champagne on the patio.”

“Celebrating the new couple.”

“They are practically treating her like the new Mrs. Mercer. The families are entirely on board.”

I let out a short, dry chuckle.

“You’re laughing?” Maya asked, her tone shifting from outrage to confusion.

“It saves me the trouble of feeling guilty,” I told her. “They deserve each other.”

“Aren’t you furious? It hasn’t even been a month.”

“I don’t have the energy to be angry anymore.”

A heavy knock sounded at my bedroom door.

“Clara?” My father called from the hallway. “Can you come down to my study?”

“I have to go, Maya,” I said.

“Call me later,” she ordered. “And stay off social media.”

I ended the call and tossed the phone onto the mattress.

I walked downstairs and pushed open the heavy oak door to my father❖❖❖s home office. The room smelled like old paper and bitter black coffee.

Dad sat behind his massive mahogany desk. He had three cardboard boxes open on the floor, surrounded by stacks of manila folders. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking ten years older than he had at breakfast.

“Did Jason contest the divorce filing?” I asked, stepping into the room.

“No,” Dad said, his voice unusually rough. “He hasn’t responded to the petition yet.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer immediately. He reached into a faded yellow folder and pulled out a thick stack of stapled papers.

“I was sorting through your pre-marital asset declarations,” Dad explained, keeping his eyes on the desk. “I needed to verify the title of your sedan before we submit the final division of property.”

“I didn’t have any assets before the wedding.”

“Neither did I, supposedly.” He slid the stapled document across the polished wood. “Read the bottom paragraph on the first page.”

I walked over and picked up the contract. I scanned the dense legal jargon. “It’s a property transfer. For the Marina Point project.”

“My coastal development,” Dad clarified, his jaw tightening. “The one that went bankrupt three years ago.”

“You told me the market crashed.”

“I thought it did.” He tapped the desk with his index finger. “Look at the purchasing entity.”

I flipped the page. “Apex Holdings.”

“Now look at the authorized signatory on the final page.”

I turned to the back of the packet. My eyes locked onto the messy, slanted handwriting in blue ink.

Jason Mercer.

A cold numbness started at the base of my neck and spread downward.

“Jason bought your failing project?” I asked.

“Apex Holdings is a shell company,” Dad said. “Owned entirely by the Mercer family trust. They didn’t just buy it, Clara. They engineered the bankruptcy. They choked off my supply lines and acquired the land for pennies on the dollar.”

I dropped the paper back onto the desk.

“Check the date,” Dad urged.

I leaned forward. October 14th.

“He proposed to me on Christmas Eve,” I whispered.

Dad leaned back in his leather chair. “If Jason married the daughter of the original deed holder, the Mercer family avoided a massive commercial zoning tax. It’s a loophole in the county bylaws.”

“He saved his father millions.”

“By putting a ring on your finger.”

I stood completely still. I expected a surge of rage. I expected to scream, to tear the document into shreds, to throw my father’s coffee mug against the wall.

Instead, total silence filled my mind.

A desolate, hollow clarity settled over my shoulders.

“It was never about me,” I said.

“Clara, I am so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” I met my father’s worried gaze. “I spent three years thinking I was a failure as a wife. I thought I wasn’t pretty enough, or obedient enough.”

“You are perfect,” Dad insisted, standing up.

“I was a tax write-off.”

I traced Jason’s signature with my thumbnail. The illusion shattered completely. The romantic beach proposal in Maui. The promises of eternal loyalty. His sudden demand that I stop wearing makeup and dressing up.

He didn’t want a wife. He wanted a compliant, invisible placeholder to secure a real estate monopoly.

“I’ll bury him in court,” Dad vowed, his fists clenched at his sides. “I will drag the Mercer family through every regulatory commission in this state.”

“No,” I said quietly.

“Clara, they stole my legacy. They used you.”

“I know.” I stepped back from the desk. “But a regulatory commission will just slap them with a fine. Jason can afford a fine.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to take everything he cares about.”

I turned around and walked out of the study.

I climbed the stairs, my heart beating in a steady, calm rhythm. I wasn’t a victim anymore. I was a liability they forgot to tie down.

I walked back into my bedroom and picked up the glossy photograph from the mattress.

Jason❖❖❖s terrified face stared up at me. The stranger in the dark suit sat behind the desk, holding all the power in the room.

I flipped the photo over.

“I told you I hated him. Are you ready to talk now?”

Below the sharp black handwriting, a ten-digit phone number was scrawled in the corner.

I picked up my cell phone. I punched in the digits.

I hit call.

It rang exactly twice.

“I wondered how long it would take you,” a deep, smooth voice answered.

“You knew about the Marina Point project,” I stated.

“I know every secret Jason Mercer has ever buried,” the man replied.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Victor Cross.”

“What do you want, Victor?”

“I want to dismantle the Mercer family piece by piece,” he said, his tone entirely conversational. “And I need your help to do it.”

I looked out my bedroom window. The sun sat high in the sky, casting bright light over the quiet neighborhood.

“Where do we start?” I asked.

Victor let out a low, approving hum. “Pack a bag, Clara. I am sending a car to your house in twenty minutes.”