Beg On Your Knees: Erasing My CEO Husband Chapter 06

Beg On Your Knees: Erasing My CEO Husband Chapter 06: Pawn Ticket for a Diamond

“I don’t care about the provenance,” the man behind the bulletproof glass muttered dismissively. He slid the Cartier diamond necklace around with a metal probe. The overhead fluorescent lights caught the brilliant-cut stones, throwing harsh white flashes across the cramped shop.

“Julian Vance bought it at auction,” I told him firmly. “It’s flawless”.

“It’s a heavy rock,” the broker corrected lazily. “But the market is flooded with heavy rocks. Rich guys get divorced every day in this city”.

“It’s insured for a hundred and fifty thousand”.

“Then go file an insurance claim, lady. I run a pawn shop, not Sotheby’s”.

My phone buzzed sharply in my palm.

*Alert: Vance Global Amex ending in 4092 – SUSPENDED.*

A second alert popped up immediately after.

*Alert: Platinum Visa ending in 8813 – SUSPENDED.*

Julian was systematically shutting off my oxygen. He wanted me completely stranded in Manhattan, unable to even buy a cup of coffee. He expected me to crawl back to his office and beg pathetically for my allowance.

I looked right up at the broker. “Twenty-five,” I demanded securely. “In unmarked bills. Right now”.

He eyed my plain jeans, noting the missing wedding ring on my left hand. “Twenty-two. Take it or leave it”.

“Deal”.

I shoved the necklace closer to the glass slot.

“You sure?” he asked, raising a bushy eyebrow. “Once I print the ticket, it’s mine”.

“Print it”.

Julian had always used that jewelry as a leash. He made me wear it to his galas just to show the world he owned a beautiful, expensive wife. Now, it was buying my ultimate freedom.

The broker counted out stacks of hundred-dollar bills, sliding them under the glass partition. I shoved the cash securely into my leather tote bag and walked out into the humid city air.

—

“First, last, and security,” I said. I dropped three thick stacks of twenties and hundreds directly onto the scarred kitchen counter.

The building manager, a balding man named Sal, stared blankly at the cash. “You’re paying six months upfront?” he asked, scratching his neck.

“I don’t like writing checks”.

“You running from somebody?”

“I’m starting over,” I corrected. “Do we have a deal or not?”

Sal picked up a stack and thumbed greedily through the bills.
“Place doesn’t have a dishwasher. Radiator clanks in the winter”.

“I have hands,” I replied. “And I can buy sweaters”.

“No pets over twenty pounds. No loud music after ten”.

“I don’t own a dog, Sal”.

“Suit yourself. Keys are yours”.

He tossed a rusted brass key onto the counter and walked out, leaving me entirely alone in the cramped, dusty space. No Baccarat crystal. No silk drapes. Just peeling paint and the distant wail of a police siren.

I walked over to the single window and pushed it open. The smell of exhaust and hot asphalt drifted in.

My phone chimed relentlessly. I unlocked the screen. The Manhattan socialite group chat was exploding.

*Beatrice: Omg Clara, did you see Page Six?*

Vanessa: Darling, I heard Julian cut you off! Are you literally homeless?

Eleanor: We can set up a GoFundMe if you need a hotel room! So tragic!

A link dangled at the bottom of the messages. I tapped it. A blurry photo of me walking out of the pawn shop filled the screen.

**EXCLUSIVE:** Vance’s Ex Penniless? Sources close to Vance Global

VP Seraphina Thorne confirm Clara Whitmore is completely bankrupt. *Is the former trophy wife sleeping on the streets tonight?*

Seraphina was working overtime. She wanted me humiliated. She wanted me to feel small.

I pressed my thumb against the screen. *Leave Group Chat.*

I went to my contacts. I blocked Beatrice. I blocked Vanessa. I blocked Eleanor. I blocked the entire charity committee without a second thought.

A strange sound broke the silence of the empty apartment. It was me. I was laughing. I leaned against the bare plaster wall, my chest heaving with sharp, genuine laughter. For five years, I had tiptoed carefully around those fake women, terrified of wearing the wrong dress or saying the wrong thing. I had let Julian totally dictate my diet, my wardrobe, and my friends.

Now, I didn’t care at all. The absolute worst had happened, and I was still standing. I had a roof over my head, cash in my bag, and absolutely no one to answer to. The fear of losing my security vanished, instantly replaced by a dizzying, intoxicating rush of control.

—

Rain lashed violently against the tinted windows of the Maybach. Julian sat in the backseat, his jaw clenched tight. He swiped down on his iPad screen, refreshing the banking dashboard for the tenth time.

Zero transactions.

“Where is she?” Julian asked the empty car.

“Sir?” his driver asked from the front seat. “Did you need me to pull over?”

“No. Keep driving to the office”.

Julian tossed the tablet onto the leather seat in sheer frustration. He had frozen every piece of plastic in Clara’s name. By his calculation, she should have run out of cash by noon. She should have called Chloe in a panic. She should be waiting in the lobby of his building right now, ready to negotiate a new set of rules.

Instead, his phone remained entirely silent.

“Call Seraphina,” Julian ordered his Bluetooth headset.

The line rang twice before she answered. “Julian? Did the article work?”

“It didn’t do a damn thing,” he snapped. “She hasn’t spent a dime”.

“She has no money left,” Seraphina argued smoothly. “She’ll break by morning”.

“You don’t know my wife”.

Julian ended the call aggressively. He stared out at the blurry streetlights passing by, a cold, utterly unfamiliar panic rising in his chest. How do you control a woman who no longer wants anything you have to sell?