Sloane lowered her head, forcing out a few aggrieved tears to play the victim, clinging tightly to Grant’s arm as if seeking protection.
Grant immediately frowned, his voice turning cold: “Claire, she is pregnant with twins. The doctor said Sloane’s emotional state needs to stay stable. Don’t use that tone with her. Let’s just end this amicably.”
His mother, Eleanor, lightly tapped her deep-red manicured fingers on the polished walnut table, cutting in with a patronizing tone: “Ten million dollars plus a villa in the suburbs of Boston. That is the absolute limit of the Whitmore family. Claire, for an orphan girl with no background like you, this amount is enough to live luxuriously for three generations. Sign it, and disappear from Chicago.”
I looked at the three people in front of me. A mother-in-law who always viewed her aristocratic bloodline as supreme; a husband of eight years who was ready to discard his wife the moment he found a replacement “surrogate”; and a mistress using her pregnancy to wedge her way into high society.
They thought I was struck dumb by pain. But in reality, it took everything in me to suppress a smile.
“Fine, I’ll sign,” I replied calmly.
Sloane looked up, unable to hide the smugness and contempt in her eyes. Grant let out a sigh of relief as if a heavy burden had just been lifted. They had no idea that this ten million dollars would become the down payment for the coffin that would bury the entire Whitmore dynasty.
One year later.
The Peninsula Chicago was covered in white roses, prepared for a wedding of the century. After the divorce procedures were finalized, the Whitmore Group threw its full weight into publicizing the grand wedding of the young chairman and his talented lover, who had given birth to the twin heirs exactly six months prior.
In the VIP dressing room, Sloane was admiring her million-dollar diamond-embroidered wedding gown. Suddenly, the door swung wide open.
It wasn’t the groom. It was me—Claire.
I wore a simple yet incredibly elegant champagne-colored evening gown, my black hair swept up into a sleek bun. My aura was completely different from the submissive woman of a year ago.
“Claire? What are you doing here?!” Sloane bolted upright, her face turning pale as she looked around in panic. “Security! How did you let this woman in here?”
“Don’t waste your breath. The security guards today all belong to the firm I recently acquired,” I said casually, placing a black leather envelope on the vanity table right next to her tiara. “I just came to deliver a wedding gift.”
“What do you want? Money? Grant already gave you ten million dollars!” Sloane trembled, her maternal instincts giving her an ominous feeling.
“I don’t need the Whitmore family’s money. I came to return the truth to you,” I smiled, leaning close to her ear and whispering: “Do you know why I couldn’t get pregnant for eight years, Sloane? Because Grant is congenitally infertile. Eleanor used her money to seal his medical records when he was eighteen years old.”
Sloane felt as if she had been struck by lightning, her entire body shaking: “You’re… you’re lying! The twins are Grant’s! The DNA test…”
“Your forged DNA test results were sophisticated. But unfortunately, last night, I sent an accurate DNA report—issued by the most prestigious lab in the country, which I happen to fund—straight to Grant’s personal email and the entire board of directors.” I gently patted her shoulder. “Oh, and the biological father of the babies… isn’t he that private chauffeur you promoted last month?”
At the exact same time, in the main ceremonial hall.
A sudden explosion of whispers erupted like a disturbed beehive. Grant Whitmore stood on the stage, clutching his phone, his face shifting from flushed anger to a deathly, bloodless pale. On the massive screens meant to display wedding photos, the complete DNA breakdown of the twins suddenly appeared, accompanied by intimate photos of Sloane and the chauffeur in a hotel room.
Seeing the words “Probability of Paternity: 0%”, Eleanor clutched her chest and collapsed right into the front row of seats.
The major shareholders of the Whitmore Group stood up in unison. The camera flashes of the press went off continuously, capturing the most humiliating moment in the history of a billionaire family.
I walked out of the dressing room, passed through the side lounge, and looked straight into the chaotic chapel through the two-way mirror. For eight years, they treated me as a mere tool, a barren blemish. They used money to chase me away like a beggar.
They never expected that I had known about Grant’s condition since the third year of our marriage. I silently endured every injection and every insult from Eleanor just to wait for a greedy person like Sloane to appear, willingly handing over the lever that would finish them off.
My phone rang; it was a call from my private attorney: “Madam, the Whitmore Group’s stock is plummeting following the scandal. Our buyback order for 51% of the shares has been successfully executed.”
I hung up, smiling as I watched Grant roaring in madness amidst the ruined venue.
Welcome to hell, my dear ex-husband.