I never told my mother-in-law that the “poor countryside girl” she tried to pay off to leave her son was actually the daughter of a powerful businessman. She threw a check for $5,000 in my face at the family dinner, laughing, “Take this and disappear. My son needs a wife with connections, not a charity case.”

I should’ve known something was off when Victoria insisted we come to her penthouse for a “family dinner.” We rarely did that—usually restaurants, neutral territory. But she was insistent, almost frantic.

“We need to discuss family matters,” she said cryptically.

I arrived in my usual understated way—simple Macy’s dress, minimal jewelry, practical shoes. Victoria greeted me with a look I couldn’t fully read—some mix of pity and contempt.

Dinner was elaborate: oysters, duck confit, aged wine. Victoria and Mark talked business, circling the Blackwood merger and how to “position Mark properly.”

Then the salad arrived, and Victoria’s voice shifted.

“Elena, dear,” she began, dripping false sympathy. “Mark and I have been discussing the future. His future. And we’ve come to a difficult conclusion.”

I set down my fork. “What conclusion?”

“You’re holding him back,” she said bluntly. “Mark needs a certain image. A wife with connections, social standing, with… value. I’m sure you’re sweet, but you aren’t equipped to be the wife of a major CEO.”

I looked at Mark, waiting for him to defend me.

He said nothing.

“What are you suggesting?” I asked quietly.

“A divorce,” Victoria said, as casually as changing courses. “Amicable. And we’ll make it worth your while. We’re not heartless.”

That’s when she pulled out the checkbook.

That’s when she wrote five thousand dollars.

That’s when she told me to go back to my “dustbowl farm.”

And that’s when Mark—my husband, the man I supported and loved—said: “We need this merger, El. Mom’s right… I need to be free to court the Blackwood heiress if we’re going to save the company.”

The Blackwood heiress. Me. He was preparing to leave me to pursue me.

It would’ve been hilarious if it hadn’t been so devastating.

Walking Away

I left the penthouse and took a cab straight to my lawyer. Rachel Chen handled my personal legal matters separately from my father’s team. She knew my real identity and helped me keep the fiction intact.

“I need a divorce,” I told her. “Tonight.”

Rachel didn’t interrogate me. She pulled out contingency paperwork—prenup enforcement, asset separation, everything.

“The prenup protects everything you brought in,” she reminded me. “He gets nothing. But Elena—are you sure? If you tell him—”

“He chose,” I said flatly. “He chose money over me. He stayed because he thought I was nobody. The second I became inconvenient, he was ready to trade me in.”