The Billionaire’s Betrayal: A Vengeful Wife’s Revenge

1.

It was our third wedding anniversary.

And Sylvans gift to me was a spectacular betrayal.

Right now, he was soaking up the sun in St. Barts.

The entire beach wedding was being live-streamed, as if to make sure I wouldn't miss a single detail.

I sat by the floor-to-ceiling windows of our Tribeca penthouse, the smiling faces of the new couple glowing on my iPad.

My hand drifted to my stomach. It was still flat.

But my heart was surprisingly calm.

Since he had decided to start a new family with someone else, the child between us was no longer necessary.

When a triumphant Sylvan finally returned home, his assistant stopped him, looking troubled.

"Sylvan, Chloe she saw everything. The baby is gone. And so is she."

He froze on the spot.

Meanwhile, I was in his arch-rival's office, handing over every piece of dirt I had on his business.

Our third anniversary.

The twenty-million-dollar duplex felt terrifyingly empty. I could only hear my own heartbeat.

The antique clock on the wall ticked slowly, heavily, toward eight p.m.

On the dining table, the rosemary roasted chicken and black truffle risotto Id spent all afternoon preparing had gone cold. A layer of white grease had formed on top. It looked disgusting.

The scented candles had burned out. Their smoke vanished into the cold air from the central AC.

Just like my last three years.

Sylvan didn't come home.

I called him three times. Each one went to voicemail.

There was no fourth call.

The phone screen went dark, reflecting my emotionless face.

Suddenly, a notification from Page Six popped up. The bold headline was blinding.

[EXCLUSIVE: Thorne Capital CEO's Secret Island Vows: An Outrageously Lavish "Second Wedding"]

My finger hovered over the screen. It didn't tremble.

I tapped it.

A high-definition video filled the screen. Blue seas, clear skies, and sand as white as snow. Well-dressed New York socialites sat on beach chairs draped in white roses.

At the center of it all was my legal husband, Sylvan Thorne, wearing a custom Tom Ford white suit. He was gazing deeply at the woman beside him in a Vera Wang wedding gown.

Bella Rose.

His mistress of two years. An Instagram model who had recently blown up.

She was stunningly beautiful today. The diamonds on her dress glittered under the tropical sun, so bright they almost burned my eyes.

2.

The officiant was reading the vows.

The sea breeze was too strong, so I couldn't hear clearly.

I only saw Sylvan bow his head, take Bella's hand, and place a massive pink diamond ring on her finger.

It was far larger than the one he gave me at St. Patrick's Cathedral three years ago.

He kissed the back of her hand and looked up. His eyes were so tender they could melt glaciers.

Then he leaned into the microphone, his magnetic voiceDthe voice I once adoredDbooming for the whole world to hear:

"I, Sylvan Thorne, take you, Bella Rose, to be my one and only soulmate"

Word for word.

Exactly what he had said to me three years ago.

A wave of nausea churned in my stomach.

I didn't cry. I didn't smash the expensive Baccarat crystal glasses like he probably expected.

I just watched silently. My right hand rested unconsciously on my stomach.

There was a twelve-week-old life in there.

The life of a child hed casually dismissed a month ago when he learned the news, saying, "Have it. It's a Thorne heir."

The immense humiliation and betrayal felt like the icy waters of the Hudson River closing over my head.

When the tide receded, all that was left was a dead, chilling clarity.

I finally saw it.

My love, my patience, my compromises to be the "perfect wife," and even the child in my wombDthey were all just assets and liabilities on Sylvan Thorne's balance sheet. Replaceable.

I was the "official wife," meant to maintain his respectable public image. Bella was his "true love," meant to satisfy his vanity.

He was using this live stream to tell me: Chloe, look. I can have you, my dutiful wife, and I can have the woman I love. I am Sylvan Thorne. I don't have to choose.

And you just have to accept it.

I curled my lip into a smirk. I closed the video.

The screen froze on his smug, triumphant face.

I opened my contacts and scrolled to a number that had sat at the bottom of my list for three years, never once dialed.

The contact name was "Damon Pierce."

I sent him an iMessage:

"Mr. Pierce, interested in watching him fall from grace?"

Message sent.

I stood up, took the cold gourmet dinner and the expensive cake, and dumped it all into the garbage disposal.

The machine roared, grinding everything to shreds.

I picked up my phone and booked the earliest appointment for the next day at a private clinic on the Upper East Side.

In the section for the reason for the visit, I checked the box:

Procedure: Patient's Choice.

Sylvan, since you gave me a devastating betrayal.

Ill give you the most absolute verdict.

3.

The next morning, Manhattan was shrouded in a gray mist.

I sat alone in the plush waiting room of the private clinic. The air smelled of faint perfume mixed with disinfectant. There was none of the chaos of a public hospital. Only silence and expensive privacy.

A nurse called my name.

"Mrs. Thorne?"

I looked up. "Call me Ms. Vance."

The doctor, a top specialist in his field, looked at my ultrasound report. He peered at me over his gold-rimmed glasses.

"Twelve weeks. The fetus is developing perfectly. Ms. Vance, are you sure you don't want to reconsider? Under New York state law"

I cut him off with a nod. My voice was calm.

"I'm very clear. I'm sure."

The doctor frowned, looking like he wanted to say more. But when he saw the empty resolve in my eyes, he just sighed and handed me a document.

"Please sign the consent form."

I picked up the pen. The tip hovered over the signature line for less than a second.

In that second, what flashed through my mind wasn't a future nursery or tiny hands and feet. It was the image of Sylvan on that beach, promising forever to another woman.

I signed my name cleanly on the line.

Chloe Vance.

My signature had never looked so sharp.

The moment I signed it, I felt something tear away from my body. Not the childDthat would happen after the procedure. It was the last remaining tie between Sylvan and me.

I once thought this child could save our marriage. Now I understood it would only become a shackle I could never escape.

I wouldn't let Sylvan use this child to trap me in his world. I wouldn't let him point to this child ten years from now and say, "For the sake of the child, forgive me."

I was cutting all ties. Completely.

A nurse led me into the procedure room. Cold metal table, blinding lights. The anesthesiologist was preparing the IV.

Lying on the table, a chill spread from my arm through my entire body. I closed my eyes.

The last image in my mind before the darkness came was Sylvan's smiling face as he made his vows to Bella on the beach.

He said, "My one and only soulmate."

How ironic.

4.

The procedure was over.

I rested in the recovery room for an hour. A nurse asked if I wanted to call someone to pick me up. I shook my head.

I didn't go back to the penthouse. I couldn't call that place "home" anymore.

I took a cab to a bank on Wall Street.

Using my ID and an iris scan, I opened a safe deposit box I had prepared a full year ago.

Inside lay a black, encrypted hard drive.

I took it out and slipped it into my discreet Herms Birkin bag.

The drive contained every dirty transaction Sylvan Thorne had ever made to build his empire.

These were the "original sins" of his business that hed boasted to me about whenever he was drunk, trying to prove how invincible he was.

Records of his money laundering through offshore shell companies.

Backup recordings of insider trading.

Evidence of him hiring hackers to attack competitors' servers during hostile takeovers.

I once thought these confessions were proof of his love for me. Proof of his absolute trust.

Now I knew he just saw me as a completely safe, loyal trash can.

A docile "trophy wife" who would listen silently and then forget everything.

But he miscalculated one thing.

I studied art. My memory for detail is photographic.

And the moment he betrayed me, I was no longer his wife.

I returned to the building that was once our "love nest."

The housekeeper, Maria, saw my pale face and gasped, rushing forward to help me.

"Ma'am, what happened? You look so pale! Should I call the doctor?"

I looked up at her with a coldness she had never seen before.

"That won't be necessary, Maria. You can go rest."

I walked straight up to the master bedroom on the second floor.

I had designed everything in here, from the imported Italian furniture to the art on the walls. Now it all just made me sick.

I went into the walk-in closet. It was divided perfectly in two.

One side was for Sylvan's endless collection of designer suits and shirts; the other was mine.

I didn't touch a single thing of his. Not even the jewelry he had given me.

I only took the vintage pearl earrings my mother left me and all of my art supplies.

They were the tools of my trade from before I married him, back when I was a promising curator and painter.

My suitcase was small. Too small for three years of memories, too small for a shattered love.

On my way out, I placed a document and a ring on the marble console table in the foyer.

The signed divorce papers.

And that priceless pink diamond wedding ring.

Finally, I walked into the living room and picked up the first painting I ever gave him.

It was a painting of me at twenty-three and him at twenty-seven, laughing under the gingko trees in Central Park.

I took a utility knife from my bag and slashed at the smiling face on the canvas. Again and again.

The sound of tearing canvas was deafening in the silent space.

When the image was nothing but shreds, I dropped the knife, grabbed my small suitcase, and walked out of the golden cage that had imprisoned me for three years without looking back.

5.

The moment I stepped out of the building's revolving doors, a call came from Sylvan's assistant, Marcus.

I hung up immediately.

I could imagine that arrogant man had probably just landed. He was likely sitting in the back of a Lincoln, annoyed but with a patronizing sense of guilt, telling his assistant to test the waters with me.

"Is she throwing a fit?"

"Let her. When she's done, give her the black card and tell her to go shopping on Fifth Avenue."

That was always his method. Throw money at every mistake.

Too bad it wouldn't work this time.

JFK Airport, VIP terminal.

Sylvan had just stepped off his private jet. He was dressed casually, a smug look on his face he couldn't hide.

He had just settled Bella into a suite at the Four Seasons, promising she could move into the penthouse in a few days. Now he couldn't wait to get home and see Chloe's reaction.

He even had the script planned out.

He would tell her the wedding was just for business, to solidify a partnership with the Rose family.

He would tell her that the position of his wife would always be hers.

He was certain that Chloe, like countless times before, would cry and scream and then choose to forgive him.

After all, she loved him so much. And she was carrying his child.

He took out his phone and called his assistant, Marcus.

"Home yet?" he asked cheerfully. "Where is she? Crying in the bedroom?"

On the other end of the line, Marcus's voice was trembling.

"Mr. Thorne"

Sylvan frowned. "Say it. What's with the hesitation?"

"No, sir." Marcus took a deep breath. "Mrs. Thorne she didn't say anything."

"The live stream she saw all of it."

A knot formed in Sylvan's stomach.

Didn't say anything? That wasn't like Chloe.

"Where is she?"

There was a long silence on the other end.

Marcus's voice was filled with dread. "Sir you need to prepare yourself."

"The baby is gone."

"Mrs. Thorne left behind the divorce papers and her ring. She's disappeared."

Sylvan's mind went completely blank.

He bolted out of the airport like a madman, jumped in his car, and ordered the driver to speed home.

He burst through the door, but he wasn't met with his wife's tears. He was met with dead silence.

He sprinted upstairs. Chloe's side of the walk-in closet was completely empty.

On the nightstand were only the divorce papers and the cold, hard ring.

His hands trembled as he picked up the papers.

Chloe Vance's signature was calm and resolute.

He turned and saw the painting on the wall, slashed to ribbons.

It had once been the symbol of their love. Now it was just a pile of rags.

A chill shot up from his feet to the top of his head.

He finally realized Chloe wasn't just throwing a tantrum.

She was really and truly done with him.