Chapter 1

Anonymous: [Mrs. Rachel Quentin, these are the photos of your husband and Ms. Lindsay Yates at the hotel last night.]

At the anniversary celebration of my husband's company, an anonymous text message left me frozen to the core. Watching my husband and Lindsay flirting the stage, I walked straight over and said to him, "Hector Quentin, I will divorce you."

"You mean to leave with empty hands?" He sneered. "I bet you can't even live without me for three months."

Three months later, at an industry summit, I made the evidence of plagiarism in Hector's company public. He stared at me in shock, his face ashen as he roared, "How can this be possible? What the hell did you do?"

*****

Under the spotlight, Hector held the popular actress Lindsay by her slender waist, and they smiled with what seemed like perfect happiness on stage, almost as if they were the real married couple. Guests below held champagne glasses, their faces wearing knowing smiles.

This was the Quentin Group's anniversary celebration, and I, Hector's lawful wife Rachel Evans, stood in the corner like a complete outsider. I gently swirled my champagne glass, where the continuously bursting bubbles mirrored my hopes that had been shattered over the past three years.

Just then, my phone vibrated—I received an anonymous message with nine high-definition photos attached.

Every single photo showed my husband and Lindsay checking in at the hotel front desk, kissing in the elevator, and the final one even captured Lindsay opening the door in a bathrobe. The timestamp displayed 11:27 last night.

I couldn't help but let out a scornful laugh before locking my phone screen. Last night, Hector's excuse for not returning home was an urgent matter at the company, claiming he needed to work overnight.

On stage, the host jokingly flattered them, saying, "Mr. Quentin and Ms. Yates truly look like a masterpiece crafted by the god of love." Hearing this, Lindsay shyly hid in Hector's embrace, and the audience erupted in teasing laughter.

Hector's mother, Catherine Quentin, sat at the main table, smiling with satisfaction as if the woman on stage was not her son's mistress, but a long-lost daughter.

But I had had enough. I placed my champagne glass on a waiter's tray, straightened my dress, and walked straight toward the stage. The crowd automatically parted for me, and although they lowered their voices, I could still hear their murmurs about me.

"Rach?" Hector looked flustered when he saw me, but quickly regained his composure, putting on that hypocritically gentle tone. "Why are you coming on stage?"

I ignored him, took a USB drive from my clutch, handed it to the sound technician, and said, "Please play this."

The sound technician hesitated and looked at Hector. I directly grabbed the microphone and said sharply, "I am Hector's wife, and what I say goes."

Thus, the celebratory slides on the big screen switched to videos.

First, surveillance footage of Hector and Lindsay hugging in the hotel corridor played, followed by intimate photos of Hector with some minor celebrity in a car.

Then, everyone heard a phone recording. "Don't worry, baby, that ugly, old woman won't find out about us—she's so dumb—" Hector's piercing laughter echoed throughout the venue.

The video continued, displaying all of Hector's hotel check-in records, transfer receipts, and flirty chats with other women—twelve pieces of evidence of his infidelity over the past three years were clearly laid out in chronological order.

The crowd fell into dead silence, everyone holding their breath.

"Rachel, you're insane," Hector finally realized what was happening and rushed over to grab the microphone.

I sidestepped to avoid him. He staggered, his expensive suit brushing against the dust on the edge of the stage. "Hector," I said calmly, "I want a divorce."

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Hector's face twisted fiercely, completely shedding his gentlemanly facade. "You've been using my money, and now you dare embarrass me in public? You want a divorce? Then get out with nothing."

I let out a cold laugh and then gave him a resounding slap. The crowd below was utterly shocked. Catherine screamed and rushed forward, shouting, "Security, kick this madwoman out."

"Don't bother," I calmly took a folder from my purse.

"I've already signed the divorce agreement. Mr. Quentin, you just need to sign here, here, and here," I said.

I opened the agreement, pointing to several key sections, and continued, "Oh, and also this equity transfer document. According to our prenuptial agreement, the unfaithful party must unconditionally transfer 50% of their shares to the other. I'll gladly accept the 15% stake in Quentin Group."

Hector gritted his teeth and said, "You wish."

I shrugged. "Fine, we'll see you in court. I'm sure the media will be very interested in these videos."

Hector, though extremely reluctant, signed the divorce agreement.

Just then, the big screen suddenly switched to a live financial news broadcast: "Breaking news: Quentin Group is suspected of financial fraud. The SEC has filed an investigation, and the stock price plummeted 30% at the opening—"

The venue fell into chaos. I glanced at the alert I had set on my phone and smiled slightly. I had already learned of this news through special channels yesterday and sold all my Quentin Group shares.

Picking up my clutch, I turned and walked off the stage. Behind me, Hector's hysterical roars and Catherine's cries echoed, but I only felt an unprecedented sense of relief. My three years of enduring humiliation had finally come to an end today.