Tricked Into a Divorce, I Crushed His Empire

Synopsis

The call was from the bank's credit manager. A gentle voice asked tentatively, "Excuse me, is this Mrs. Lane?" I held my coffee cup, my fingertips unconsciously tracing the patterns on its surface. "My last name is Sutton," I replied. There was a brief pause. Then the caller quickly corrected, "Sorry, Ms. Sutton. "Here's the thing. Lane & Sutton Holdings has a recent cash flow gap. Mr. Lane proposed using the villa at Rosewood Estates, two office buildings in the Wall Street District, and the property in the commercial center under your name as collateral—" I set the coffee cup down. The base of the cup touched the marble countertop, making a soft, crisp sound. "Ms. Smith," I said, cutting her off. "First, Andrew and I finalized our divorce a year ago. "Second, those properties were all sold off three weeks after the divorce. "So I can't help him." On the other end, the silence was deafening. After a long moment, the caller finally found her voice, her tone rising half an octave. "S-Sold? All of them? Does Mr. Lane know?" I glanced down at my freshly manicured nails, which were deep red, like dried blood. I said, "Why would I bother telling him? "Do I need to explain to some stranger how I deal with my own property?" Before she could say another word, I hung up. The room fell silent. Outside, the sycamore trees were deep into autumn, their yellow leaves drifting down one by one. A year ago, Andrew Lane sat across from me, holding two sets of divorce papers with an unlit cigarette between his index and middle fingers. He said, "Claire, the company is gearing up for an IPO. We need to adjust the asset structure. It's a formality. Let's handle the paperwork for now. "The moment we ring the bell at the IPO, the very first thing I'll do is marry you again." He looked at me with genuine sincerity. It was like the very first day we met. I signed the papers. As we walked out of the courthouse, he wrapped his arms around me from behind, his chin gently resting on my shoulder. "Be good. Wait for me," he said softly. I said yes. Then I watched as his black Maybach slipped into traffic and vanished at the intersection. A month later, my friend, Sophie Young, sent me a photo. In the picture, Andrew was dressed in a black tuxedo with a white boutonniere pinned to his chest. Standing beside him was a woman. She wore a white wedding dress that trailed on the floor, holding a bouquet of white roses, her other hand protectively cradling her slightly rounded belly. It was Rose Simmons. Andrew chased her for three years back in college. He'd call out her name in his drunken state, saying it was always his biggest regret.