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.
