Chapter 3

Grandmother had forbidden me from telling Julian that I was the sole heiress of Victoria Vance, Chairwoman of Vance Capital.

Back then, I thought she was being overly cynical.

Yet she stood firm, insisting that my true background stay hidden until our marriage was undeniably solid.

Over the years, I only operated behind the scenes at Vance Capital under an English corporate alias, making high-level investment calls. Very few people in high finance knew my face.

Julian only ever believed I did freelance consulting for boutique funds.

I had envisioned telling him everything the moment we got married.

Yet he couldn't even bear to bring me out into the light of day.

In that case, there was no longer any need for him to know.

I sat across from my grandmother, my voice hoarse.

"Grandmother, am I a complete failure?"

She held my gaze for a long time.

"Falling for the wrong man isn't a failure, child."

"Knowing he isn't worth it, yet letting the rest of your life be buried alongside your past—that is failure."

Tears finally escaped, trailing down my cheeks.

I looked down at the band on my ring finger.

On the night he proposed, Julian had dropped to one knee by the riverfront, fireworks illuminating the night sky behind him.

He told me, "Chloe, I finally have the right to give you a real home."

I had wept so hard I couldn't speak.

My mother passed away when I was young, and my father quickly remarried. While Grandmother loved me fiercely, she was never one for sweet, comforting words.

Julian had been the very first person to pull me into his arms and whisper, "You'll never be alone again."

So I clung to him for dear life.

I held on for seven years, bleeding through my palms, refusing to let go.

Grandmother asked softly, "Have you made up your mind?"

I slipped the diamond ring off my finger and set it on the marble coffee table.

"I've made up my mind."

"Halt the capital injection. Rescind all our credit guarantees. Launch an immediate risk audit on all of Sterling Group's active ventures."

"And get the divorce papers signed."

Speaking those words felt like ripping a rusted needle out of my chest, tearing away flesh and blood.

Grandmother watched me without offering empty platitudes. She simply slid the landline phone toward me.

"Make your own choices, and own the consequences."

I nodded, picking up the receiver to call our legal counsel.

The attorney inquired, "Ms. Vance, are you certain about this?"

Staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows, I whispered, "I'm certain."

That afternoon, a friend request popped up on my phone from Mia.

The moment I accepted, her first message rolled in:

[Chloe Vance, honestly, sometimes I really pity you.]

She attached a photo.

It was Julian's copy of our marriage certificate, resting on his dashboard.

Her manicured finger was pressed directly over my name, the crimson polish glaring against the paper.

[I saw it the moment he came to the hospital yesterday.]

[Chloe, so what if you got the certificate?]

[As long as he refuses to acknowledge you publicly, you’ll never be anything more than a dirty little secret.]

So she knew the whole time.

She knew we had tied the knot, knew I had waited seven years, and knew Julian had blatantly lied to my face for her sake.

Yet she still wrapped herself in his jacket, flaunted it on social media, and shoved this humiliation down my throat on purpose.

I turned on screen recording and archived every single message and photo.

Then, I sent her one solitary reply:

[Make sure you dress up tomorrow, Mia.]