The Revenge of the divorced wife

The morning sun filtered softly through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Cross Estate, casting warm streaks across the marble floor of the master suite. Vivienne Hartley-Cross stood by the vanity, brushing the final coat of nude gloss over her lips. She looked radiant-polished, poised, every inch the picture-perfect wife of a billionaire mogul.

Julian always liked her this way. Controlled. Presentable. Elegant but never loud.

She glanced at the clock. 8:12 a.m.

Julian should've been home by now.

He'd been working late more often, claiming global mergers and overseas investors required his round-the-clock attention. Vivienne believed him. Or at least, she tried to.

The sound of the front door echoed faintly through the hallway.

She checked her reflection once more, smoothed her silk blouse, and walked out of the room, heels clicking against polished floors. As she descended the grand staircase, she spotted Julian entering the foyer-suited up in navy, a look of fatigue carved into his sharp features. But it wasn't the exhaustion that unsettled her. It was the detachment.

"You're back early," she said, forcing a smile as she reached the bottom step.

His eyes flicked toward her. Cold. Guarded.

"We need to talk," he said flatly.

Vivienne blinked. "Okay. About what?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he reached into his briefcase and pulled out a thick envelope. Her name was printed on the front in stark, legal type.

"What is this?" she asked, already knowing.

"A divorce petition."

Her heart stopped. "Julian-what?"

He didn't flinch. "I've already filed."

The room tilted. For a moment, she couldn't hear anything but the rush of blood in her ears.

"There must be some mistake," she whispered. "We-we had dinner two nights ago. We laughed. You kissed me goodbye yesterday morning."

He let out a breath, controlled and tight. "It's over, Vivienne."

"Why?" she croaked. "What did I do?"

His jaw tightened. "I know about the affair."

The words knocked the air from her lungs.

"What affair?"

"You and Noah Kensington," he said, naming the art curator who'd been helping her plan an exhibit. "Don't lie. I have proof."

She stared at him, horrified. "I never-Julian, I didn't cheat on you."

"I saw the messages."

"What messages?"

"You know what you did."

"No, I don't," she snapped, voice trembling. "Show me. Show me the proof you think you have."

But he didn't. He simply turned and walked toward his study.

"Julian!" she called, following him. "You can't just throw twelve years away like this-"

"Twelve years you threw away the moment you decided to crawl into bed with someone else!" he exploded, finally facing her, fury in his eyes.

"I didn't," she said, voice cracking. "I swear to you. I've never touched anyone else. I don't even look at anyone else!"

He shook his head. "The documents are clean. You'll be taken care of. I've arranged a settlement. Just sign and let it go."

"I'm not signing anything."

"You will," he said, voice sharp like steel. "Because you have no choice."

And with that, he left the room, leaving her standing in the center of their mansion, as everything she thought was permanent shattered into a thousand jagged pieces.

******

Vivienne hadn't moved from the couch in hours.

The envelope lay unopened on the glass coffee table, glaring at her like a curse. Her mind had gone numb, spiraling in circles-trying to process the avalanche of Julian's cold, controlled fury from that morning.

Accusations. Divorce. Cheating.

She hadn't even had time to deny it properly. He'd stormed out, left her with legal paperwork and a heart full of splinters. Twelve years of loyalty erased in a single conversation.

She still hadn't cried.

She didn't know why.

Instead, she sat there like a statue, still in her blouse and tailored slacks, staring blankly at the untouched coffee she'd poured just after sunrise. The world outside their estate moved on as if nothing had happened. But Vivienne's world had ended at 8:14 a.m.

A buzz vibrated from the kitchen island.

Her phone.

Slowly, she walked toward it-legs heavy like they belonged to someone else. A name flashed across the screen: Clara Beaumont, her oldest friend and one of the city's top interior designers.

Relief flickered.

Maybe someone believed her.

"Clara," she whispered as she answered.

"Viv," Clara's voice came through in a breathless panic. "Oh my god. Are you okay?"

"No," Vivienne said. "Julian served me divorce papers this morning. I-I don't even know what's happening."

"I just saw PageSix," Clara said urgently. "They posted it twenty minutes ago. It's everywhere."

Vivienne's blood ran cold. "What?"

"The headlines are brutal. They're calling you 'The Cheating Trophy Wife.' Someone leaked everything."

"I didn't cheat."

"I know. But the story's spreading like wildfire. Viv, they've got screenshots of texts with someone named Noah-flirty ones. Doctored, obviously, but it looks... bad."

Vivienne gripped the edge of the counter. "He's an art curator. We barely had lunch."

"Well, the press is running with it," Clara said. "I'd lay low if I were you. Journalists are going to start circling."

The line cut out for a moment, but it didn't matter. Vivienne barely heard the rest. Her ears were ringing. Screenshots. Gossip. Fabricated evidence.

Her chest tightened. Julian didn't just believe a lie-he launched it into the world.