Chapter 3: The Price of Treachery
The social exile was faster than the financial one. Within forty-eight hours, the "Meridian Club" fiasco was the talk of every headline. But it wasn't the "poor, abandoned wife" story Julian had banked on.
Amelia hadn't said a word to the press. She didn't have to. The financial papers did it for her. Ashborne Trust Recalls Grant Assets: A Billion-Dollar Deception Uncovered.
The articles were brutal. They detailed how Julian Grant had been a figurehead, a "talentless darling" who had spent years capitalizing on the Ashborne fortune while cultivating a secret life. They published the internal emails—not the ones about business, but the ones where Julian mocked his own investors, the ones where he bragged about "handling" his wife.
Serena Vale was not spared. Her social media was flooded with photos of her wearing the bracelet—the heirloom bracelet—with captions like The Cost of Stolen Jewels and How to Bankrupt Your Boyfriend.
In a luxury hotel suite—which Julian was currently charging to his last remaining personal credit card—the honeymoon phase ended in a screaming match that lasted until dawn.
"You said we’d be untouchable!" Serena shouted, throwing a crystal vase against the wall. It shattered, a pathetic echo of the night at the ballroom. "You said you were the one calling the shots!"
"I was!" Julian roared, pacing the small room like a caged animal. "I built this company! She just signed the checks!"
"She owned the company, Julian! You are a glorified intern with a nice watch!" Serena spat. "I didn't leave my life for a loser who’s going to end up in a studio apartment in Queens."
"You left your life for money," Julian grabbed her wrists. "Don't pretend you loved me. You loved the idea of being the wife of the man who ran the world. Well, guess what? The world doesn't know who you are."
Serena yanked her hands away, looking at him with a mix of revulsion and cold calculation. "The world doesn't know who I am because I’m smart enough to leave before the ship sinks. You’re done, Julian. The Ashborne family is filing a lawsuit for the misappropriation of funds. You’re going to jail."
She walked to the closet, packing her bag.
"Where are you going?" he demanded, his voice cracking.
"To find someone who actually has money," she said, not looking back. "And to delete your number. I suggest you do the same with mine."
Julian was left alone. He slumped onto the edge of the bed, the silence of the room heavier than the ballroom had ever been. He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over Amelia’s contact. A part of him—the desperate, arrogant part—thought he could fix it. He thought that if he just apologized, if he played the wounded husband, she would come back to the table. She was soft. She was devoted. She was Amelia.
He pressed call.
The phone rang. And rang.
Then, a new voice answered. It wasn't Amelia. It was her mother, Victoria.
"Julian," she said, her voice dripping with lethal amusement. "I wouldn't call that number again. Unless you want to hear from our litigation team regarding your harassment of the sole shareholder."
"Victoria, please," he whimpered. "I just want to talk to her. She’s making a mistake."
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"The only mistake, Julian, was the day she decided to marry a man who thought a red wine stain was an insult, rather than a warning."
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