My Husband Humili:ated Me For His Mistress… So I Called My Billionaire Father And Said, “Des:troy Him.”
PART 3
Five minutes after my phone call, Damien Cross’s empire began collapsing in front of him.
His screen kept lighting up.
BOARD CHAIRMAN.
BANK.
ATTORNEY.
CFO.
UNKNOWN.
UNKNOWN.
UNKNOWN.
By mistake, he answered one call on speaker.
A furious voice exploded through the hall.
“Damien, what the hell did you do? Whitmore pulled everything. The lenders want immediate repayment. Reporters are calling about fraud allegations!”
Damien shouted, “Shut up!”
Naomi lifted her tablet.
“Too late. The emergency board vote has passed. You have been removed as CEO.”
Celeste grabbed his arm.
“Damien, fix this.”
He turned on her.
“Fix it? You told me she was nobody!”
Celeste’s face twisted.
“You said she was weak!”
I almost laughed.
Quietly.
Painfully.
That was their love.
Blame searching for shelter.
Police sirens echoed beyond the gates.
Damien looked at me then.
Really looked at me.
As if, for the first time, he saw a human being where he had always kept a possession.
“Emma,” he whispered. “We can talk.”
“You struck me twenty times because your mistress lied well enough,” I said. “There is nothing left to discuss.”
His voice broke.
“I was angry.”
“You were cruel.”
“I’ll give you anything.”
“You already did.”
He stared.
I picked up the divorce folder from the floor, opened it, and let the pages fall one by one at his feet.
“You gave me evidence. You gave me motive. You gave me witnesses. You gave me freedom.”
Celeste suddenly moved toward the side door.
Naomi spoke without even looking up.
“Ms. Monroe, I wouldn’t leave. Investigators are also reviewing transfers made from Cross Holdings into your boutique account.”
Celeste froze.
Her victorious pregnancy smile vanished.
“You can’t prove anything,” she whispered.
Naomi tapped the screen once.
“We already have.”
When the police entered, Damien did not fight.
He simply collapsed into one of the velvet chairs beneath the chandelier, his face empty, his hands shaking.
The same hall where he had broken me became the place where officers read him his rights.
Celeste cried first.
Damien cried second.
I did not cry until my father arrived.
He walked past everyone, removed his cashmere coat, and wrapped it around my shoulders without saying a word.
Then he held me like I was six years old again, crying over a scraped knee in the garden.
Only this wound was deeper.
And so was the healing.
Six months later, Cross Holdings no longer existed. Its legitimate assets were absorbed legally, its criminal records were handed to prosecutors, and its once-golden founder was facing prison time for fraud and assault.
Celeste sold every fake luxury bag she owned to pay her attorneys, then discovered that no wealthy man wanted a scandal wrapped in debt.
As for me, I returned to Whitmore Group.
Not as a hidden daughter.
Not as a quiet wife.
But as Chief Strategy Officer.
At my first board meeting, faint scars still marked my back.
I wore a white silk blouse anyway.
Not to hide them.
To remind myself that I survived the night they mistook silence for weakness.
And when my father asked if I wanted revenge, I looked out over the city glowing beneath our tower and smiled.
“No,” I said. “I already have peace.”
