The Perfect Revenge Plan Against My Cheating Wife and Her Young Lover in a Million-Dollar Penthouse in Milan.
Part 3: The Escalation of Desperation
“How dare you walk in here looking so smug, Julian!” Eleanor barked the moment I stepped into the living room. She was a bitter, grasping woman who had spent her entire life trying to live vicariously through her daughter’s newfound wealth. “Look at what you’ve done to my daughter! She’s a nervous wreck! Forcing her to endure the humiliation of having her cards declined? Locking her out of her own company? You are a controlling, abusive monster!”
I slowly took off my tailored overcoat and hung it in the closet, completely ignoring Eleanor’s outburst. I walked over to the bar, poured myself a neat glass of whiskey, and turned to face them. Celine was weeping softly, burying her face in her mother’s shoulder, occasionally glancing up to see my reaction. She wanted to see me break. She wanted me to apologize, to grovel, to give her back the keys to my kingdom.
“Eleanor, this is a private matter between my wife and me,” I said, my voice steady, cutting through the emotional hysteria in the room. “Your presence here is neither required nor welcome.”
“This involves me when you treat my daughter like a criminal!” Eleanor shouted, standing up and pointing a manicured finger at me. “Celine made your brand what it is today! Without her face, her talent, and her vision, you’d just be another boring billionaire in a grey suit. She deserves half of everything, and if you think you can freeze her out, we will take you to court and ruin your reputation in every fashion magazine from Milan to New York!”
Celine finally spoke up, her voice trembling with calculated vulnerability. “Julian… why are you doing this to me? Is it because I’ve been busy lately? Because I haven’t been able to give you enough attention? I’ve been under so much pressure with the new collection. And now you do this? I thought you loved me. I thought we were a team. If you have a problem with me, talk to me! Don’t destroy my life’s work out of spite!”
It was a masterclass in manipulation. She was trying to shift the blame onto my insecurities, making it seem like I was acting out because I felt neglected. She was fishing to see how much I knew, all while playing the tragic, overworked wife.
“Your life’s work?” I asked, raising an eyebrow as I took a sip of my drink. “Let’s be precise, Celine. The brand’s intellectual property, the supply chains, the manufacturing contracts, and the real estate are all owned by Aventine Holdings. A shell company that I control 100%. You are an employee with a glamorous title and a generous salary. You own exactly what you brought into this marriage: nothing.”
Celine’s face went completely pale. The tears stopped instantly, replaced by a look of sheer panic. “What… what are you talking about? You said we were partners. You said you were going to transfer the shares to me for our anniversary!”
“I was going to,” I said, walking over to the coffee table and placing a sleek, silver flash drive directly in front of her. “Until yesterday afternoon at 2:15 PM. When I decided to come back from Paris early.”
The silence that fell over the room was absolute. Celine stared at the flash drive as if it were a venomous snake. Her mother looked confused, glancing between her daughter and the device.
“What is that?” Eleanor demanded, though her voice lacked its previous bravado.
“That, Eleanor, is a high-definition recording from the penthouse dressing room,” I replied, my eyes locked entirely on Celine. “It captures your daughter and her new brand ambassador, Julian Russo, discussing how they plan to divorce me, take half my fortune to the Mediterranean, and systematically embezzle corporate funds into a private Swiss account. It also includes a very vivid demonstration of them violating the morality clause of both our marriage and his employment contract on our marble dressing table.”
Celine gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. Every ounce of color drained from her skin. She looked at me with wide, terrified eyes, realizing that her entire carefully constructed future had just evaporated in a single second.
“Julian… please,” she whispered, her voice dropping all pretense of anger, replaced by pure desperation. “It… it didn’t mean anything. He seduced me. I was lonely, you were always working! It was just a mistake, a stupid game! Please, we can talk about this!”
“The time for talking is over, Celine,” I said coldly. “You wanted to play a high-stakes game with a businessman. Now it’s time to look at the balance sheet.”
She threw herself off the couch, dropping to her knees on the rug, reaching out to grab my legs, begging through a torrent of real, unscripted tears. But as I looked down at her, I felt absolutely nothing. The trap was fully closed, but the final, definitive blow was yet to come.
