Chapter 2 - The Sixty Percent Secret
By day fourteen, the cracks in Julian’s perfect new life were becoming visible to the entire corporate world.
Mercer Holdings was a titan in commercial real estate, but Julian was only its public face. I had been its heartbeat. I was the one who hosted the board members’ wives, remembered the birthdays of our investors’ children, and smoothed over Julian’s aggressive, often arrogant negotiation tactics. Without me managing his public relations, Julian was entirely exposed.
The tabloids, initially eager to paint me as the discarded older wife, suddenly shifted their narrative. Mia had been spotted in town, throwing a spectacular tantrum at a high-end boutique because Julian’s black card had been declined. The sixty percent liquid asset transfer had legally cleared, freezing Julian’s primary operating accounts until the final divorce decree. He was a billionaire on paper, but he couldn't afford to buy his mistress a ten-thousand-dollar handbag.
The story went viral. BILLIONAIRE'S NEW GIRLFRIEND CAUGHT SCREAMING OVER DECLINED CARD.
Liam, my contractor, saw the article while we were sharing a thermos of coffee on my newly repaired porch. He leaned against the wooden railing, wiping sawdust from his jeans, and glanced at me with quiet amusement.
“You know, you’re taking this whole 'scorned wife' thing very poorly,” Liam teased, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re supposed to be crying into a pint of ice cream, not helping me sand mahogany floorboards.”
“Ice cream is for people who didn't see the crash coming,” I replied, looking out over the misty mountain valley. “I packed a parachute.”
Back in Charleston, Julian’s life was turning into a nightmare. Mia wasn't a partner; she was a parasite. She didn't understand why they couldn't take the private jet to Paris for the weekend (the jet was grounded due to maintenance fees I had purposefully delayed paying before I left). She whined about the empty manor, the lack of staff, and the coldness of Julian’s social circle, who flatly refused to accept a twenty-two-year-old waitress at their charity galas.
Julian’s desperate attempts to reach me escalated. He called six times a day. He left voicemails that morphed from demanding, to frustrated, to dangerously vulnerable.
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“Claire, this is ridiculous. The Henderson account is pulling out because you aren't hosting the retreat this year. Call me back. We need to fix this.”
He still thought this was a business negotiation. He still thought I was an employee who had gone on strike. He didn't realize that I had already handed in my resignation to his life, and I was never going back.
