My Husband Brought His Pregnant Mistress Home To My Estate — So I Left Him With Nothing But Crushing Debt

Part 2

The scratch of my fountain pen was the only sound in the freezing study as I meticulously outlined the immediate cessation of all trust payments.

I wrote for hours while the biting autumn wind howled outside, violently rattling the thin glass panes of the tall windows.

The bitter cold seeped deep into my bones, yet my mind remained entirely clear.

I wasn’t just walking away from a failed marriage.

I was executing a perfectly calculated financial demolition.

The morning sun offered absolutely no warmth when it finally filtered through the heavy gray clouds.

Instead of going down to the formal breakfast room, I walked straight toward the east wing.

I knocked twice on the heavy door of the blue room and entered without waiting for a reply.

Heather was kneeling on the cold hardwood floor, violently retching over a porcelain chamber pot.

The harsh smell of stomach acid hung heavily in the stale air.

For a fraction of a second, raw disgust flared in my chest.

But looking at her thin shoulders shaking uncontrollably beneath a worn cotton nightgown, the disgust vanished.

It left behind nothing but a hollow, practical pity.

I crossed the room, poured a glass of freezing water from the crystal carafe, and handed it to her.

She flinched violently when my hand brushed her shoulder.

She choked out frantic apologies, begging to go home to the tiny ribbon shop where he had found her.

I stood up slowly, looking out the frost-covered window at the sprawling, dying estate.

I calmly informed her that I was packing my trunks this afternoon and returning to my family’s estate in Yorkshire.

She stared at me in complete incomprehension, asking if I was throwing her out into the snow.

I shook my head and told her I was simply leaving them this grand house entirely to themselves.

I reached into my skirt pocket and pulled out the folded copies of the ledgers I had drafted hours earlier.

I placed the damning papers squarely on the small table next to her washstand.

I explained in a hard, cold whisper that Greg was drowning in insurmountable debt and my money was the only thing keeping the bailiffs away.

I warned her that by Friday, my lawyers would freeze every single account.

She backed away, hitting the edge of the mattress as sheer terror returned to her wide eyes.

I pointed to the heavy oak dresser in the corner and told her there were ten pounds in the top drawer.

I advised her to take it and buy a train ticket back to London before the first major frost set in.

I promised her this massive house was going to get very, very cold within a matter of days.

I stepped out into the hallway and closed the door with a soft, decisive click.

My lady’s maid packed my personal trunks with militant efficiency.

Greg burst into my suite an hour later, demanding I unpack and attempting to command me like a disobedient servant.

I simply pulled on my dark leather driving gloves.

I told him I was no longer funding his losses and the estate was entirely his problem now.

He thought he could replace me without consequence, but how long would it take for him to realize I was the only thing keeping a roof over his head?