My Husband Divorced Me For Being “Boring”—He Didn’t Know I Secretly Funded His Entire Life
Part 2
The massive string orchestra abruptly stopped playing the exact moment Tyler arrogantly barged into the grand hall.
He stood entirely frozen on the plush red carpet, his cheap, noticeably rented tuxedo clinging awkwardly to his tense shoulders.
Heather was desperately clutching his arm, wearing a flashy, sequined crimson dress that looked painfully out of place among the understated elegance of the gathered aristocracy.
Tyler frantically scanned the massive room, desperately looking for his former elite bosses or wealthy architectural clients to aggressively network with.
Instead, his confused gaze slowly traveled up the grand marble staircase and locked directly onto me.
I definitely wasn’t wearing the drab, oversized wool cardigans or the messy, severe hair bun he despised so much.
I wore a stunning, midnight-blue velvet gown, elegantly draped with the heavy, golden ceremonial sash of my family’s royal estate.
The terrifying realization hit his arrogant face like a brutal physical blow as he slowly took in the priceless diamond tiara resting heavily on my head.
He finally, painfully understood exactly why his prestigious firm’s rent had quadrupled overnight and why he was permanently blacklisted from every architectural office in London.
I absolutely wasn’t just a boring, useless librarian holding him back; I was the literal, unshakable foundation his entire fragile existence had been built upon.
He looked absolutely sick to his stomach as the elite, untouchable crowd parted for me in pure, silent deference.
I gracefully glided down the sweeping stairs, closely flanked by my imposing personal security detail, and stopped a few feet away from his trembling form.
He stupidly opened his mouth to speak, perhaps to desperately beg for his ruined job or demand a pathetic explanation, but I simply raised my gloved hand.
I turned coldly to my head of security and loudly declared that an unwanted intruder had severely breached the secure perimeter.
Tyler humiliated himself significantly further by shouting that he had a valid invitation, waving the cream cardstock frantically in the freezing air.
I smiled incredibly coldly and informed him that I had personally ensured that specific invitation was sent to his miserable, unheated new address.
I desperately wanted him to vividly see exactly what he had carelessly, arrogantly thrown away for a fleeting, incredibly shallow office romance.
My massive guards immediately seized him aggressively by the arms and violently dragged him backward toward the cold, rainy London street.
The entire ballroom watched in deafening, judging silence as the formerly hotshot architect was tossed out into the gutter like common trash.
Heather didn’t even bother to wait for him; she practically sprinted toward the glowing exit signs to entirely distance herself from his absolute ruin.
I smoothly turned back to my distinguished guests, seamlessly resuming my royal duties as if he had never even existed in my world.
But Tyler’s deeply bruised, massive ego simply couldn’t handle the crushing weight of his newly irrelevant, entirely impoverished life.
Later that very night, a sleazy, desperate tabloid journalist easily found him sulking miserably outside the venue in the freezing rain.
Tyler foolishly and greedily accepted fifteen thousand pounds to give a massive, exclusive interview smearing my perfect name and exposing our secret marriage.
He sat miserably in a dingy hotel room and spun a completely pathetic tale about how I was a manipulative predator who had financially abused him for years.
He truly thought selling disgusting lies to the tabloids would destroy my pristine reputation and give him some twisted, desperate sense of lasting power.
He had absolutely no idea what severe, life-destroying penalty clause was buried deep in the massive mortgage paperwork he carelessly signed six years ago.
Should I show him?
