Divorced by Betrayal My Ex-Wife Sold Me Out, Then I Became a Billionaire Groom

"Loser!"

I watched the four of them walk away—a perfect little family, arms linked, backs turned to me.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. Tears slid down my cheeks anyway.

"Mom... you see that? The moment you died, your son lost his home."

"Does it hurt to watch? Will you come back? Please? I miss you so much..."

News of my father's remarriage spread through elite circles like wildfire.

During the engagement period, Astrid paraded Frederick at every public event she could find—even the galas reserved for married couples.

Rosemary issued a decree: no one was to call him "the bastard" anymore. He was to be treated with the same respect they showed her.

Frederick made sure I knew.

Video calls. Photos. Messages. Always rubbing it in.

"Big brother, Rosemary gave me another diamond ring yesterday. Our initials are engraved on it. I heard it's even bigger than the one from your wedding."

"Oh, and she convinced her father to give me the family's jade thumb ring—you know, the heirloom they only pass to sons-in-law? Not that you'll be needing it anymore."

I remembered that ring.

The Henson family tradition was clear: it went to a son-in-law only after a grandchild was born. All those years, Rosemary never once asked her father for it on my behalf. "We'll have children eventually," she'd say. "It'll come to you naturally."

I'd never pushed for kids either—not when she was still running around with other men. We'd planned to start trying after the new year.

Now that plan was as dead as everything else.

I couldn't imagine what she'd said to make Tim Henson—traditional, rigid, immovable Tim Henson—break his own family's rules.

The final message was a photo.

Rosemary, asleep. Her bare neck and shoulders were covered in marks—the kind left by someone's mouth.

"Sis says she hasn't felt this good in years. Apparently being with an 'old man' like you killed her mood. She had to fake it every time."

I didn't bother responding.

I blocked him.

The day of my father's wedding to Astrid, Rosemary treated the venue like a military operation.

Bodyguards everywhere—inside, outside, every entrance and exit locked down tight. She was terrified I'd cause a scene.

She needn't have bothered.

Word had already gone out: anyone who helped me make trouble was declaring war on the Hensons.

No one dared.

I sat alone in my hotel room, tracing my mother's face in an old photograph, tears falling onto the glass. Guilt clawed at my chest.

I'm sorry, Mom. I couldn't protect anything you left me.

That afternoon, Rosemary kicked down my door anyway.

Behind her stood Frederick, his eyes red and swollen.

She stormed across the room and grabbed my collar, her face twisted with rage.

"Roland Sullivan! I never thought you'd sink this low! You had someone play Frederick's private photos at the wedding venue!"

"It's already trending online! How is he supposed to get married now? You're trying to destroy his future!"

I shoved her hand away, genuinely confused.

"What are you talking about—"

Before I could finish, Frederick cut in, voice cracking with theatrical grief.

"Brother, I know you didn't want to transfer those shares to me. But it was Dad's decision! What was I supposed to do—defy our own father?"

"If you're angry at me, fine, I'll take it. But why did you have to do this on Mom's wedding day? People called her a homewrecker for years. She's suffered enough."

And just like that, I understood.

Years ago, when my father had been so devoted to my mother that he'd married her despite their families' class difference, he'd given her half his shares—proof that she'd always be secure.

She'd passed them to me.

This was a setup. All of it.

A cold laugh escaped me.

"Rosemary, can't you see what's happening? He's orchestrating this whole thing to steal the shares my mother left me. It's a performance—and you're playing your part perfectly."

I turned to Frederick.

"You're saying I did this? Who saw me? Where's your proof?"

"I don't need evidence. Frederick isn't the scheming type—you're the only one with motive!"

Rosemary's face was set with absolute certainty as she seized my arm.

"You're going to apologize to Frederick right now. On livestream. Tell everyone this was all your doing!"

"And then you're going to transfer every share under your name to him. You owe him that!"

"And if I refuse?"

At my words, Frederick's composure shattered. He let out a strangled cry.

"Rosemary, my reputation is destroyed! He ruined me! Now everyone's calling me the shameless homewrecker who crashed his own parents' anniversary—they're saying I'm worse than garbage!"

"He had everything growing up—Dad's attention, company shares, and you, the perfect wife. I had nothing." His voice cracked. "If I have to spend the rest of my life being spat on by strangers, I'd rather just die right now!"

Rosemary grabbed his arm, panic flashing across her face.

"Frederick, don't be stupid!"

Then she turned to me, her eyes blazing with fury, and let out a cold laugh.

"Roland. Did you really think the body they cremated that day was your mother?"