Divorced on Our Anniversary, I Returned as the Heiress

I froze.

Seven years ago.

When I married Victor seven years ago, he was already someone else's husband.

I'd spent nine dollars on our marriage license and made a pot of instant noodles in our rental apartment—that was the wedding.

I was the “other woman.”

I laughed.

Out loud.

“Piers, file the suit. Bury him.”

Victor received the court summons three days later.

He tried every number he had for me first and found them all disconnected.

Then he tracked down the address for Highridge Manor, drove over, and was stopped at the gate by security.

He stood outside the entrance, staring down the ginkgo-lined drive, his expression shifting from fury to disbelief, then from disbelief to something harder to name.

Eventually he left.

He couldn't call my father, because he'd never had my father's number.

Seven years ago he'd asked me once what my parents did.

I told him they were both gone.

He never asked again.

Not once.

I stood behind the second-floor window and watched his car turn around and disappear.

My belly shifted—four months along, and the little one already knew how to make herself felt.

“Don't be scared.” I rested my hand on my stomach. “Mama won't let anyone hurt you.”

Victor's lawyer contacted Piers the next day, proposing an out-of-court settlement.

The offer: an extra million on top of the original agreement.

When Piers relayed this to me, he laughed.

“Does he think you're stupid, or does he think the law is?”

“He still thinks I'm the old Bernice.” I leaned back into the sofa. “The one who got sold and still helped him count the money.”

Piers pushed his glasses up. ：“Miss Henson, the trial is set for next month. There's also something you should know.”

“What?”

“Belinda's booked an exclusive interview. Next Monday.”

I paused. ：“An exclusive interview?”

“Yes. She found an online media outlet. Says she wants to ‘set the record straight.’”

Piers handed me his phone. On the screen was a promotional poster the outlet had already published.

The headline：《LOVE, DEFAMED — Belinda Winfield on Seven Years of Waiting for Victor Matthews》.

In the poster, Belinda wore a white dress, her eyes faintly red, the picture of wounded innocence.

The copy underneath read：Torn from the man she loved by an heiress with money and power. Smeared as the other woman. Driven to the breaking point. For the first time, Belinda Winfield speaks—and tells the story no one's heard.

I stared at that poster for a long time.

“She made the first move.”

“Miss Henson, should we—”

“Don't block it.” I handed the phone back to Piers. “Let her talk. The more the better.”

“But public opinion—”

“Piers, do you know why I'm not afraid of her talking?”

He shook his head.

“Because the truth doesn't pick sides based on who puts on the better show.” I stood up and walked to the window. “The more she says, the more holes she leaves. Every word out of her mouth is another piece of evidence she's handing to the court.”

Piers was quiet for a moment, then smiled.

“Miss Henson, you really aren't the same person you used to be.”

“No?”

“The old you would never have been this calm.”

I didn't turn around.

Belinda's exclusive interview went live at eight o'clock Monday night, right on schedule.

I had Uncle Elmer prop the iPad up on the dining table so I could watch while I ate.

My father glanced at the screen, frowned slightly, and went back to his dinner.

The interview ran forty minutes. Belinda wore a white sweater the entire time, her hair falling soft over her shoulders, her eyes red-rimmed throughout, but not a single tear fell. Impeccable control.