I Sent My Cheating Husband To Court

On our anniversary, my husband, James Marshall, purchased a painting as a gift for me with my secondary credit card.

When I got home, I went to my study to retrieve an urgent court document.

The door was slightly ajar. Inside, I could hear the flirtatious voice of my assistant, Julie Summers, mingled with my husband’s low murmurs.

“James, your wife is just a money-printing machine. What does she know about art? She could never appreciate you like I do.”

James sighed. Then, in an indulgent tone, he said, “Claire is too perfect—so perfect it’s suffocating. Not like you, full of life and warmth.”

Just then, my mother-in-law, Susan Marshall, called James. He put her on speakerphone. “James, you need to move faster. While Claire still trusts you, turn all her client contacts into yours. That Julie girl seems promising. She’s much easier to control than that iron-fisted career wife of yours.”

I gripped the cold doorknob, listening to the pair of shameless lovers in the study and the wretched woman on the phone, and immediately drafted a divorce agreement.

At the same time, I forwarded asset-protection filings for all my holdings to my legal team.

“I’ll see you all in court, parasites.”

On our tenth wedding anniversary, my husband, James Marshall, presented me with a surprise at our gallery gala.

He had acquired an avant-garde art piece at an auction. It was a painting which he announced as his gift to me.

I watched as he elegantly explained the painting’s artistic value to the guests around him with his glass in hand. He was basking in their admiring glances.

Those guests were all connections I had introduced him to.

The black titanium credit card he had used to pay the seven-figure sum was mine.

I simply smiled and let him have the moment.

Back at home later that night, I planned to retrieve some case files for tomorrow’s hearing from my study. As I approached, I noticed the door was slightly ajar.

The voice that drifted out belonged to my personal assistant, Julie Summers.

“James, this evening’s gallery gala was a success. The wives of those company presidents were practically tripping over themselves praising you.”

I stopped in my tracks.

James chuckled, tinged with complacency. “Of course. Someone had to curate the whole thing. Sophia’s only contributions are a checkbook and a contacts list. She knows nothing about the work.”

“Exactly.” Julie’s voice was tinged with grievance. “Claire’s great at everything, but she’s so domineering. She’s like an emotionless work machine. Being with her must be suffocating, right?”

I froze.

Julie was an intern I had personally recruited out of law school, mentored for three years, and treated like my younger sister. I had entrusted her with authority and a salary far beyond her peers.

James was the man I had loved for ten years. The man I had turned from an unknown painter into the moderately celebrated “art curator” as he was, with my resources and fortune.

I had believed our marriage was a formidable union of complementary talents.

I finally realized at that moment that I was nothing more than a soulless ATM to them.

“Enough about her.” James’s tone turned impatient. “By the way, what about those client profiles I asked you to compile? How are they coming along?”

Julie immediately shifted into a tone eager to impress. Her voice dropped even lower.

“All done! I copied all of Sophia’s VIP client data, including their family backgrounds, asset portfolios, and personal preferences. Now you can approach them as an art investment advisor. I’ll handle the content strategy. We’ll turn them into your loyal clients in no time.”