My Ex Called Me Cheap, Now I’m a Mogul’s Wife

Leslie's POV

Frustrated with Bradley's plan, Sabrina yelled, "I'm not letting this happen! That woman's pulling every dirty trick in the book to keep her claws in you. Look at her, acting like some helpless victim. It's obvious that she's never moved on."

Bradley tried to calm her down, but not before throwing a sharp glare straight at me.

"I know. Don't worry," he muttered under his breath. "Even if Leslie dropped to her knees and cried, I wouldn't budge. You and I both know that someone like her, with that background and narrow little worldview, could never be good enough for me."

And then, as if on cue, the popsicle vendor nearby let out a loud, dry laugh.

"I thought she was some big shot," the guy muttered. "Turns out she's just another drama queen holding onto her ex."

That one comment triggered a flood of snide remarks from the bystanders around us.

"She's playing the innocent card, but she's a grade-A manipulator."

"Raising that poor kid to be bitter and petty, just like her."

"Didn't you hear what Bradley Goodman said? She's from the countryside. Tacky and broke. What'd you expect?"

Their words didn't sting. Not really. I'd heard worse.

So what if I was from a small town?

I worked my way up from nothing to managing investment portfolios that generated returns of seven and eight figures. I didn't climb my way out of nowhere just to be insulted by people who couldn't tell grit from gold.

But to Bradley, none of that ever mattered. He never saw me beyond where I came from.

I liked simple things—midnight food runs, sunrise hikes, cutting a watermelon in half, and eating it straight from the fridge with a spoon. To Bradley, that was all 'low-class,' something to be ashamed of.

But Sabrina? She was the broke scholarship girl he once supported. She spent his money on designer handbags and wore brand names like armor. Yet, Bradley never once called her materialistic.

Because let's be real, this wasn't about background or taste.

Bradley didn't love me.

Not back then. Not now.

With my expression flat, I yanked my wrist out of his hand. "Bradley, keep this up and I swear I'll call the cops."

Sabrina instantly latched onto his arm. "Bradley, come on. She's just poor and stubborn. She always takes your kindness and twists it into something else. Let's stop wasting our time."

But Bradley didn't budge. His gaze stayed locked on me, sharp and smug.

"Call the cops?" he said, his tone colder than ever. "Great idea. With my lawyers, custody would easily go to me."

Then he made it real.

"You've got two choices," Bradley said with icy calm. "One: give me your number and accept the child support. Two: come back to my place with the kid. You can raise him like a nanny."

The rage bubbling inside me was so fierce that I actually laughed.

Without another word, I picked Leon up and turned to leave.

But Bradley's expression changed. Something in his eyes darkened, and suddenly he lunged forward and tore Leon right out of my arms.

"If you're gonna be ungrateful," he barked, holding my son like he had the right, "then I'll raise him myself."

Leon screamed, kicking and thrashing in his hold. His tiny arms reached out for me, terrified.

"If you ever want to see him again," Bradley said as he backed toward his car, "come to Ocean One Estates. I just moved to Harbor City."

I stood there frozen, heart racing, while he marched toward the Maybach with Leon in his arms.

Sabrina chased after him, whining pitifully, "Bradley, weren't we just here to pick up my nephew?"

And then, Leon let out a heart-wrenching scream, desperately reaching his small hands toward me.

"Mommy! Bad man! I'm scared!"

Something snapped inside me. I pushed forward, adrenaline coursing through my body. But just as I lunged, the crowd surged ahead like a wall of people, blocking me with cold, indifferent stares.

"Why are you freaking out? With Bradley Goodman, that kid's set for life," someone scoffed.

Another parent remarked, "No wonder he left her. She's got zero class. Doesn't even care what's best for the kid."

I watched as Bradley opened the car door.

I broke.

Voice trembling, I yelled his name. "Bradley! Please! I'm begging you, give me back my son!"

My hands trembled as I scrambled to unlock my phone.

"I'm not a mistress! My husband is Sean Mercer. Leon is our son. We even have a daughter! I have a family photo—look!"

I held up my phone as if it were proof of my existence.

For a second, the crowd went silent—just a second.

Then came the laughter.

Cold. Cruel. Cutting.

"Sean Mercer? You mean that Mercer family? The one that can bankrupt half the city with a phone call?"

"If Sean Mercer were your husband, your kid wouldn't be going to some rundown public kindergarten."

"Yeah, right. What's next? You're the mayor's wife? Maybe the First Lady?"

They were laughing—every single one of them.

And not a damn one believed me.

I felt it then—that harsh, marrow-deep cold that climbs your spine and lingers, regardless of how hot the sun is.

But even with my heart breaking and my hands trembling, I couldn't just stand there and watch my son be taken away.