My Ex Tried Destroying Me Before Learning I’m Rich

The private investigator’s report sat on my desk for two days before I read it.

Alma was living in a damp, four-hundred-square-foot studio in Bushwick. To pay rent, she worked mornings at a greasy diner and nights at a twenty-four-hour copy center. She slept four hours a day.

On Thursday afternoon, I had Julian drive me across the bridge.

The diner smelled of stale bacon grease and burnt coffee. Neon beer signs buzzed in the fogged windows. I wore a tailored black cashmere coat, my dark hair pulled back into a sleek knot. Big black sunglasses hid the faint yellow bruises around my eyes.

I spotted her right away.

Alma was behind the counter, wiping down an espresso machine with a gray rag. Her shoulders sagged with exhaustion. Her brown hair was pinned back in a hasty knot, exposing the pale, thin scar cutting through her hairline—a permanent reminder of the bodyguard’s fist.

She turned, grabbing two menus. "Booth or counter?" she asked without looking up.

"A booth, please," I said.

She led me to a corner booth with cracked red vinyl. She set down the menus and pulled a small notepad from her stained apron pocket.

"Coffee to start?" she asked, her voice flat and tired.

"Yes. Black."

Alma didn't look at my face. She only saw another customer in an expensive coat. She reached for the glass coffee pot, but I reached up and slowly took off my sunglasses.

I set them on the Formica table.

Alma turned back with the pot. Her eyes met mine.

She froze.

The plastic handle slipped an inch in her grip before she caught it. Her breath hitched in her throat. The color drained from her cheeks, leaving her looking paler than the winter sky outside.

"You..." Alma whispered. Her knuckles turned white around the pot.

She remembered the battered girl on Dylan's floor. The naked, bloody mess wrapped in a father's coat.

"Hello, Alma," I said quietly.

She swallowed hard. She looked around the greasy diner, then back down at me. "You're... you're Garrett Ellis’s daughter."

"I am." I gestured to the empty vinyl seat across from me. "Sit down. Please."

Alma hesitated. She glanced at the cook behind the counter, then ripped off her apron and slid into the booth. She poured two cups of lukewarm diner coffee, setting one in front of me with trembling fingers.

The silence hung between us for a long time.

"I knew Dylan was selfish," Alma said at last. Her voice was barely a murmur. "He was always vain. Always insecure. But Christmas Eve..." She squeezed her eyes shut. Her voice cracked. "I never imagined he could be a monster. I swear, Serenity. I didn't know."

"I know you didn't," I said softly.

My fingers traced the rim of the cheap ceramic mug.

"You threw your body over mine," I continued. "You didn't know who I was. You only knew I was hurting. You took blows meant for me, and he threw you into the snow for it."

Alma stared down at her rough, unpainted nails. "Look where it got me. I couldn't stop him. I couldn't save anyone. I carry the Chapman name, and right now, that name feels like poison."

"It is poison," I said flatly. "Which is why we’re going to burn it to the ground."

Alma blinked, lifting her head. "What?"

"I didn't come here to offer you money," I said. "I didn't come to pity you. That would be an insult to the courage you showed."

I leaned forward. My gaze was steady and hard as flint.

"Chapman Industries is going under. Its stock is crashing, and within weeks, it will be worthless. When it hits rock bottom, I'm buying every share. I’m going to strip the Chapman name off the tower and build something brand new. Serene Harbor Group."

Alma’s breath caught.

"I know your background," I told her. "You have an architecture degree from Cornell. You designed the layouts Dylan stole and put his name on. You have talent, Alma. And more importantly, you have a spine."

I extended my right hand across the table.

"Don't work two jobs for tips. Come build an empire with me. Equal partner. Co-CEO."

Alma stared at my outstretched hand. Her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths. Years of Dylan’s insults and her family's cruelty flashed behind her eyes. Her fingers trembled.

Then, her chin came up. Her jaw set with quiet, stubborn pride.

She reached out. Her rough, calloused hand gripped mine tight.

"Deal," she whispered.

***

Across town, Dylan Chapman was losing his mind.

The reports from Julian’s surveillance team came in every morning at dawn.

Dylan was running Chapman Industries like a madman trapped in a burning house. He fired three veteran vice presidents who dared to question his Waterfront bid strategy. He screamed at his legal team until his voice gave out. When the banks refused to extend his credit lines, he emptied the company's emergency reserves to cover payroll.

Board members were jumping ship one by one. Every hallway in Chapman headquarters smelled of panic.

Then came the lawyers.

Dylan sent high-priced corporate attorneys to Ellis Tower. They delivered sealed letters to my office. They left messages with my assistants. They begged for an off-the-record "reconciliation meeting."

Dylan claimed it was all a terrible misunderstanding. He claimed Etta had tricked him. He said he wanted to apologize in person and "make things right."

I didn't read the letters. I had Julian run them straight through the shredder.

I didn't reply to a single email. I didn't return a single call.

I gave him total, suffocating silence.

If I sued him, he could fight. If I screamed at him, he could argue. But silence gave him nothing to push against. It stripped him of his stage.

My silence told Dylan Chapman the truth he feared most:

He was not my rival. He was not my enemy.

He was already nothing.