Smart Women Don't Divorce , They Become Widows

The comment feed exploded, thousands of viewers flooding the screen with praise for a fairy-tale love story.

Clementine seized the moment and pushed further：

“Any chance we could see a photo of your parents together? I'm dying of curiosity!”

“Of course.”

I took my time scrolling through my phone, deliberately picking the clearest family portrait we had.

Then I zoomed in on my father's face.

The second the camera caught it, Clementine slapped a hand over her mouth, her shock so exaggerated it almost looked real.

“Wait!”

“Isn't that Francis Lawrence? The chairman of Lawrence Group, from that finance interview a few weeks ago?”

I put on my best surprised face.

“You know my dad?”

That single line detonated the livestream.

Viewers who'd tuned in just to look at a pretty girl were now frantically searching “Francis Lawrence”.

It didn't take long.

Stories about Lawrence Group's upcoming IPO, its billions in valuation, a self-made founder who'd built everything from nothing—all of it started pouring into the chat.

That night, I spent over a hundred thousand on paid promotion.

Marketing accounts, influencer pages, relationship bloggers—they all picked up the interview and ran with it.

Within a single day, the entire internet envied me and praised my father.

They called me the luckiest girl in a wealthy family—the only daughter, no brothers to fight for inheritance, born under a blessed star.

They praised him for building an empire from nothing, for staying faithful, for loving one woman so deeply that after her hemorrhage during childbirth, he chose never to have another child and never once looked at someone else.

But when my father found out, there wasn't a trace of joy on his face. His expression was terrifyingly dark.

“Lucy, have you lost your mind?”

He stormed over to me in three strides and slammed his phone down on the coffee table.

“The company is about to go public. Who gave you permission to put me all over the internet right now?”

“If anything damaging comes out—if the company takes a hit—can you afford to pay for that?”

He raised his hand and slapped me across the face.

“Starting today, you stay home and think about what you've done. You don't set foot outside this house.”

My cheek burned.

I didn't explain. I didn't get angry.

I just reached into my bag and pulled out a document.

One look, and the color drained from his face.