My Husband Slapped Me in Front of His Mistress... Then He Learned I Owned Everything

It took exactly forty-eight hours for Andrew to hit rock bottom.

Without his credit lines, his friends abandoned him. His mother was living in a motel, and Brenda had vanished the second she realized the money was gone.

I was having dinner at Le Bernardin when he finally tracked me down. He looked like a ghost. His custom suit was wrinkled, his hair was unkempt, and the arrogant sneer was completely gone.

He bypassed the maître d' and rushed my table, dropping heavily into the chair across from me. "Mariana, please," he begged, his voice trembling. "Please. They took my cars. They locked me out of the office. I have absolutely nothing."

I took a slow sip of my Pinot Noir. "I know. I signed the orders."

"We're married!" he pleaded, reaching across the table to grab my hand.

I pulled my hand back as if he carried a disease. "No, Andrew. We were married. Now, we are entering litigation."

I gestured to David, who stood quietly nearby. He slid a thick stack of papers across the table.

"Sign the divorce papers, Andrew. You walk away with nothing, no alimony, no assets. In exchange, I won't hand over this second folder to the SEC," I tapped a red file. "It outlines the four million dollars you embezzled from the company to buy Brenda her apartment and jewelry. You sign, or you go to federal prison for ten years."

Andrew stared at the papers. The reality of his situation finally crushed him. The man who had slapped me. The man who had demanded I crawl out of his house.

Slowly, his legs gave out. He slid off the chair and onto the floor of the five-star restaurant. Right in front of a dozen billionaires and elite socialites, Andrew collapsed to his knees, sobbing.

"I'm sorry," he wept, looking up at me. "I'm so sorry. Please forgive me."