Chapter 4

The lawyer' s office was on the 40th floor of a glass and steel skyscraper downtown. It was the kind of place that smelled like money and ruthless efficiency. My lawyer, a sharp woman named Ms. Davies with an even sharper haircut, listened to my story without a flicker of emotion on her face. She just took notes on a yellow legal pad.

When I finished, laying out the seven years of financial support, the public humiliation, and the final, staggering revelation of the secret child, she finally looked up.

"Mr. Miller," she said, her voice crisp. "This is not a divorce case. This is a demolition."

A grim smile touched my lips for the first time in weeks. "Good."

We spent the next two days gathering evidence. Bank statements showing my salary being deposited and then immediately transferred to Olivia' s accounts. Receipts for studio time, musical instruments, vocal coaches, all paid for with my credit cards. I even had the original bill of sale for my vintage car, and the subsequent deposit into her account. I had meticulously documented our finances for years, a habit from my architectural training. I had thought I was planning for our future. It turned out I was documenting a crime scene.

The most damning piece of evidence was the apartment. The lease was solely in my name. The down payment for the mortgage on the property we were about to buy was coming from an inheritance from my grandfather. Her name wasn't on any of it. Legally, she was a guest. A long-term, very expensive guest.

Ms. Davies drafted the separation agreement. It was a work of brutalist art. It stated that Olivia was to vacate my property immediately. It laid claim to reimbursement for a portion of the "career investments" I had made, citing financial deception. It made no mention of alimony or support. It offered her nothing but her freedom.

"Now, we need to serve her the papers," Ms. Davies said, tapping the thick stack of documents. "We could have a process server do it quietly. Or..." She let the word hang in the air, a glint in her eye.

"Or?" I prompted.

"Or we could do it publicly," she said. "There' s a benefit concert for a children' s hospital next week. She and Liam are scheduled to perform a duet. It' s her first big public appearance since the news of their son broke. The press will be everywhere."

It was cruel. It was aggressive. It was exactly what she deserved. "Let' s do that," I said without hesitation.

The night of the concert, I felt a strange sense of calm. I wore a well-tailored suit that I hadn' t had an occasion to wear in years. I looked like a successful architect, not a heartbroken fool. I wasn' t hiding in the back this time. Ms. Davies and I had front-row seats, right in the sightline of the stage.

The atmosphere was thick with syrupy sentiment. The host talked about Olivia and Liam' s "beautiful family" and their dedication to helping other children. The crowd ate it up. They were presented as the perfect couple, musicians with hearts of gold. The hypocrisy was nauseating.

When they walked on stage, they were holding hands. Olivia was wearing a flowing white dress, looking angelic. Liam had his arm around her, a picture of the proud, protective partner. They looked out at the crowd, their smiles bright and practiced. Then Olivia' s eyes scanned the front row and landed on me.

Her smile faltered for a split second. A flicker of confusion, then annoyance, crossed her face. She quickly recovered, but I saw it. Liam followed her gaze and saw me too. His smile tightened into a sneer. They thought I was there to cause a scene, to beg her to come back. They had no idea.

They sang their song, a sappy ballad about eternal love. It was one of the songs I had listened to her write in our living room, a song I had told her was beautiful. Now it sounded like a funeral dirge. The whole time, I just stared at them, my expression neutral. My calmness seemed to unnerve them more than any outburst would have.

When the song ended, the crowd roared with applause. Olivia and Liam took a bow. As they were about to walk off stage, I stood up.

"Olivia," I said. My voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the din. The people around me turned to look. A few cameras swiveled in my direction.

She ignored me, starting to walk away.

"Olivia Reed," I said, my voice firmer this time. Ms. Davies stood up beside me, holding a large manila envelope.

Now everyone was watching. The host looked confused. The stagehands paused. Olivia had no choice but to stop and turn around. Her face was a mask of polite inquiry, but her eyes were shooting daggers. "Yes?" she asked, as if she didn't know me.

"I have something for you," I said. I walked to the edge of the stage and held up the envelope. "It' s from my lawyer."

Her eyes widened. The color drained from her face. Liam stepped forward, trying to block her. "What is this? Who are you?" he demanded, playing dumb for the cameras.

"He knows who I am," I said, looking past him directly at Olivia. "I' m the man who paid for your career. And this," I said, shaking the envelope slightly, "is the invoice."

Gasps rippled through the front rows. The camera flashes started going off like a strobe light. Olivia stared at the envelope as if it were a snake. She wouldn' t take it.

"You' re pathetic," she hissed, her voice low but venomous, her angelic facade cracking. "Coming here to harass me. Can' t you see I' ve moved on? I' m happy."

"I' m happy for you," I said, my voice dripping with false sincerity. "This is just some legal paperwork to finalize our separation. I thought you' d want to get it over with so you and your... family... can have a fresh start."

The emphasis on the word "family" was not lost on her. Liam' s face darkened with rage. "Get out of here," he snarled. "Before I have security throw you out."

"I don' t think you want to do that," Ms. Davies said, her voice clear and authoritative. "This is a legal service of process. Refusing to accept it will only be noted in court. And I can assure you, the press will find that very interesting."

Checkmate. Olivia knew she was trapped. With a trembling hand, she reached down and snatched the envelope from me. Her knuckles were white.

"You will regret this, Ethan," she whispered, her eyes full of hate.

"I already regret the last seven years," I replied calmly. "This is just the cleanup."

I turned my back on her and walked away, Ms. Davies beside me. We didn't look back. We could hear the frantic questions from the reporters, the commotion on stage. We had detonated the bomb and walked away from the explosion.

As we reached the exit, I heard her voice from the stage, trying to regain control. "I' m sorry about that, everyone," she said into the microphone, her voice shaky. "Just a troubled, obsessed ex-boyfriend who can' t let go. It' s so sad. Some men just can' t handle a woman' s success."

The crowd murmured sympathetically. Her PR training was kicking in. She was already spinning the narrative, painting me as the villain. But I didn't care. I had the truth, and the law, on my side.

We got into a taxi. As it pulled away, I saw Liam put his arm around Olivia, pulling her close, whispering in her ear. She was trying to look brave, but I could see the panic in her eyes. The perfect image was shattered. The first crack had appeared in their carefully constructed facade.

Later that night, the attacks began. Her PR team went into overdrive. Blog posts and entertainment articles appeared, painting me as a controlling, jealous ex. Anonymous "friends" were quoted saying I was emotionally abusive, that I was trying to sabotage her career out of spite. They twisted my financial support into a tool of control. "He held the money over her head," one article claimed. "She felt trapped for years."

My phone buzzed with alerts. People were tagging me on social media, calling me a monster, a parasite. It was a vicious, calculated attack. A few years ago, it would have destroyed me. But now, it just felt... desperate.

Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through my side. I doubled over, gasping. It felt like a hot knife twisting in my gut. I stumbled to the bathroom, my vision going black at the edges. I collapsed onto the cold tile floor, clutching my stomach. The stress, the anger, the emotional turmoil of the past few weeks had finally taken a physical toll.

I managed to crawl to my phone and call for an ambulance. As they loaded me onto a stretcher, my last conscious thought was of Olivia' s face, her eyes burning with hatred. She wasn't just trying to ruin my reputation. She was trying to erase me. And in that moment, lying on the floor in agony, I realized she had almost succeeded.