Chapter 2 - The Photos
Two days later, Julian stopped hiding Bianca entirely.
First he brought her to strategy meetings. Then to high-profile dinners. Then to private parties full of mutual friends who all knew perfectly well I was still, legally, his wife.
Overnight, Bianca went from "the office assistant" to the woman on his arm in every room in Manhattan.
The absurd part was Julian kept insisting he had no intention of divorcing me.
At a friend's anniversary party, one of his oldest colleagues pulled him aside within my earshot. "Julian, enough is enough. Corinne is your wife. You can't parade another woman around and expect the rest of us to pretend this is normal."
I'd arrived at that party alone.
Julian spotted me across the ballroom, and — maybe feeling the sudden sting of public embarrassment under everyone's cold stares — dropped Bianca's hand. He crossed the room and wrapped his arm possessively around my waist.
"You know nobody could ever replace you, Corinne," he whispered.
Then, right in front of Bianca, he pressed a deliberate kiss to my cheek.
Bianca offered a tight, polite smile. Her eyes burned.
That was the moment I stopped competing.
I started calculating instead.
Later that night, I overheard Julian in the cigar lounge with a few close associates. "Of course I care about Bianca," he said smoothly, "but Corinne's a different situation entirely. I'm just furious she's suddenly reconnected with her family. The Ashfords looked down on me for years."
My family had never wanted me to marry him. My father had warned me, plainly, that Julian didn't love me nearly as much as he loved the access and credibility our name gave him. I'd defended Julian fiercely back then. I'd distanced myself from my own parents. Married him quietly at city hall, no big wedding, because he insisted he needed to build his own standing at Halloway Global first, without riding anyone's coattails.
And now he was punishing me for finally reconnecting with my mother.
"Bianca's temporary," Julian continued in the lounge. "I already told Corinne I'd end it."
That's when I saw Bianca standing just behind the velvet curtain, listening to every word. When she turned around, I was standing right in front of her.
"Now you know exactly where you stand," I said, cold and quiet.
Her face drained of color.
The next morning I gave my private investigator exceptionally simple instructions: watch, document, don't intervene.
I didn't have to wait long.
Bianca called Julian thirty-nine times in one evening. He finally answered while we were driving home from a charity event together.
"I lost my apartment keys!" she sobbed through the speaker. "There's a strange man in the hallway — I'm terrified!"
A muffled scream. Then the line went dead.
Julian ordered the driver to turn around immediately. I got out at the next red light and walked the rest of the way home.
Half an hour later, my investigator sent high-resolution photos of the two of them kissing on the staircase of her apartment building.
I had the photos printed. I didn't leak them to the press.
Instead, I had them delivered anonymously, directly to Bianca — along with older, archived photos proving the affair had run the full three years.
I already knew exactly what she'd do with them.
Bianca had built a following of hundreds of thousands tracking her luxury travel, her wardrobe, her curated high-society life. That very night, she posted the photos publicly, captioned:
"After three years hiding in the shadows, we can finally tell the truth."
The story exploded across social media and financial news outlets by morning.
Julian stormed into our penthouse in a rage. Smashed vases. Slammed doors. Threw my phone across the room hard enough to shatter the screen.
"You leaked those photos!" he screamed, face twisted. "You're trying to ruin my career because you're jealous!"
Ignoring the sharp pain in my ankle where the phone had bounced, I picked up my tablet and pulled up Bianca's live feed.
A video, posted minutes earlier: Julian, fast asleep in bed beside her.
He went white as paper. "Corinne — I didn't know she posted that."
He looked around at the wreckage of our own living room. "I'm sorry. Please forgive me."
I didn't say a single word.
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Because while he stood there stammering apologies, my attorney had already spent hours finalizing the divorce petition he was so certain I'd never have the nerve to sign.
He had absolutely no idea what my non-negotiable terms were about to be.
