Her Fake Poverty My Ultimate Revenge Chapter 2

"Carter, lower your voice and be rational. We'll discuss this at home."

"Home?" I let out a sharp, breathless laugh. "You mean the crumbling, peeling shoebox apartment we rent for seven hundred dollars a month?"

I was laughing, but there was no joy in it. The lobby was coming alive now, employees pausing at the turnstiles, whispering, pulling out their phones.

She lunged forward and grabbed my arm, her manicured nails digging into my cheap flannel shirt. "Stop causing a scene. You're embarrassing me."

"Let go."

She tightened her grip. "Is this what this is? You're throwing a tantrum because I didn't fund your life? You want to play the victim in front of half the financial district so you can squeeze me for cash?"

"I let you sleep next to me for seven years for free, you should consider yourself lucky! I promise you, Carter, the more you humiliate me like this, the less you will ever get from me!"

I stared at her. I searched the contours of her face—the slope of her nose, the curve of her jaw—looking for the woman I had loved. She was gone. Or maybe she had never existed at all.

Preston watched us wrestle, a cruel, amused smirk playing on his lips.

"Let it go, Nessa," he drawled, adjusting his cashmere coat. "It's a bad look. Anyway, didn't you promise to buy me that new Patek Philippe before our client lunch?"

Vanessa didn't miss a beat. "Yes. Absolutely. And I'm upgrading your car, too. We need to project the right image for the investors."

Preston shot me a triumphant, pitying look. "Hear that, buddy? Nessa's money is my money. You want five million? Keep dreaming."

He took a step closer, invading my personal space, the scent of his expensive Tom Ford cologne suffocating me. "But look... you did keep her bed warm for me all these years. That's hard work. If you swallow your pride and call me 'sir,' I'll tell Nessa to cut you a check so you can replace those pathetic, falling-apart clearance rack shoes."

The words hit me harder than a physical blow.

Images flashed behind my eyes in a rapid, sickening montage: the winter I spent shivering because I refused to buy a new coat. The video game I put back on the shelf because it was sixty bucks. The icy rain lashing my face on my delivery bike while a customer berated me over a spilled soup, all for a three-dollar tip.

The humiliation didn't just rise; it erupted.

As Preston leaned his perfectly groomed face in close to mock me, a primal, animalistic rage took over. I didn't think. I just swung.

I put every ounce of my seven years of misery into my right fist, connecting with a wet crack right on his smug jaw.

Preston staggered backward, his arms flailing as he hit the marble floor.

Time seemed to suspend itself.

For three seconds, the lobby was dead silent. Then, Preston touched his mouth, looked at his fingers, and his face contorted into pure, unadulterated fury.

"Motherfucker! You broke my tooth! Nessa! The piece of trash hit me!"

Vanessa reacted with the speed and ferocity of a protective mother bear. She threw herself in front of Preston, her hands gently cradling his jaw.

"Carter, are you insane?!" she shrieked.

She stood up, grabbed her heavy leather Chanel tote by the straps, and swung it at my head like a medieval flail.

I didn't have time to duck. The heavy brass hardware of the interlocking 'C's slammed into my cheekbone. The skin split instantly. A hot, searing pain flashed across my face, followed by the warm trickle of blood.

I grabbed my face, glaring at her through the pain. "Don't push me to hit a woman!"

"Push you?!" Vanessa screamed, her poise completely gone. "Hit me! Do it! If you had half a spine, you wouldn't be standing here making empty threats!"

She pointed a shaking finger at my chest. "You have no ambition! Seven years of marriage and you're still just a grunt writing code! If you weren't so incredibly average, maybe you wouldn't have to deliver food like a peasant to make ends meet!"

"You're a failure, Carter! And you're projecting your own pathetic inadequacy onto us! Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to hide you? I don't even tell my peers you exist because I am so deeply ashamed of you!"

The blood dripped off my chin, landing in thick crimson droplets on the collar of my shirt. It was warm, but I felt freezing. A bone-deep, marrow-chilling cold.

I thought about my boss. The endless overtime. The impossible deadlines. The way I let them treat me like a doormat because I was terrified of losing my salary and defaulting on the loans I took out for her. I never told her how much I suffered because I didn't want to add to her stress.

And now, my bleeding wounds were the very weapons she was using to execute me.

I looked at her. I felt nothing but a terrifying, hollow clarity.

"Vanessa," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, ragged and dry. "As of today, we are done."

She blinked, momentarily thrown off by my icy tone. "What?"

"You think five million is too much? Fine. Every dollar you stole from me, every drop of blood I am bleeding right now—I am going to claw it all back in a courtroom. Down to the last cent."

Half of the company she built with my parents' money. Half of the profits. The house she bought Preston. The cars. The Rolex. I was going to burn it all to the ground and take my half from the ashes.

Preston scrambled to his feet, his hand still over his mouth. "In your dreams, you psycho!"

I didn't dignify him with a response. I turned on my heel and walked toward the revolving glass doors.

With every step, my cheek throbbed. With every step, the blood dripped.

But my spine was perfectly straight. A man can be broken, but he doesn't have to bow.

As for whether I was dreaming? I'd let my lawyers answer that for him.