Chapter 1

He wouldn't let me wear skirts above the knee, yet he bought black lace lingerie for our next-door neighbor.

Four years of marriage, and every skirt I owned that ended above the kneecap was shoved to the bottom of the closet, all because my husband, Julian, said:

"A married woman should be modest."

I believed him. I quit my high-paying litigation job at a top law firm to cook his meals and run his household, turning myself into a ghost in my own home.

Until today, when I opened his laptop and saw the chat logs with someone saved as "Chloe from Apt 301."

For three whole years, he had showered her with bank transfers, booked luxury hotel rooms, and bought her skimpy black lace negligees.

Thinking back on all the high-profile cases I gave up over the past four years, I finally understood. He didn't want a modest wife—he just hid my light so he could fool around in the dark.

I took photos of every single transfer, every hotel reservation, and every receipt.

Tomorrow, my legal team will teach him what it truly means to be cleaned out in court.

"That skirt is too short. Go change."

Julian’s voice came from behind me, laced with his usual unquestionable authority.

I looked down at the hemline resting right at my knees in the mirror. Without a word, I turned back into the closet and pulled on a pair of slacks.

In our four years of marriage, every skirt above the knee had been packed away in storage bins.

He always said he liked a traditional wife, that a married woman should carry herself with modesty.

Back then, I thought it was his way of cherishing me.

If a man didn’t want other people ogling his wife’s beauty, it meant he cared, right?

Looking back now, he just wanted to keep me tucked away so he could play the field.

I didn’t used to be like this.

Four years ago, I was a sharp litigation attorney at Vanguard Legal Partners, wearing tailored suits and tearing people apart in courtrooms until dusk.

The year we got married, I got pregnant with our first child, Leo. The morning sickness was so debilitating that I couldn’t function.

Julian told me, "Take a break. I’ll provide for our family."

So I trusted him. I transitioned to working remotely from home, intending to return once the kids were older.

I never expected that "break" would stretch into four long years.

Until today. I needed to pull an archived contract from three years ago, remembering I had left it in his study.

The door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open. His laptop was unlocked, and a chat window popped up on the screen.

The contact name read: "Chloe from Apt 301."

"That black lace nightgown arrived. I’ll bring it over to your place tonight," Julian had texted.

"Stop it, Julian, you spend too much money on me," Chloe replied with a blushing emoji.

"My money is meant for you. You look gorgeous in anything."

My fingers froze in midair. My blood ran ice-cold in an instant.

"Chloe from Apt 301" was Chloe Vance, the neighbor who moved in next door just last month.

Julian had even introduced her to me back then, saying she was all on her own in the city with no family to rely on, and asked me to look out for her.

My hand trembled on the mouse as I scrolled up through the chat history.

The earliest message dated back three years.

They called each other "brother and sister," but the chat was littered with vulgar pictures and filthy flirtations.

I saw every single transfer he sent her—$520, $1,314, even lump sums of $5,000 and $10,000.

So, he never actually cared about modesty. He just didn't want me looking attractive for the world.

All of his passion, romance, and generosity had been reserved for another woman.

I didn't smash the screen. I didn't shed a tear.

Tears are the most useless thing in the world. What I needed right now was absolute clarity.

I pulled out my phone and took crisp, high-res photos of every message, transfer statement, and hotel booking.

Then I opened a package tracking app and typed in Chloe’s phone number.

She had accepted a delivery for me the day she moved in, and I had saved her number by chance.

The system prompted an SMS verification. I glanced over at Julian’s phone on the desk—the screen was still lit, and he never used a passcode.

I picked it up, entered the code, and the order details popped up instantly.

The black lace negligee had just been signed for by the building concierge this afternoon.

The recipient name on the order was Chloe Vance.

Perfect. The chain of evidence was airtight.

I shut down the laptop, walked out of the study, and pulled the door shut behind me.

Back in the bedroom, I reached into the deepest corner of my closet where my favorite pre-marriage outfits hung forgotten.

I took out my phone and dialed my mother.

"Mom, could you take Leo and Bella for a few days?"

"What’s wrong, Stella? Did you and Julian have a fight?"

I chuckled softly, keeping my voice steady. "No. Just wanted to give the kids a mini-vacation, and give myself a break too."

After hanging up, I called my legal assistant.

"Draft a divorce petition for me. Make the terms as aggressive in my favor as legally possible."

"He committed adultery, and the evidence is concrete. I'm entitled to the lion's share of our marital assets."

"Also, pull the purchase agreement for Julian’s BMW 5 Series. I swiped my personal card for the down payment. Send me the transaction receipt."

"Stella? Are you serious?" Jenny’s voice was filled with shock.

"Do as I say."

Once everything was in motion, I looked at myself in the mirror.

Here stood Stella, stripped of all her former brilliance.

Over the past four years, I cut my hair short, locked away my stilettos, and swapped out all my bold red lipsticks for muted nudes.

He liked me "plain," so plain was what I gave him.

Starting tomorrow, the act is over. It's time to take back everything that belongs to me, piece by piece.