After the divorce, I became my ex-wife's nightmare

"Mr. Lyon, this way please."

The driver, Old John, took my luggage.

I sat in the back seat of the Lincoln, and a thirty-year-old face with heavy eye bags was reflected in the car window.

What did the name Leon Wolff once mean?

Heir to the last steel mill in Brooklyn .

The Wolf surname was once the pride of that neighborhood.

Until five years ago, on the day the factory closed down, my father jumped out of his office window.

At the funeral, Oliver was the only prominent business figure to pay his respects.

He patted me on the shoulder and said, “Your father was a good man, but the world has changed. Come work with me, young man, you have something your father didn’t.”

I know what he meant by "thing" .

Ruthless and unscrupulous, and capable of humbling himself to curry favor with the Hawthorne family.

So I married Grace Hawthorne.

A business marriage.

The Hawthorne family needed the Wolff family's last remaining connections in traditional industry, while the Wolff family needed the Hawthorne family's money to pay off their debts.

This is a win-win situation, except for my heart.

In three years , I turned Oliver into the most profitable division of Hawthorne Industries, transforming my half-dead subsidiary, "New Corleone."

For three years, I slept in the office more often than at home, and I saw New York at 4 a.m. more often than I saw Grace smiling.

I thought I had at least earned respect.

As the car entered Terminal B, old John said in a low voice, "Madam's flight has just arrived; it's at Gate 3."

I glanced at my watch; it was 11 p.m. Fine, we could go home together. At least I wouldn't have to face the deathly silence of that empty house.

When I saw her in the crowd, she was laughing loudly with her head tilted back.

I've seen that smile less than three times in three years.

And the person she was holding hands with—

Henry Frost.

The heir, or rather, the former heir, of Frost & Co.

After all, the Wall Street Journal had just devoted a full page to reporting on his family's bankruptcy liquidation last month.

He and Grace were childhood sweethearts, the king and queen of their high school prom, until the Frost family began to decline five years ago , when the Hawthorne family immediately cut off all business ties.

Oliver's original words were: "Losers only spread bad luck."

But now, Henry's hand was on Grace's waist, and the two were so close that they could share a breath.

He whispered something in her ear, and she laughed again, her fingers lightly tracing the collar of his suit.

My feet felt like they were nailed to the marble floor.

Grace finally saw me.

The smile didn't disappear; it simply froze, cooled, and then reassembled into a polite yet distant expression.

She released Henry's arm, the movement as natural as if she were simply dusting off some dirt.

“Lyon.” She walked over, her perfume a new scent. “I didn’t expect you to come pick me up.”

"By the way, Henry will be coming back with us. Dad's gone, and the company needs fresh blood. I've decided to hire him as a special advisor."

Henry walked over and extended his hand: "Leon, it's been a long time. My condolences."

My gaze lingered on his face for three seconds, then I turned to Grace: "Who did you discuss this with?"

“I am now the largest shareholder of Hawthorne Industries, Lyon.” Every word she spoke was like an icicle. “I don’t need to consult with anyone.”

Inside the car, the three people sat in a triangle.

It was past midnight when the car entered the Greenwich villa area.

“Henry will be staying in the guest room tonight,” Grace said as she got out of the car, without looking me in the eye. “He just returned home and hasn’t found a suitable apartment yet.”

“ It doesn't matter…” I said.

I watched them walk into the house, and Henry's hand returned to her waist.

My phone vibrated.

"Tomorrow at 10:00 AM, Hawthorne House, family meeting. Don't be late. — Margaret"

Margaret Hawthorne, my mother-in-law. While Oliver was alive, she at least maintained a semblance of politeness.

Now?

I put down my phone and walked to the window.

On the third floor, on the balcony of a guest room, there were two figures.

Grace was wearing a silk nightgown, her golden hair cascading over her shoulders.

Henry hugged her from behind, resting his chin on the top of her head.

Then he lowered his head and kissed her neck.

Oliver is dead, and the umbrella that sheltered me has fallen. Now, the jackals are entering the fray.

It doesn't matter.

Wolff is, in essence, a wild beast.

I took a USB drive from the deepest part of my desk drawer and plugged it into the computer.

The screen lit up, displaying real-time monitoring footage from the villa's security system.

In the scene, Grace, wearing a bathrobe, walks out of the master bedroom and knocks on the guest room door.

The door opened, and Henry pulled her inside.

The screen timer shows that she stayed inside for two hours and seventeen minutes.

I pressed the save button and named the file "Ultimatum".