Cast Out by My Wife, Now She's Ruined

In Manhattan, the penthouse ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel resounded with the sounds of clinking glasses and decadent revelry.

I was wearing a cheap synthetic suit that cost less than two hundred dollars, holding a tray piled high with empty wine glasses, standing in the shadows of a corner.

"That gigolo is being punished again."

"Charlotte is too soft-hearted. If it were me, I would have kicked this good-for-nothing who lives off his wife out of the company long ago."

Several sales executives passing by chuckled quietly, making no attempt to conceal my presence.

I listened expressionlessly, without even lifting an eyelid. I am the sole heir to the oldest conglomerate on the East Coast. My monthly allowance is enough to buy this entire hotel. Yet, I live under an assumed name, working as a low-level administrator at this bankrupt company, earning a meager three thousand dollars a month.

Three thousand dollars isn't even enough to cover the cost of heating the fireplace for one night at my Long Island estate.

The reason I'm here is simply because three years ago, after Charlotte's father died in a car accident, the moment she swore to the investors with red eyes and gritted teeth that she would never bow down, allowed me to see a rare glimpse of purity in this calculating world of fame and fortune.

I was tired of people around me only focusing on my power , so I hid everything and gave her three years of unconditional companionship. I took care of all the housework in her shabby apartment and managed all the trivialities of her life.

But time has proven that the integrity of the poor is worthless in the face of money.

"Bang--!"

A deafening sound of shattering glass erupted in the center of the hall.

A tremendous force slammed into my shoulder. The champagne tower I had been holding steadily was overturned by the force. Pale golden liquid mixed with sharp shards of glass instantly soaked half of my body.

The music in the hall stopped abruptly.

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry, I didn't see there was a living person standing here."

Carl stood a step away from me, leisurely swirling a half-full glass of Romanée-Conti. His father had been Charlotte's father's business partner, and through that connection, he was now the company's top "number one client," holding half of the company's revenue in his hands.

He not only sabotaged me at work, but now he has openly displayed his malice in front of hundreds of employees.

Carl pretended to dust off his suit, then looked around, his gaze sweeping over the crowd and locking onto Charlotte, who had just arrived.

"Charlotte, you've really failed as a boss." Carl's lips curled into a mocking smile as he pointed a finger arrogantly at my nose and laughed. "The company is doing business, not charity. How come you're still keeping this dog around?"

Dead silence.

Immediately afterwards, the entire audience erupted in a thunderous roar of laughter.

Those who usually criticize me are now desperately trying to please Karl's humor. In their eyes, Karl is a high-ranking figure, while I am just a joke that can be trampled into the mud at any moment.

I ignored the jeers around me, simply stood calmly in place, and turned to look at Charlotte.

Three years ago, the woman who vowed to protect her family's honor strode closer in her high heels. I had thought that, at least when others openly insulted her husband as a "dog," she would reveal the last vestiges of her principles.

But she didn't.

Charlotte didn't even glance at the bloody scrapes on my body; instead, she frowned deeply, her eyes filled with disgust and impatience.

She lowered her voice and scolded me in a volume only the two of us could hear: "Can't you stay away a little longer?"

I looked into her eyes, my tone completely flat: "He deliberately bumped into me, and you're asking me why I didn't dodge?"

"Stop making excuses!" Charlotte's breathing became rapid, her tone revealing extreme repression and cowardice. "Karl holds the company's core orders for next quarter! He's my biggest source of customers; without him, the company's cash flow will dry up tomorrow! Do you really have to provoke him at this time? How am I supposed to confront him in front of everyone?!"

Every word she spoke was an accusation of my incompetence.

I suddenly found it a little funny.

The so-called "core orders" she mentioned—that multi-million dollar overseas business that Carl was so proud of and used to control her—were nothing compared to what I considered a fraction of what was going on. If I wanted, I wouldn't even need to make a phone call; a simple email to the family trust fund would be enough to bring Carl's entire family business to a devastating short-selling attack within ten minutes.

But in Charlotte's eyes, Carl was her savior, controlling her life and death. And I was a burden who didn't understand the bigger picture and almost ruined her cash cow.

"You're right."

I didn't get angry; instead, I looked at her with extreme calmness, as if I were sizing up a worthless stranger.

I took off my soaking wet, cheap suit jacket and tossed it onto the messy ruins of the champagne tower before turning and walking toward the door.

"Where are you going?!" Charlotte shouted angrily from behind. "Are you throwing a tantrum at me? Can't you be a little more mature?!"

Without even turning my head, I pushed open the heavy doors of the banquet hall, completely shutting out the clowns and the hypocritical revelry behind me.

...

Two in the morning, Brooklyn, a basement apartment of less than 60 square meters.

For three years, I've been living in a manor with a private butler and a Michelin-starred chef, and instead, I cook for her every day in this cramped kitchen where it's hard to even turn around.

"Buzzing—"

The phone on the table suddenly vibrated. The screen lit up; it was an MMS message from an anonymous number.

I tapped the screen.

In the photo, Charlotte, her clothes half-undone, eyes closed, and face flushed, lies drunkenly on the large bed in a hotel suite. A hand wearing a Rolex watch rests suggestively on her collarbone. It is Karl's hand.

Immediately following this was a highly provocative message from Carl:

Helping your wife take a bath was exhausting.

I sat quietly in the dark living room, the cold light from my phone screen shining on my face.

There was no outburst of anger.

There was no hysteria.

My heart is filled with only a bottomless, deathly stillness and coldness.

I gave her three years to prove she was worthy of my doomed marriage. But as it turns out, she only deserved to huddle together with those lowlifes for warmth in the mud.

I slowly raised my left hand and reached for the ring finger of my right hand, slowly pulling off the wedding ring that Charlotte had bought for fifty dollars at a roadside stall.

This ring once imprisoned a monster capable of upending Wall Street for three years.

Clang.

The silver ring fell into the trash can with a dull thud. I stood up, walked to the wardrobe, and ignored the cheap synthetic shirts.

This pointless game of experiencing life as a civilian has come to an end.

Since Charlotte and Carl enjoy manipulating power and money so much, then I will personally overturn this game and let them see clearly what's going on—

What truly constitutes the power to crush everything?