Divorce Day, I Took Back Wall Street.

To save my wife’s family, I buried my name, wore myself down, and let a few strands of my hair turn gray while caring for her on the edge of death.

Three years later, she slipped into custom Chanel and slapped a divorce agreement down in front of me.

With her arm wrapped around a so-called old-money heir from Wall Street, she mocked me as a worthless nobody who couldn’t even afford a luxury handbag, a bottom-feeder who was never fit to stand beside her.

I signed my name without a word and watched her leave in triumph.

What she didn’t know was that the man preaching investments was nothing more than a Ponzi fraudster facing multiple charges.

And when the conference room door closed, Manhattan’s most feared ice-cold attorney bowed to me at a perfect ninety degrees and welcomed me to unlock the seventy-billion-dollar trust fund and take back control of the entire conglomerate.

A few months later, inside a women’s maximum-security prison in Brooklyn, she was dressed in a filthy, tattered prison uniform, sprawled across a floor slick with dirty water, sobbing as she was beaten and begging for my forgiveness.

I simply lifted my whiskey and calmly switched off the surveillance feed.

——

Midtown Manhattan, the top-floor conference room of Hudson Law.

A thick Divorce Agreement was slammed onto the mahogany table, sliding half a meter before stopping in front of me.

Sign it. Do not waste everyone’s time. Emma folded her arms, chin lifted, looking down at me. She wore a custom Chanel suit today, the one she had always wanted but used to call too expensive. On her, it gave off a desperate need to show off.

I leaned back in my chair, eyes passing over the black-and-white text, and did not move right away.

What, can’t bear to let go Emma let out a short scoff, contempt undisguised in her gaze. Richard is waiting for me downstairs. Do you know how valuable his time is A real old-money Wall Street heir is not something a loser like you can compare to, someone who only collects a fixed paycheck and has to pinch pennies just to buy a decent bag.

Richard. A name that had entered her social circle half a year ago.

I looked at the woman in front of me, and my thoughts drifted. Three years ago, her family business was on the verge of collapse. She was so desperate she tried to end her life more than once. I was the one who quietly moved resources and stabilized everything. Two years ago, she was in a serious car crash and lay in the ICU. I stayed here night after night, a few strands of hair turning gray, and pulled her back from death.

And now, the high-definition photos and videos my private investigator had sent still sat in my encrypted inbox. Proof of her in a luxury hotel suite, moaning beneath that so-called heir, had cut the past three years into pieces.

He promised me that once you sign, I will move into a penthouse by Central Park. That is the life I deserve. Seeing me stay silent, Emma assumed I was making a last struggle, and her voice turned sharper. For the sake of our past, I did not make you leave with nothing. You can keep that old Ford. This is my greatest mercy. Face reality. You cannot give me the life I want.

I pulled my thoughts back and looked at her face, the face I had once poured everything into, now filled with coldness and vanity. Inside me there was no anger, no pain, only complete dead calm and release.

Three years was enough to see a person clearly.

I pulled the cap off the pen. The tip touched the signature line. No pause, no hesitation. I signed my name in one smooth stroke.

Two copies. I pushed them back to her.

You Emma seemed not to expect I would be so decisive. She froze for a beat, then snatched the agreement, checked the signature carefully, and finally exhaled as if she had thrown off a bag of rotting trash. Smug, she stuffed the papers into a crocodile-leather handbag.

She stood up and, in high heels, walked to the door without looking back.

Do not contact me again. We are not in the same world anymore.

Bang. The heavy double doors of the conference room shut.

The room returned to a deathly silence.

A woman who had been standing in the shadows at the far end of the table, silent as an ice statue, finally lowered her stenographer’s notebook.

That was Jessica. A top partner at Manhattan’s most elite law firm, famous on Wall Street for iron-blooded methods and a win rate that terrified people. At this moment, the iceberg attorney who was always above everyone suddenly strode to me.

Sir.

She bent at the waist and bowed deeply to me, precise and respectful, holding it for a full three seconds.

When she straightened, she offered a matte black card with dark-gold inlay along the edges.

Congratulations. Jessica’s voice was no longer the courtroom blade it usually was. It carried absolute awe and submission. The three-year term is complete. Your low-profile poverty test phase officially ends now.

I took the cool card, thumb rubbing the subtle pattern.

By the final decision of the family council, as of this moment, your personal trust fund of seventy billion dollars is fully unlocked. In addition, all cross-holdings and controlling rights, including the Morgan Group and several core investment banks, have been restored to your control.

I stood, rolled my stiff neck once, and walked to the massive floor-to-ceiling window.

Through the bulletproof glass, I looked down at the glittering streets of Manhattan. Dozens of floors below, a dazzling red supercar was parked by the curb. A figure in a Chanel suit slipped into the passenger seat.

I turned the black card between my fingers. In my previously still, deep eyes, a predatory light slowly surfaced.

The feeling of control was back.

Jessica. I did not turn around. My voice was flat, with no emotion.

I am here, sir.

Find out who owns the car downstairs. That Richard. In ten minutes, I want the operation logs showing every one of his funding lines cut off.

Understood. Would you like a liquidation warning included

No. Let him fall to the bottom without knowing what hit him. I watched the supercar merge into traffic, as if watching an ant about to be crushed.

The game was only just beginning.