They Called Me a Gold-Digger on My Yacht

Fresh off the operating table after barely surviving a miscarriage, I received a $50,000 bill—every cent spent on a waterbed and aphrodisiac aromatherapy on a yacht.

I called my husband, the only other person who knew about that account.

Over the phone, he sounded gentle yet aggrieved: "Honey, how could I afford a luxury yacht? It must be a banking error. You just lost our baby; please rest well. My flight to New York is taking off soon, and I'll be right by your side the moment I get back!"

I didn't expose the deafening sounds of the wild party in his background. I simply hung up.

He thought his lie was flawless. He had no idea that as the hidden heiress of the Windsor Consortium, that priceless yacht, the Poseidon, was actually a coming-of-age gift from my grandmother.

I ripped the IV out of my arm and dialed a number I hadn't called in years since marrying beneath my station.

"Grandma, you were right. He doesn't deserve me. I'm going to the ship to catch him red-handed."

...

The deliberately faked affection and innocence in Declan's voice moments ago now only made me sick to my stomach.

After hanging up, I clicked the live security feed link sent by my butler. A high-definition view of the yacht's main deck instantly popped up on my screen.

Blinding neon lights flashed wildly, and the heavy bass shook the camera feed.

Declan, the husband who had just sworn he was waiting for his flight to New York, was currently on the center observation deck, arms wrapped around a woman in a slip dress, kissing her passionately.

And glaring back at me from that woman's neck was the Windsor family's heirloom sapphire necklace—the very one I had locked in my safe!

My stomach churned wildly, and the excruciating pain from my near-death miscarriage surged back.

I dashed into the hospital bathroom and dry-heaved, coughing up nothing but bitter bile and the metallic taste of blood.

Three years ago, captivated by Declan's claim that he "didn't like spoiled rich girls" and "only loved me for who I am," I hid my identity as the sole heir to the Windsor Consortium. I even signed an agreement temporarily waiving my access to the family trust, all just to live a normal life with him.

I used my private savings to secretly pave the way for his career and registered this superyacht under a shell company just to give him a lavish venue to entertain his clients.

The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. I threw on a random jacket and drove straight to the private marina in Miami.

The ocean breeze carried a scent of extravagance, and the pier was lined with luxury cars.

The security manager stopped me. Suppressing my rage, I spoke up: "Open the gate. I am the registered owner of this yacht, Adelaide."

The manager glanced at my faded jacket, looking both confused and impatient. "Adelaide? Isn't she on board hosting her one-year anniversary party?"

My face darkened instantly, trembling with rage. That wannabe influencer hadn't just stolen my necklace; she had the audacity to play the hostess on my dime?

Through gritted teeth, I snapped, "I am the real Adelaide!"

The manager lost his patience, looking me up and down. "Ma'am, if you don't have an invitation, please leave! We have many VIP guests today, so don't cause a scene here. She arrived with Mr. Declan as a VIP. I may not have met Ms. Adelaide in person, but Mr. Declan is a regular here. How could it be fake?"

I felt like I'd been struck by lightning. My husband, using my money, on my territory, was playing the romantic lead in someone else's anniversary. The irony was suffocating.

Done wasting my breath, I coldly shoved him aside and stepped directly onto the yacht's deck.

At a glance, I spotted the influencer from the security feed—Chloe.

The security manager chased after me, pointing at Chloe in the center. "See her? That is the lady of the yacht. I suggest you leave right now before you cause trouble."

The blaring music just happened to hit a lull.

I walked forward, locking my eyes on Chloe.

"Using my money to set up a sex bed, wearing my sapphire necklace, and cuddling my husband on my yacht. You really went all out for this hostess role, didn't you?"

My voice wasn't loud, but it echoed clearly across the deck. The partying crowd fell dead silent, their eyes snapping toward us in unison.

Chloe's face paled, but she quickly shrank into Declan's arms, her eyes instantly welling up with tears. "Miss, what are you talking about? Declan's best buddy lent us this yacht, and this necklace is an expensive anniversary gift from him!"

Bringing up the sex bed, she bit her lip in mock shyness. "As for the waterbed... what's wrong with using it with my own boyfriend?"

Then, she shot me a look of feigned pity. "Lady, did something traumatize you? Looking at the way you're dressed, are you mentally unwell? Do you want me to call an ambulance for you?"

At that, the peripheral wannabes of high society surrounding us erupted into laughter, gossiping loudly.

"Look at her sickly, haggard face. What rich boss would ever want that?"

"Right? Maintenance for the Poseidon alone costs millions a year. The way she's dressed, she probably couldn't even afford a steering wheel."

"So many crazy people these days. Going mad trying to gold-dig, actually coming here to pull a scam."

I didn't bother with the idle gossip around me. Keeping my gaze fixed on the sapphire around Chloe's neck, I scoffed aloud:

"Playing a socialite while wearing a necklace stolen from my safe—your talent for hijacking someone else's life is way better than your gig as an influencer."

Then I turned sharply, demanding of the security manager beside me, "When you let people on board, did you even verify the facial ID of the yacht's registered owner?!"

The security manager stammered, "Mr. Declan said his girlfriend was... was..."

"So you just bypassed protocol?" I cut him off coldly. "Your VIP management is a complete joke!"

Chloe immediately put on her hypocritical airs to defuse the situation. "Miss, why are you giving a security guard such a hard time? Like they say, your status dictates the ship you board. This is a high-end private party. Even if you want to throw a tantrum, you're at the wrong place."

Every word dripped with disdain for my outfit, hinting that I had no right to even step foot on this deck.

Right then, Declan finally snapped out of his shock.

The arrogance and smugness on his face instantly froze. Shoving Chloe out of his arms, he stared at me like he'd seen a ghost, his tongue tying in knots:

"A-Adelaide?! What are you doing here? Aren't you in the hospital...?"

"Why?" I stared at him icily. "Did you prefer I die on the operating table, just so I could free up this boat for you?"