Tycoon Ex-Husband—She’s Out of Her League

For seven years, to support my wife’s dream of building a perfume empire, I hid my identity as the heir to a trillion-dollar conglomerate and stayed in the basement, crafting the core base notes for her in silence.

But on the day she finally rose to fame, she hung my mother’s heirloom around her young lover’s neck and looked at me with naked disgust as she forced me out with nothing.

“A useless piece of trash that reeks of poverty like you would only drag down the class of my brand.”

I didn’t beg.

I signed the papers without hesitation, then cut off the only supply of raw essence that had been suppressing the toxicity in her perfumes.

In just one week, her new product triggered a catastrophic disfigurement scandal, and her billion-dollar empire came crashing down.

When she was ruined, covered in mud, and kneeling outside the gates of my estate, crying tears of blood and begging for mercy,

I simply held my perfectly matched new wife in my arms and watched coldly as security dragged her away like garbage.

“Clean it up. Don’t let her stain my ground.”

——

The backstage corridor of the City Hall Grand Theater still lingered with the scent of expensive champagne.

I stood outside the slightly ajar wooden door of the VIP dressing room, holding a custom-made Black Forest cake. It was Sylvia's favorite flavor. Today wasn't just the day she won the industry's gold award for her Mirage perfume collection; it was also our fifth anniversary.

To deliver the cake before the awards ceremony ended, I didn't even have time to change out of my jacket, which still reeked of culture fluid. I looked down at my hands. The backs of my hands and knuckles were covered in chemical burn scars of varying depths. Those were the marks left behind by countless failed experiments in the basement to purify the core base notes of Mirage.

But it was all worth it. As long as I could support her dream of becoming the queen of haute couture perfume, I was perfectly willing to hide my identity as the sole heir of the Vance Conglomerate and hole up in a pitch-black basement as a bottom-tier perfumer.

I took a deep breath, adjusted my expression, and was just about to push open that half-closed door.

"Sylvia, you are absolutely the center of attention in Paris tonight. The true queen of perfume."

Damian's voice came from inside, laced with an undisguised flippancy and intimacy. He was Sylvia's newly recruited marketing director, a man who always loved to hustle and scheme in these circles.

"Don't even mention it. Dealing with those judges is quite exhausting," Sylvia chuckled lightly, accompanied by the sound of high heels kicking off onto the carpet and the pouring of wine.

I frowned slightly, my hand hovering in mid-air.

Damian took a small sip of his wine, lowering his voice: "Where is Elias? On such an important occasion, why isn't he here to celebrate with you? Or is he hiding in that moldy basement tinkering with his bottles and jars again?"

I waited for Sylvia to defend me, just like the countless times she had whispered in my ear over the past five years.

However, the only thing that came through the door was an extremely cold sneer.

"How could I possibly let him come to an event like this?" Sylvia's voice revealed undisguised disgust. "Have you seen the way he looks? Always unkempt, always carrying that un-washable stench of poverty. Having him stand here would only drag down the class of my entire brand and make me a laughingstock to the reporters."

My fingers stiffened violently. It felt as if my heart had been drenched in ice water.

"But Madam President, if it weren't for that base note he blundered his way into creating, Mirage wouldn't have won the gold award today," Damian teased.

"That was just a job I threw at him out of pity." Sylvia's tone grew increasingly haughty. "What does a piece of trash like Elias know about the art of our social class? Perfumery isn't just about obsessively grinding out formulas; it requires circles, packaging, and an innate sense of taste. Without my commercial operations, those pungent liquids of his would only rot in the sewers."

The corridor outside was quite. So quiet that I could hear my suddenly slowed heartbeat.

Seven years. I gave up my territory on Wall Street and endured the ridicule of my family elders, all to fulfill her pride. It turned out that in her eyes, I was nothing more than barely usable, cheap labor reeking of poverty.

But I didn't lash out. My breathing didn't even falter. I just looked coldly through the crack in the door, continuing to watch everything inside.

Sylvia sat in front of the vanity mirror. Damian walked up behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders with a brazen look in his eyes.

Sylvia didn't pull away. Instead, she raised a hand and touched her neck. There was an old hemp rope necklace there, from which hung a supreme-quality, flawless amber fragrance sachet.

The moment I saw that sachet, my gaze turned freezing cold.

That was the relic my mother left for me on her deathbed. Seven years ago, I shed the halo of the Vance Conglomerate heir, placed it around Sylvia's neck, and told her that it was my everything, the thing I cherished most in this world.

Red-eyed, she had promised me then that she would protect it as if it were her own life.

And now, right in front of Damian, Sylvia unhesitatingly untied that hemp rope.

She turned around and carelessly hung that priceless, one-of-a-kind amber sachet around Damian's neck.

"This broken rock and its ugly cord really don't match my evening gown," Sylvia said, adjusting Damian's collar as her fingertips traced across his chest. "But on you, it has a sort of retro, untamed vibe. Damian, only you are worthy of true aesthetics, not that trash hiding in the basement."

Taking the hint, Damian wrapped his arm around her waist, lowered his head, and kissed her. "Thank you for the reward, Your Majesty."

The two kissed passionately under the bright lights of the dressing room.

I stood quietly outside the door, the hand holding the cake not trembling in the slightest.

There was no hysterical anger, nor was there any urge to storm in and catch them in the act. On the contrary, my mind was clearer than ever before.

The filter I had viewed her through for the past seven years shattered completely in this instant, turning into pathetic dust on the floor.

I looked at my own hands. To formulate anti-allergen essence for her, the skin was severely damaged. To help her save initial costs, I had personally lugged tens of kilograms of raw materials. These hands should have been signing billion-dollar contracts that controlled the lifelines of the global fragrance industry. They should have held the fate of countless people like Damian.

I turned my head and glanced at the Black Forest cake in my hands.

Along with the very last shred of affection I had for her, I threw it casually into the trash can in the corner of the corridor. The box toppled over, and the delicate cream smashed against the garbage bag, miserable and comical, exactly like my cheap devotion over the past seven years.

I withdrew my gaze, turned around, and walked toward the emergency exit. My footsteps were steady and firm.

Since she thought I was a piece of trash who didn't understand social class, and that my basement formulas were unworthy of her haute couture empire.

Then I would just have to let her see with her own eyes how her so-called social class could be easily crushed like a piece of paper in the face of true capital and power.