Chapter 1

Delilah's POV

At eleven o'clock at night, I sat alone in my study, financial statements from the charity foundation spread out before me. The numbers blurred together as I rubbed my temples. For three years, I'd grown accustomed to handling these matters alone while Theron was always busy with various social engagements and "important meetings."

My phone suddenly rang, its shrill tone cutting through the night's silence.

Seeing the caller ID, my heart instantly sank. Tommy, the paparazzo who specialized in wealthy people's scandals.

"Hello," I answered, my voice as calm as if handling routine business.

"Mrs. Sterling, got more photos of your husband," Tommy said with his familiar smugness. "Asking fifty grand this time."

Fifty thousand dollars. I wasn't even surprised, just mechanically picked up my pen to jot down details on a notepad. This was the thirty-seventh time—I kept careful count.

"Where were they taken?" I asked.

"On his private yacht. The girl looks about twenty-two, blonde, blue-eyed, smoking hot." Tommy made a clicking sound with his tongue. "The photos are pretty explicit, Mrs. Sterling."

My hand paused. The yacht? The one he claimed was for "business entertainment"?

"Send them to my email. I'll wire the money tomorrow," I replied, my voice still steady, as if ordering afternoon tea.

After hanging up, I stared at my phone screen while emotions churned inside me. How much have I spent cleaning up after Theron since we got married? Three million? Five million? More? I've lost count.

The email notification chimed.

I took a deep breath and opened the photos Tommy had sent.

On the screen, Theron was embracing a young woman, pressed against each other in the yacht's bedroom. I recognized her face immediately—Natasha, the new intern at the company, fresh out of Stanford, beautiful as a porcelain doll.

I remembered how she looked on her first day, standing nervously at the office doorway, her eyes full of hope for the future. And now, there she was in my husband's arms, her gaze unfocused, clothes disheveled.

"Another blonde with blue eyes," I muttered to myself, my voice sounding harsh in the empty study.

That was Theron's type—always young, beautiful, defenseless girls. And me? Thirty-year-old Delilah Sterling, the perfect CEO's wife, eternally elegant, eternally rational, eternally paying for his recklessness.

Memories suddenly flooded back to that night three years ago, shortly after our wedding. The first time I discovered evidence of his infidelity, I confronted him in tears. He held me, his voice gentle as he promised, "Delilah, you're my wife, my business partner. We're the perfect team. These little indiscretions won't change what we have. I'll change."

I believed him. Not only believed him but took on the responsibility of cleaning up his messes. I told myself this was the price of marriage, the duty of being the matriarch of the Sterling family.

But now, looking at the photos on the screen, it all suddenly seemed absurd.

Why am I continuing this charade?

Anger burned in my chest like wildfire as three years of humiliation and resentment erupted at once. I dialed Tommy's number again.

"What is it, Mrs. Sterling? Need to increase the confidentiality fee?" Tommy's tone turned sycophantic.

"Tommy, I'm not buying this time."

Silence hung on the other end for a few seconds, then came Tommy's incredulous voice: "What? Mrs. Sterling, you're not joking, are you? If these photos get out..."

"Send the photos to all the media," I interrupted, my voice surprisingly calm. "I don't care anymore."

"Ma'am, are you sure? This could—"

I hung up.

As I stood, I felt an unprecedented lightness. For the first time in three years, I was no longer taking responsibility for that cheating bastard's choices. I grabbed my car keys and walked out of the study.

The streets were empty and quiet as I drove through the city. Neon lights flickered outside my window, illuminating my resolute face. The radio played an old song, the lyrics indistinct but the melody sad and determined.

"Three years of humiliation ends tonight," I repeated to myself as I pressed harder on the gas pedal.

Sterling Group's headquarters still blazed with light even at night, a steel behemoth that had witnessed countless business legends and family secrets.

I parked my car, walked into the lobby, and took the elevator straight to the top floor.

As the elevator rose slowly, each floor felt like a farewell to the past. I looked at my reflection—immaculate makeup, expensive suit, perfect hair. This was the Delilah Sterling they wanted—an elegant vase, a professional cleaner of messes.

But tonight, I was tearing off those labels.

The elevator doors opened, and I walked toward the chairman's office. Behind that heavy oak door sat Theron's father—company founder Harrison Sterling. The seventy-year-old man controlled the entire Sterling empire.

I pushed the door open without knocking, without an appointment.

Harrison was reviewing documents and looked up with a flash of surprise before resuming his usual authoritative demeanor.

"Delilah, it's late. Is something urgent?"

I looked directly at this man who once intimidated me, my tone calm but with steel-like determination: "It's been three years. It's time you let me go."