— I know perfectly well. I know about the apartment in the 7th. I know about Erica. I know about the baby.
Silence.
The silence on the other end of the line was not an excuse.
It was the beginning of his downfall.
Part 2…— I was going to explain…
— I didn't need explanations. I needed respect.
I hung up.
I decided to meet Erica.
We met in a discreet café in the Marais.
She was young. Elegant. Visibly pregnant.
"He told me you've been separated for years," she whispered.
— That's not true.
His expression changed.
Confusion.
Pain.
Shame.
At that moment, I realized that she didn't know the whole story either.
"I didn't come here to fight," I told her. "I just wanted you to know the truth."
She was not my enemy.
We had both been manipulated.
I left that meeting with an unexpected feeling: relief.
The legal proceedings in France were lengthy. There were attempts at intimidation, offers of advantageous settlements for him, and insinuations that we should "settle this privately."
But I had proof.
Emails.
Dates.
Bank statements.
Months later, the divorce was finalized.
He received only what the law considered fair.
Most of the money stayed with me.
Not out of revenge.
But because it had always belonged to me.
Six months later, I sold the large house in Neuilly and moved into a smaller apartment in Montmartre.
Calmer.
More mine.
I invested part of the capital in real estate projects in Nice and Toulouse. With another part, I created a foundation in honor of my parents, offering university scholarships to disadvantaged young people in the Île-de-France region.
I turned betrayal into opportunity.
There have been some difficult nights.
