Love Turned to Ash: He Cheated Again, So I Took His Empire

On the third anniversary of our marriage, Adrian Griffin had a new face in his passenger seat.

This time, I, Audrey Lawson, didn't storm over to tear them apart. I didn't scream or demand explanations.

I simply went home and poured the dinner I had spent the entire afternoon preparing into the trash.

The housekeeper tried to stop me. "Mrs. Griffin, you worked all afternoon on those dishes…"

I wiped my hands, my voice flat. "It's cold. I don't want it anymore."

Not the food. Not the man I had once given up my career to marry.

I took out the divorce papers I had prepared long ago. Without hesitation, I signed my name—slowly, carefully, stroke by stroke.

Then I began packing my things. Clothes. Jewelry.

And the honors that were rightfully mine.

Adrian had no idea that every award-winning design Griffin Group had received in the past five years had come from my hand.

He had built his reputation in the industry on my work.

I dialed a number that had lain dormant for three years.

"Professor, I'm back."

From this day forward, I would reclaim everything that belonged to me.

......

The next day dawned bright and cloudless.

I had a follow-up appointment with my private dentist in Southridge Enclave, that discreet pocket of wealth in the southern district of Asterford.

As I stepped out of the clinic, I passed a bespoke jewelry boutique next door.

The emerald necklace in the display window looked familiar.

I had once casually admired that very design at an art exhibition last month.

The glass door opened, and a familiar figure stepped out.

It was Adrian.

He was wearing the charcoal-gray suit I had pressed for him. A young woman I didn't recognize clung to his arm.

She looked fresh out of college, dressed in a white sundress, her smile bright and sweet.

"Adrian, this is way too expensive. I can't accept it."

"Silly girl, if you like it, I'll buy the whole store."

His voice was gentle—laced with a tenderness I hadn't heard in a long time.

I stopped without meaning to.

Not because it hurt. Because it was absurd.

Just three days earlier, he had held me close and sworn I was the only woman he would ever love. The others, he said, had meant nothing—mere transactions in the world of business.

I had caught him cheating more times than I could count.

Each time, a different woman.

Models. Minor celebrities. Even a distant cousin of mine.

The first time I found out, I broke down and smashed everything in the house.

He had knelt outside in the rain all night, burning with a fever of 104 degrees, begging me not to leave.

Back then, my heart had softened.

I told myself a prodigal could come home. I told myself he loved me—he just lacked self-control.

But when it happened again and again, I grew numb.

He grew bolder. He believed that no matter what he did outside, a few