Wife's Revenge

The auction house buzzed with quiet excitement as I stepped through the ornate doors of Sotheby's Manhattan location. Crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over the gathered elite, their hushed conversations creating a symphony of wealth and privilege. I smoothed down my navy dress—simple but elegant—and clutched my auction paddle with anticipation.

"Lot 47, a rare mid-century sculpture by Elise Moreau," the auctioneer announced. "We'll start the bidding at fifty thousand dollars."

My heart quickened. The sculpture reminded me so much of my mother—its flowing lines and intricate details were reminiscent of a piece she'd cherished before her passing. I could almost feel her presence beside me, urging me to bring this beautiful work home.

"Sixty thousand," called a woman in the front row.

"Seventy-five," countered a man to my right.

I took a deep breath and raised my paddle. "One hundred thousand," I called out, my voice steady despite my racing pulse.

The auctioneer's gavel paused mid-air as he looked toward me with a questioning smile. "I'm sorry, Ms. Thompson. It seems there's an issue with your card. Would you like to provide another form of payment?"

Heat rushed to my face as several heads turned in my direction. "That's impossible," I whispered. "Try it again."

The assistant behind him nodded politely and swiped my card once more. Her expression didn't change, but something in her eyes told me what was coming before she spoke.

"I'm afraid this card has been declined, Ms. Thompson."

"Check again," I insisted, my voice dropping to a hiss. "There should be at least seventy million in our joint account."

Around me, whispers rippled through the crowd. I felt their stares—some pitying, others calculating, all embarrassing.

"Perhaps your backup card?" the assistant suggested gently.

I fumbled in my purse for my second card, then my third. Each one met the same fate—declined, declined, declined.

"This is ridiculous," I muttered, my fingers trembling slightly as I checked my phone. No notifications, no alerts. Just silence.

"Ms. Thompson," the auctioneer's voice had grown impatient. "If you can't provide payment, we'll have to move on."

I nodded numbly, sinking back into my seat as another bidder claimed the sculpture I'd hoped would honor my mother's memory. My mind raced, trying to make sense of what had happened. Vincent had access to our accounts, of course—we'd set them up that way when I'd decided to support his business ventures. But empty? All of them?

The weight of seventy million dollars didn't sit lightly on my shoulders. That money was my safety net, my inheritance, my mother's legacy. And now it was gone.

I stood abruptly, ignoring the curious glances around me. "Excuse me," I murmured to those I brushed past, making my way toward the exit.

"Perhaps you'd like to check with your husband?" suggested an older woman beside me, her voice kind but her eyes sharp with curiosity.

"Yes," I replied automatically. "That's exactly what I need to do."

But where was Vincent? He'd mentioned attending the