Pregnant Mistress Upstairs, Wife Out for Revenge Below

A flicker of weariness crossed Julian's eyes, almost too fleeting to catch, but it was there. "Of course, I remember. It's your favorite. Why bring it up all of a sudden?"

"Nothing. Just feels like a shame," I said, holding his gaze. "If only we could've bought it."

"Forget about it."

He smiled and kissed my forehead. "A piece like that, a true one-of-a-kind, would've already been collected by someone with real power. It was never going to be ours.

"Now, stop thinking about those things. A few days from now, a friend of mine is hosting a cocktail party. Come with me. I'll introduce you to some new clients."

Julian still thought I was the same obedient wife whose life revolved entirely around his career.

I closed my eyes and nodded in his arms, my heart sinking inch by inch into an icy ocean. Just how much had he been hiding from me?

In the days that followed, I acted as if nothing had changed. I still made Julian breakfast every morning, ironed his shirts, and hugged him before he left home.

I needed proof—and not just about the apartment upstairs. I also needed to know just how deep the lies went.

I was an independent jewelry designer with my own studio and brand.

In the early days of our relationship, Julian was just a fledgling financial advisor. I was the one who used the prize money from my first major design award to help him start his own business.

That was how JW Capital came to be.

Over the years, my studio had brought in a substantial income. Apart from daily expenses, most of my earnings were handed over to Julian for him to manage, under the name of family investments.

I trusted him completely and never once checked the accounts. In hindsight, it was a foolish, naive move.

So, I used work as an excuse, saying the studio needed to handle annual tax audits, and asked Julian for our joint account's statements. He didn't expect a thing.

The next day, his assistant delivered a thick stack of documents. I locked myself in the study and went through them page by page. Soon, I found the problem.

Starting six months ago, a fixed monthly transfer of 200 thousand dollars had been made to an account under the name of Derek Lowe.

Another Lowe. I was almost certain it was either Hazel's father or brother.

200 thousand a month was a generous sum. Was that her living expenses or hush money?

I kept scrolling, and my hands began to shake.

At the end of last year, there was a transfer of eight million dollars. The remark read, "Purchase of Lakeside Garden Commercial Property".

I remembered that clearly.

Back then, Julian told me he had spotted a commercial unit with huge appreciation potential. He urged me to invest the largest chunk of the studio's working capital.

He even showed me a scanned copy of the property certificate. It had both our names printed on it.

Yet now, the bank statement in front of me showed that the eight million hadn't gone to a property developer at all. It was transferred to an offshore company registered in the Hayman Islands.

I immediately called my childhood friend, Taylor Lambert, a lawyer, and asked her to help me check a property called Lakeside Garden.

I also asked her to look into the shareholding structure of JW Capital and dig up everything she could find on someone named Derek Lowe.

She was efficient. In the afternoon, she called me back.

"Mo, that commercial unit isn't registered under you and Julian at all. It belongs to a company I don't recognize," Taylor said. "And there's something off about JW Capital…"

She continued, "On paper, Julian's the legal representative, but he only holds 10% of the shares. The remaining 90% is controlled by an offshore parent company. The actual controller of that company is his father's secretary. As for Derek Lowe…"

She paused, her tone turning cautious. "He's Hazel's father. I looked into her as well. Apart from the apartment above yours, she also owns two cars—a Porsche Cayenne and a Maserati."