She Got the Credit, He Got the Breakdown

I stare at the email on my screen, unable to move my fingers.

Tomorrow is our company's crucial product launch, and I just learn that the patent for the algorithm I spent three years developing is now filed under Matthew Ashford's new assistant, Sophie Bennett.

I storm into Matthew's office to confront him.

Sophie sits on his desk with her legs crossed, looking completely innocent. She claims that she filled out the form by mistake.

"It's just a clerical error. The patent still belongs to the company. What's the big deal?" Matthew stands up from his chair, positioning himself in front of Sophie.

I can't believe what I am hearing. "Matthew, this is my research!"

"Emma, you're thirty-five. Why are you picking a fight with a twenty-three-year-old intern?" He frowns.

Then, he turns to Sophie. "Starting tomorrow, you're the new CTO. Emma needs… some time off."

I'm utterly stunned. A decade of marriage and five years dedicated to building a company together have been shattered by a few casual words from him.

Thirty minutes later, Sophie posts a photo on social media of herself sitting on Matthew's lap. They are both clinking champagne glasses. "So lucky to have the best boss ever. I'll make sure to be his loyal kitten."

Below that, Matthew leaves a comment—three red heart emojis.

I shut my laptop and pick up my phone. "Hello. Is this Mr. David Langley from Novara Group of Sundale Valley? This is Emma Whitmore. I've changed my mind. I'm ready to join you."

I pause. "And by the way, about that unreleased algorithm upgrade, I have the complete technical blueprint. Make me an offer."

Later, I fly to Tallisport with an eight-figure check in hand, while Matthew goes frantic trying to find me.

I had carefully planned my revenge so that the woman who stole my patent and the husband who betrayed me would both pay the price.

After signing the contract with my new company, I went to the most exclusive, award-winning restaurant in Masonridge District. I'd made the reservation two months ago, just for tonight.

It was supposed to be our tenth wedding anniversary. I'd planned to surprise Matthew Ashford after work. Instead, he surprised me first.

The waiter presented my carefully prepared anniversary gift—a box of premium, handcrafted chocolates made in Sorevia, each with a surprise inside. I gazed at the gold-embossed "10th Anniversary" on the box and felt a surge of emotion.

Ten years ago, we hurriedly celebrated our wedding in Lanswell. We were so financially strained that we could only afford to share a single piece of discounted chocolate for dessert.

Matthew had once licked chocolate off his fingers and said, "When we hit ten years, I'll make it up to you with the grand wedding you deserve."

Within this box of chocolates, I had hidden a small antique key inside one of the pieces. It was the key to the vacation cottage I purchased for us in Sorevia.

It was intended as a surprise to celebrate our tenth anniversary. Yet now, that gift felt utterly meaningless.

Just as I was about to ask the waiter to take it away, a video call from Matthew came through.

"Emma, where did you run off to? And what's with that resignation email? Sophie just filled in the wrong name. Do you really have to blow it out of proportion and use quitting to threaten me?"

I let out a bitter smile. "It's not a threat. I'm really leaving."

Matthew was caught off guard. His tone softened. "Is this because I made Sophie the CTO? I just wanted to motivate the younger members of our team.

"Everyone at the company knows you're my wife. Title or not, they'll still listen to you. Cool off out there and come home, alright?

"I've got an important board meeting tonight. I won't be home for dinner."

My heart clenched. He really was a good liar.

Just five minutes ago, Sophie Bennett had texted me. "Matthew's taking me to the best Feylanese restaurant in town to celebrate my promotion. He said it cost him ten grand just to get the reservation."

So, apparently, his important meeting was nothing more than a celebration with his mistress.

In the first few years of our marriage, he never forgot an anniversary. Yet by our tenth, he had completely forgotten the date.

I gazed at the elegantly arranged spread of Feylanese cuisine before me, then I picked up my utensils. Ten years of devotion had led to this. I chose to treat this lonely dinner as the quiet end to our marriage.