I Was Ready to Divorce My Husband—Then His Mistress’s Husband Gave Me a $150 Million Check and Asked Me to Wait

I was planning to divorce my husband. Unexpectedly, his mistress’s husband showed up and handed me a check for $150 million. He said, “Don’t divorce him now. Wait another three months.” It turns out…

Chapter 1: The Storm Before the Silence

The rain in New York that afternoon seemed to understand the precise topography of my heart. It fell in a torrential downpour, a relentless gray curtain that obscured the Midtown Manhattan skyline, turning the city into a watercolor painting left out in the storm. I stood motionless before the massive plate-glass window of our 30th-floor penthouse, watching the streets below choke on rush-hour traffic. The blurred lights of taxis and limousines smeared against the wet asphalt, creating a bleak, abstract masterpiece of urban misery.

Normally, at this hour, I would be a whirlwind of domestic perfection in the kitchen. I would be seasoning a rack of lamb with fresh rosemary, ensuring the aromatherapy diffusers were puffing out the exact scent of “Calm & Serenity,” and waiting for the sound of the elevator. I, Eleanor Vance, daughter of a respected Upper East Side dynasty, had dedicated my entire life—my education at Vassar, my potential, my very soul—to being the perfect wife to Mark Peterson.

But this evening, the kitchen was cold. There was no aroma of roasting meat, no soft jazz playlist floating through the surround sound. There was only the rumble of thunder, occasionally clashing with the painful, erratic thud of my own heart.

In my hand, Mark’s smartphone felt like a piece of dry ice, burning my skin. The sleek device had been left on the nightstand when he rushed out this morning, claiming a crisis at the office. I shouldn’t have opened it. I should have trusted his cliché excuses. But the notification that popped up on the lock screen destroyed five years of carefully constructed reality in a single sentence.

Chloe: Hey babe, thanks for the transfer for my shopping spree earlier. You still coming to my place tonight? I miss you so much. Don’t forget to tell that stupid wife of yours you’re working late.

The message was short, but its destructive power was greater than a tactical nuke.

Stupid wife.

Those two words echoed in my head, spinning like a broken record, scratching deep grooves into my psyche. So this was how they saw me. Mark, the man whose status I had elevated, whom my father had introduced to the titans of industry until he could stand on his own, apparently thought I was an idiot.

My hand trembled as I unlocked the phone screen. Coincidentally—or perhaps tragically—I knew the password. Our anniversary. How poetic.

Inside, I discovered a shadow world. Intimate photos of them in the Bahamas when Mark had claimed to be at a textile conference in Ohio. Vulgar texts that made bile rise in my throat. And the most painful part: proof of massive money transfers to a woman named Chloe. Meanwhile, just last week, Mark had told me his business needed a capital injection and asked me to cut back on my charitable donations.

“The nerve,” I whispered, my voice caught in my throat like a shard of glass.

The tears I’d been holding back finally spilled, hot and acidic, streaming down my cheeks. I threw the phone onto the expensive Italian leather sofa. I didn’t need to see anymore. The evidence was a mountain, and I was buried under it. My dignity as a woman, as a wife, and as a Vance had been trampled into the mud.

I walked toward the master bedroom, my legs feeling heavy, as if I were wading through deep water. I pulled a large Tumi suitcase from the closet. Tonight, the moment Mark came home, I would throw the divorce papers in his face. I would leave. I didn’t care if I had to return to my parents’ home with the scarlet letter of “Divorcée” branded on my forehead. It was better to live simply in truth than to luxuriate in a lie.

However, a cold thought pierced through my rage. My parents. My father’s business had been in a steep decline for years. Our family’s historic brownstone, my grandfather’s legacy, was facing foreclosure. All this time, I had hoped Mark’s success could help restore our family’s fortunes. Now, I realized he was squandering our future on a mistress.

The sharp ring of the doorbell shattered my thoughts. I flinched. Was Mark home early? Did he realize he’d forgotten his phone?

Rage instantly flared in my chest, hot and cleansing. Good. The sooner he was back, the sooner I could throw him out of my life.

With wide strides and ragged breaths, I marched to the front door. I didn’t even bother to wipe the tear stains from my face. Let him see. Let him know exactly what he had broken.

I swung the door open with enough force to rattle the hinges. “You’ve got a lot of nerve showing your fa—”

My words died in my throat. The person standing at the door was not Mark.

Chapter 2: The Stranger in the Rain

Before me stood a tall man, perhaps in his early thirties. He wore a charcoal suit that looked incredibly expensive—bespoke, Italian wool—but it was now soaked through. Water dripped from the ends of his jet-black hair onto the shoulders of his sharp jacket. His face was arrestingly handsome, with a jawline that could cut glass and a nose that spoke of aristocratic breeding, but his expression was as cold as the Atlantic in winter.

His eyes bore into me, sharp and assessing, as if they could scan my bank balance and my soul in seconds. An aura of power emanated from him, tangible and heavy, making me instinctively take a step back.

“Eleanor Vance.”

His voice was deep, resonant, and full of intimidation. It wasn’t a question; it was a statement of fact.

I swallowed hard, trying to gather the scattered remnants of my courage. “Yes, that’s me. Who are you? If you’re looking for my husband, he’s not home.”

The man didn’t answer immediately. He just stared at me, his gaze dropping to my trembling hands, then shifting back to my swollen eyes. The corner of his lip lifted slightly, forming a thin, cynical smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I know your husband isn’t home. He’s currently at the Hermès boutique on Madison Avenue buying a Birkin bag for my wife,” he said flatly.

My heart stopped for a beat, then restarted with a painful thud. “What?”

“I’m Julian Croft,” he said succinctly, as if the name alone explained everything.

And it did. Who didn’t know Julian Croft? The owner of Croft Enterprises, the young magnate whose face frequently graced the covers of Forbes and Fortune. He was the definition of old money—born rich, powerful, and intensely private.

But wait. What had he just said?

“Your… wife?”

“Chloe,” I murmured, the name tasting like ash. “Chloe is your wife.”

Julian nodded slowly. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look sad. His face was a mask of perfect, terrifying indifference. “May I come in? We have business to discuss, and this isn’t a conversation to be had in a doorway.”

I hesitated. Letting a strange man into the apartment when my husband wasn’t home was improper. It was dangerous. But considering what I had just learned about Mark, social norms felt like a joke. Besides, this man was a victim too. Just like me.

“Please,” I said finally, stepping aside.

Julian stepped inside. His scent washed over me as he passed—a mixture of rain, expensive tobacco, and a woody cologne that smelled like a forest after a storm. He didn’t seem impressed by our apartment’s interior, which I had once considered the height of luxury. To Julian Croft, this was probably a broom closet.

He stood in the middle of the living room, declining when I offered him a seat. His eyes swept across the room like a searchlight, landing squarely on Mark’s phone lying on the sofa.

“You know everything, don’t you?” he said, not looking at me.

“I just found out,” I answered bitterly. “His phone was left behind.”

Julian turned to face me. A flash of lightning outside illuminated half his face, casting deep shadows that made him look like a vengeful god.

“What’s your plan now? Cry? Rage? File for divorce immediately?”

“That’s none of your business,” I retorted sharply, finding a spark of defiance. “But yes, I’m divorcing him tonight. I refuse to live with a traitor for one second longer.”

“Don’t,” Julian cut in, his voice like a whip crack.

I furrowed my brow, confused and insulted. “Excuse me? Who are you to tell me what to do?”

Julian stepped closer. The distance between us evaporated. I could see the individual raindrops clinging to his eyelashes.

“Don’t divorce him tonight. Don’t cause a scene. Don’t let him know that you know,” he said, his tone one of absolute command.

“You’re insane,” I laughed, a hollow, jagged sound. “Your wife and my husband are having an affair, destroying our lives, and you’re asking me to stay silent? I am not some foolish, submissive woman who will tolerate disrespect.”

“I’m not asking you to accept the affair,” Julian said calmly, a stark contrast to my emotional turbulence. “I’m offering you a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

“True revenge,” Julian replied, his eyes glinting dangerously. “A divorce now will only set them free. Mark will be free to be with Chloe, and you’ll be left with nothing but a broken heart and a settlement that won’t cover your father’s debts. Is that justice?”

I fell silent. His words struck a nerve deep inside me, bypassing my anger and hitting my fear.

“Come with me now,” Julian commanded. “We’ll talk somewhere more suitable. This place reeks of him.”

“I can’t just leave with a stranger.”

“Eleanor,” he cut in, saying my name with a strange familiarity that sent a shiver down my spine. “Your family on the Upper East Side needs money. Your father has a two-million-dollar balloon payment due next month. If it’s not paid, that brownstone—your grandfather’s legacy—will be seized by the bank.”

My blood ran cold. How could he know? My family’s financial troubles were a closely guarded secret, hidden behind layers of pride and denial.

“How do you know that?”

“I know everything,” he answered with breathtaking arrogance. “Come with me, and I’ll give you a solution you never imagined. Or stay here, divorce your husband, and watch your family crumble piece by piece.”

The choice felt impossible. But looking into Julian’s eyes, which were filled with a dark, steely conviction, a glimmer of hope sparked amidst my despair.

I glanced at the open suitcase in the bedroom, then back at Julian.

“Fine,” I said softly. “I’ll go.”

Julian didn’t smile. He just gave a curt nod and turned toward the door, as if he knew from the start that I wouldn’t be able to refuse him. I grabbed my purse, locked the door to the apartment that now felt like a prison, and followed the stranger into the elevator, descending into a storm far greater than the one raging outside.

Chapter 3: The Price of Patience

The drive from Tribeca to the Financial District was eerily silent. I sat in the passenger seat of Julian’s Maybach, the interior smelling of rich leather and power. It was completely soundproof, muffling the city’s chaos into a distant hum. Julian sat beside me, engrossed in a tablet, the blue light reflecting on his sharp features. He hadn’t uttered a word since we left the lobby.

The car pulled up to a private entrance of a glass skyscraper that pierced the clouds. We were whisked up in a private elevator to a penthouse lounge that felt less like a room and more like a fortress of solitude.

Julian led me to a private corner room with glass walls offering a panoramic view of the city—a river of gold flowing through the rain.

“Sit,” he gestured to a plush velvet sofa.

A waiter appeared, ghost-like, placed two tumblers of amber liquid on the black marble table, and vanished.

Julian took a sip, then looked at me directly. “Let’s get straight to the point.”

He reached into his inner suit pocket, pulling out a checkbook and a gold fountain pen. He wrote with quick, slashing strokes, tore out the check, and slid it across the marble toward me.

“Take it.”

I looked at the paper. Then I picked it up. My eyes widened until they hurt. I counted the zeros. Once. Twice.

$150,000,000.

My hand trembled so violently the check fluttered back onto the table. “What… what is this for?”

“That’s your price,” Julian said flatly. “Or more accurately, the price of your time. That money is enough to clear your family’s debts, buy back their assets, and secure a life of luxury for seven generations.”

“I’m not a prostitute, Mr. Croft,” I hissed, my face burning.

Julian let out a dry, humorless laugh. “I have no interest in your body, Eleanor. I need your status. I need Mark Peterson’s wife.”

He leaned back, crossing his arms. “As I said, Chloe is my wife. Our marriage is a business merger between the Croft and Vanderbilt families. But she violated our prenuptial agreement by having a public affair. And your husband is the fool she chose.”

“Then divorce her! Why involve me?”

“Because in business, timing is everything,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “I am in the middle of a massive acquisition involving Chloe’s family. If a scandal breaks now, my stock tanks, and the deal dies. The losses would be in the billions.”

He leaned forward, his gaze intense. “I need three months. Ninety days to finalize the deal and move my assets. During those ninety days, I need silence. I need you to go home, act like the sweet, oblivious wife, and let them feel safe.”

“You want me to live with him? Sleep next to him? Knowing what he’s doing?”

“It’s strategy, Eleanor,” he said coolly. “If you divorce him now, he plays the victim. He hides his assets. He leaves you with nothing. But if you wait… if you let me orchestrate this… we destroy him. Completely.”

I looked at the check. Then I thought of my father’s gray face as he looked at the foreclosure notices.

“Three months?” I asked.

“Ninety days. After that, the money is yours, and I will hand you the best divorce lawyers in the city on a silver platter.”

I took a deep breath. The image of Mark’s fake smile flashed in my mind. The pain in my chest hardened into something cold and heavy. A weapon.

“I agree,” I said, taking the check. “But remember one thing, Mr. Croft. I’m doing this for my family. Don’t think about betraying me.”

“I am a man of my word, Eleanor.”

That night, I signed a contract with the devil. And I prepared to play the role of a lifetime.

Chapter 4: The Art of Deception

The next morning, sunlight mocked me through the bedroom window. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at my reflection. Dark circles. Hollow eyes.

The roar of a sports car engine echoed from the garage. Mark was home.

I closed my eyes. Julian. The check. The plan.

The bedroom door opened. Mark walked in, wearing yesterday’s shirt, smelling of stale alcohol and cheap perfume.

“Honey, you’re awake?” he asked, his voice fake-cheerful. He leaned in to kiss me. I turned my head, letting his lips graze my hair.

“Hi, Mark. You’re home late. I was worried.”

“Yeah, sorry babe. The storm was crazy. Phone died. Had to crash at Dave’s.”

Lies. Dave was in the Caribbean. I smiled, the muscles in my face aching with the effort. “I see. I’m just glad you’re safe.”

“You really are the best wife,” he said, relieved. He started unbuttoning his shirt. “I’m gonna shower. Feeling grimy.”

As soon as the bathroom door closed, my smile vanished. I grabbed the burner phone Julian had given me.

Me: Target home. Alibi: Dave’s house. Lies confirmed.

Julian: Good. Let him feel safe. Clear the check today. Cash. Pay the debts discreetly.

That afternoon, I cashed the check. The bank manager treated me like royalty. I drove straight to my parents’ house and handed my mother an envelope that saved our legacy.

“Don’t tell Mark,” I whispered to her. “I want it to be a surprise.”

For the next month, I lived a double life. By day, I was the docile wife. By afternoon, I was Julian Croft’s apprentice.

He took me to a private resort in Napa under the guise of a “girls’ trip.” There, he didn’t touch me. instead, he taught me. He taught me how to read financial reports, how to spot embezzlement, how to weaponize forensic accounting.

“Your husband isn’t just a cheater,” Julian told me one afternoon, handing me a tablet with Mark’s company data. “He’s a criminal. He’s been forging financial reports to secure loans for his lifestyle. And he used your apartment—your inheritance—as collateral.”

I gasped. “He forged my signature?”

“Chloe found the notary,” Julian said. “We don’t go to the police yet. We wait. In two months, I will be his largest creditor. And you will be the one to pull the trigger.”

One evening in Napa, a waiter tripped, sending a tray of drinks flying toward me. Julian moved instantly, pulling me into his chest, shielding me.

For a moment, time stopped. I could feel his heartbeat, steady and strong against my back. He smelled of rain and safety.

“Are you alright?” he whispered, his voice low.

I looked up. His eyes weren’t cold anymore. They were dark, intense, and terrifyingly human.

“I’m fine,” I stammered.

He released me slowly. But the air between us had shifted. This wasn’t just a business deal anymore. And that was the most dangerous part of all.

Chapter 5: The Gala of Ghosts

The second month passed in a blur of tension. Mark was becoming erratic. Chloe was pressuring him to leave me, and he was terrified of the financial fallout.

We attended a gala at the Pierre Hotel. I wore a gown Julian had sent me—midnight blue, backless, a weapon of mass distraction. Mark paraded me around, desperate to show investors that his personal life was stable.

But then, she walked in. Chloe. Wearing a red dress that left nothing to the imagination, clinging to the arm of an elderly producer.

Mark grip on my arm tightened. “What is she doing here?”

“Who, honey?” I asked innocently. “Oh, that influencer? She’s quite… vulgar in person.”

Later, I followed Mark to a quiet corridor. I hid behind a pillar and listened.

“You promised you’d divorce her!” Chloe hissed. “Julian blocked my cards. I need money, Mark!”

“Be patient!” Mark snapped. “Eleanor’s acting weird. She’s too calm. If I leave now, she takes half.”

“Excuses! If you don’t file by next week, I leak the video.”

Mark returned to the ballroom, pale and sweating. He dragged me home early. In the car, he snapped.

“Why are you so quiet, Eleanor? You used to be jealous! Are you having an affair?”

I looked at him calmly. “Mark, isn’t this what you wanted? A peaceful wife? Now that you have it, you’re angry?”

He didn’t know what to say. He was unraveling.

The next day, Julian’s mole reported that Mark had transferred $50 million of company funds to an offshore account in the Caymans to hide it from me.

“He just dug his own grave,” Julian said, pouring me a glass of wine in his office. “That bank is owned by a shell company of mine. He just handed me the evidence of federal embezzlement.”

Chapter 6: The Execution

The ninety days were up.

The annual shareholders’ meeting for Peterson Industries was held in a hotel ballroom. Mark was manic with energy. He believed a “mystery investor” was coming to save his failing company.

“Today is the day, honey,” he told me, adjusting his tie. “We’re going to the moon.”

I smiled. “Yes, Mark. Today is the day.”

We sat in the front row. Mark took the podium, spinning lies about growth and future profits.

“And now,” Mark announced, “I’d like to introduce our new strategic partner.”

The double doors swung open. The room fell silent.

Julian Croft strode in, flanked by six lawyers. He didn’t look at Mark. He took the podium.

“I am not a partner,” Julian announced, his voice booming. “As of this morning, Croft Enterprises has acquired 85% of Peterson Industries’ debt. Due to default, we are exercising our right to convert that debt into equity.”

“What?” Mark screamed. “You can’t do this!”

“I am the new majority owner,” Julian continued. “And my first act is to dissolve the board.”

He pressed a button. The screen behind him changed. It wasn’t a chart. It was a video.

Mark and Chloe in a hotel room. Mark laughing.

“Eleanor is so stupid. She’ll never know I used her money to buy your apartment.”

The room gasped. Cameras flashed. Mark froze, looking at the screen, then at me.

“Eleanor… this is fake…”

I stood up. I walked to the podium. I took the microphone.

“Fake?” I asked. “I planted the cameras, Mark.”

I pulled a manila envelope from my bag and threw it at his chest.

“Divorce papers. And copies of your embezzlement records. The SEC already has them.”

Mark fell to his knees. “Eleanor, please…”

“We’re done, Mark. You lost your wife, your company, and your freedom. Enjoy.”

I walked out of the ballroom, the sound of chaos erupting behind me. I met Julian’s eyes for a second. He gave me a small, respectful nod.

I walked out into the New York air. It was sweet. It was clean. I was free.

Chapter 7: A New Contract

One month later.

I sat in a small café in the West Village, reading the newspaper. Mark was in jail, awaiting trial for fraud. Chloe was bankrupt, being sued by Julian for violating their prenup.

“May I sit?”

I looked up. Julian stood there. He wasn’t wearing a suit. He wore a white linen shirt, sleeves rolled up. He looked younger. Human.

“Mr. Croft,” I smiled.

“Just Julian,” he said, sitting down. “Our contract is over.”

“It is. Thank you. You saved me.”

“You saved yourself, Eleanor. I just gave you the gun.”

He leaned back, looking at me with that intense, warm gaze I had glimpsed in Napa.

“I’m looking for a new partner,” he said.

“Business?”

“Life,” he corrected. “I realized something over the last three months. I don’t want this partnership to end. I want to write a new contract. No secrets. No timelines.”

He extended his hand across the table.

I looked at it. The hand that had destroyed my enemy. The hand that had shielded me.

I reached out and took it.

“Okay, partner,” I said. “But we take it slow.”

“I have all the time in the world,” Julian smiled.

Outside, the sun finally broke through the clouds.