The Gold Digger’s Real Triumph

Everyone in New York City knew I married Ethan Sullivan for his money.

They called me a gold digger behind my back, mocking my materialistic desires.

But Ethan's heart belonged to someone else—his first love, the one who got away.

The woman who had once torn up Eleanor Sullivan's $500,000 check and walked away without looking back.

So when news broke that Ava Evans had joined Sullivan Group as Ethan's new secretary, the elite circles erupted.

Someone started a betting pool at a bar overnight.

They were taking wagers on how soon Ethan would kick me out.

Three months? Six?

I had no intention of entertaining such gossip.

Until that afternoon when I went to Sullivan Group to deliver documents.

Through the glass door of his office, I saw the usually cold and distant Ethan leaning slightly forward, listening intently as his new secretary whispered something.

There was a faint smile on his lips.

His eyes held a softness I'd never seen before.

I stood outside, clutching the lunch I'd brought for him.

Something sharp twisted in my chest.

So he could smile.

Just not for me.

I turned and walked out of the building, my stilettos clicking sharply against the marble floor.

I went straight to that bar hosting the betting pool.

Slapped my card on the counter.

"I bet one month," I said.

My voice was eerily calm, even to my own ears.

I was too curious about this so-called first love.

So the next day, I dressed to kill, strutted into Sullivan Group in my ten-inch heels, ready for battle.

The receptionist paled when she saw me, hesitating but not daring to stop me.

"Mrs. Sullivan—"

I cut her off with a raised hand and marched straight to Ethan's office.

The door was slightly ajar.

Ethan was inside, discussing business with a client.

Dressed in a perfectly tailored charcoal-gray suit, his sharp profile was as cold as ever.

When he noticed me, his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.

Then his expression smoothed over, as if I were just an insignificant interruption.

Typical.

My husband had the emotional range of an iceberg.

What could I do?

He was gorgeous. And filthy rich.

I'd just have to deal with it.

I took a seat on the sofa, crossing my legs elegantly.

The secretary—Ava—had her back to me, pouring coffee.

She wore a standard office outfit, her frame slender.

Then, for some reason, her hand jerked.

The entire cup of scalding coffee splashed directly onto Ethan's pristine white shirt.

Dark liquid spread rapidly, staining the expensive fabric.

Ethan's face darkened.

But Ava didn't panic.

She calmly set the cup down and walked to the private restroom inside the office.

Moments later, she returned holding a light blue shirt I'd never seen before.

"Apologies, Mr. Sullivan," she said smoothly, her tone carrying a hint of familiarity. "Please change into this."

Ethan glanced at her.

Didn't even snap.

He took the shirt and disappeared into the restroom.

The client sat awkwardly, his eyes darting between me and Ava.

When Ethan emerged minutes later, adjusting his cuffs, he walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows.

His reflection showed his tall, imposing figure.

Then he spoke, his voice neutral.

"How is it?"

Clearly not directed at me.

Ava looked up, her gaze sweeping over him.

A small smile curled her lips.

"Very nice," she said.

Their eyes met.

The air between them was thick with unspoken understanding.

I sat there, fingers tightening unconsciously.

Oh.

The stench of an affair.

I could practically smell it.

I stood, ready to confront them.

But Ethan was already gathering his files, gesturing for the client to follow.

"Let's continue in the conference room."

He walked out without sparing me a glance.

I chased after him in my heels.

"Ethan!"

He didn't stop.

Ava stepped smoothly into my path.

"Ms. Roscente," she said coolly, her tone polite but distant. "We have important meetings today. We're all very busy."

"Unlike you, with all this free time."

A mocking smile played on her lips.

"For those of us who actually contribute here, time is valuable."

Then, lowering her voice so only I could hear:

"And let's be honest—you're living off Sullivan money, aren't you?"

I froze.

Stared at her smug, self-righteous face.

Ms. Roscente?

Contributing?

Oh, how noble.

So this was Ethan's type?

A pretentious, holier-than-thou hypocrite?

I'd known Ethan had someone else in his heart when we married.

A woman from humble beginnings, proud and principled.

The story went that Eleanor had offered her $500,000 to leave Ethan.

She'd torn the check and walked out without hesitation.

Ethan had pined for her for years.

On our wedding night, he slept in the guest room.

Clutching a cheap, clumsily knitted scarf she'd made him years ago.

I'd laughed, rolled over in my six-figure sateen duvet, and slept like a baby.

Woke up at dusk the next day.

My friends called, urging me to continue the bachelorette party we'd abandoned two days earlier.

I went without hesitation.

When I returned four days later, Ethan was already overseas on business.

He stayed gone for three months.

Word spread quickly through New York's elite that Ethan Sullivan couldn't stand his new wife.

Everyone knew—the most beautiful Roscente daughter had thrown herself at the Sullivans, only to be abandoned on her wedding night.

Humiliating.

I gritted my teeth.

One night, when Ethan came home drunk from a business dinner, I saw my chance.

I eyed his handsome face and the hint of abs beneath his robe.

Slipped something into his water.

That night was... intense.

The next morning, Ethan was furious.

"Chloe!" His face was pale with rage. "Have you no shame? This is assault! This is—"

I sat on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, and gave him a slow once-over.

"Tsk. Ethan, it's called marital duties. Look it up."

I arched a brow.

"Besides, you didn't seem to mind last night."

His face flushed.

"...If you ever pull this again, I'm cutting off Roscente Group's funding."