My Wife’s Lover Sent Me Their Condom, Now They KneelChapter 1

On the night of the Fourth of July, while fireworks lit up the sky, Margaux Haywood sent her ex-boyfriend's father ten cases of Romanée-Conti and another ten of top-shelf bourbon.

A client sent over two boxes of assorted pastries and a fruit basket. Without a note, it read like leftovers presented for the sake of formality.

That wasn't anything new.

It reminded me of our wedding day.

Back then, Margaux only agreed to let me marry into her family under one condition that we skipped the rings. There was no proposal, ceremony, or vows, and just a signature on a piece of paper.

But for her ex, Archie Branson?

Margaux went all out. She set up a line of deluxe villas and acquired a custom engagement ring pair at the Queen's Auction.

The rings remain stored in a secure, private vault.

I don't even know the password, and I'm not allowed near it.

I stared at the rough, cheap packaging of the so-called "gifts" I brought, and a cold laugh slipped out before I could stop it.

"Margaux," I said, voice even, "let's get a divorce."

She didn't even react, and her expression didn't change.

Instead, she chuckled, like I'd said something mildly amusing.

"All this fuss over a couple of bottles of wine?" she said, like I was the one being ridiculous. Don't you think you're overreacting, Troy?"

Then, to justify everything, she added, "Archie's not around right now. What's wrong with me showing some respect to his father on his behalf?"

As if that made it okay.

Before I could answer, she grabbed two cases of Romanée-Conti and shoved them into my arms like she tossed me a bone.

"There. Happy now?" Margaux asked. "So, still divorcing?"

I didn't hesitate. I looked her right in the eye.

"Yeah," I said. "Still divorcing."

——

She gave a short, humorless laugh. "Fine. Then go home and talk it over with your older brother, Gerard. If you can get his approval, we'll talk."

Afterward, Margaux gestured to her bodyguards and walked away without a word, her heels tapping on the marble as they carried off the remaining wine.

She didn't even look back.

I stared at the two cases of wine in my hands.

Then, they turned around and dumped them straight into the trash.

Without a second thought, I pulled out my phone and called the one man who could make this official.

"Atty. Irving," I said, "draft a divorce agreement. I'll walk away with nothing."