At the Song Group’s anniversary celebration, I stood there with my five-year-old daughter, looking on coldly as my ex-husband accepted everyone’s congratulations with his new flame on his arm.
“Mrs. Song?” He glanced contemptuously at my old clothes, faded from too many washes. “These days, even the cleaning staff have to look presentable.”
My daughter suddenly broke free, holding up her smartwatch, which had been recording. “Dad, you tricked Mom into signing that stupid bankruptcy agreement. The lawyer said he can sue you and bring you down!”
The whole room fell silent.
I scooped up my daughter and turned to leave, but behind me I heard his panicked footsteps.
Three months later, my medical equipment company burst onto the scene, snatching the Song Group’s biggest client with its very first deal.
At the celebration banquet, he pinned me against the wall, eyes red. “I’ll give you back the company. You can have my life, too. Please come back.”
I swirled my champagne and smiled. “Mr. Song, these days, you’d have to prove you’re good enough even to polish my shoes.”
