Built on Lies, Reclaimed by Law

PROLOGUE For seven years of marriage to Tristan Vance, I truly believed I was the happiest woman in the world. To save his life, I had lost my fertility. Yet he defied his family’s furious objections, kneeling on cold stone for three days and three nights just to marry me. After the wedding, I took over Vance Group’s corporate tax and intellectual property management, building a hundred-billion-dollar business fortress for him. He, in turn, declared to the world that I would be the only woman he would ever love. Until I accidentally discovered that he was sending five hundred thousand dollars in child support to another woman every single month. Not only had that woman borne him a son, but she was also his real, lawful wife. And the marriage certificate in my hands? It was a complete fake. Seven years of devotion—all a carefully orchestrated lie. He weaponized my guilt and love, stealing my youth, my career, and my chance at motherhood. This time, I’m done playing Mrs. Vance. I’m going to make him realize that without me, he is nothing. Scarlett's POV A December night in New York. Light snow drifted past the floor-to-ceiling glass. On the top floor of Vance Group’s headquarters, the lights in the legal department were still burning bright. I rubbed the bridge of my aching nose and tapped the final figure into the spreadsheet. Piles of financial vouchers and patent maintenance statements stacked up beside me, half as tall as a person. It was all Vance Group’s annual tax audit material for the year. I was the heiress of the Sterling family, and one of the sharpest corporate tax and patent attorneys in the industry. During my seven years with Tristan, I had handled Vance Group’s most tangled tax restructurings and personally secured and managed over three hundred core patents for the company. My phone screen lit up with a text from Tristan: *International meeting ran late tonight. Don’t wait up for me. Go to sleep early.* A small smile touched my lips as I read the words, and I typed back a simple *Okay*. I picked up the final binder—deductions from Tristan’s personal accounts—to finish archiving. As I turned to the third page, a bank wire receipt slipped out from between the international transfer slips. I bent down and picked it up. As a tax attorney, numbers were second nature to me. It was a recurring wire transfer from a Swiss bank account, sent like clockwork on the fifteenth of every month to someone named Wendy Miller. Half a million dollars per transaction, sent without fail for six straight years. Under the memo line, a single note was typed: *Child Support*. My fingers trembled violently. The edge of the paper sliced into my fingertip, leaving a faint crimson sting. Wendy Miller. Of course I remembered that name. She had been Tristan’s college classmate. Word was she’d moved abroad six years ago. It turned out she had never left the country at all—or rather, she had never left Tristan’s ledger. I forced myself to stay calm and sat back down at my desk. I held full power of attorney and unrestricted access to all of Tristan’s personal assets. He had given me the keys himself when we got married, looking into my eyes and saying, “Scarlett, what’s mine is yours. I will never keep secrets from you.” And because of that trust, I had never once audited his private accounts in seven years. I entered the master password and pulled up the directory linked to that Swiss account. As the encryption keys peeled back layer after layer of security, a hidden folder popped up at the very bottom. I clicked it open. Inside were only two scanned documents. The first was a birth certificate issued by a private New York clinic six years ago. Newborn: Julian Vance. Mother: Wendy Miller. Father: Tristan Vance. The second was a court-admissible paternity test from five years ago. Complete genetic match. The conclusion read: *Supports Tristan Vance as the biological father of Julian Vance, probability of paternity: 99.9999%.* Dead silence swallowed the office. A wave of nausea hit me so hard my stomach churned. Six years. Tristan and I had been married for seven years, and this child was six. In other words, during the very first year of our marriage, he had conceived a child with Wendy Miller. Then what was I? All those years, Tristan’s mother, Evelyn Vance, had pointed her finger in my face, calling me a barren failure who couldn’t carry on their bloodline. Tristan had always pulled me behind his back, defending me fiercely: “Mom, Scarlett is the only one I want. I don’t care about having kids, so stop pushing her.” I had been so deeply moved back then. Crushed by guilt toward the Vance family, I had thrown myself into their legal and patent wars, wrecking my own health just to cement his position as CEO. It turned out he didn’t care about having kids because he already had an heir. I closed my eyes and took a long, shaking breath. I printed both files, shoved them into my purse, and walked out of the building. Instead of heading back to our estate, I drove straight to my premarital apartment in the city center. From the bottom of my safe, I retrieved the red velvet box containing our marriage certificate. I sat on the couch in the dark, awake the entire night. At nine the next morning, the moment the Manhattan records bureau opened its doors, I stepped inside. Standing before the clerk at the marriage records window, my voice shook as I slid the certificate and my ID across the counter. “Hi. I need to verify my marriage registration and get a certified copy of our marriage record for cross-border tax filing.” The clerk took the paperwork, clattered away at her keyboard for a moment, and slowly frowned. She picked up the certificate, glanced back down at her screen, and gave me an odd, unsettling look. “Ms. Sterling,” she said, her eyes a mix of pity and suspicion, “this certificate is counterfeit. There is no record of your marriage in the state system.” A high-pitched ringing roared in my ears. “What? That’s impossible. Seven years ago, on October tenth, we came here together to file the paperwork!” I couldn’t stop the frantic words from tumbling out of my mouth. I remembered it so vividly. Tristan had claimed he pulled strings for a VIP room, told me to wait in the private lounge, and returned thirty minutes later holding the stamped certificate. The clerk sighed softly, turned the monitor slightly toward me, and pointed at the registry file. “Ms. Sterling, forging public records is a crime. And according to our records, Mr. Tristan Vance is indeed legally married, but his spouse isn't you.” I followed her finger to the screen. Right next to Tristan’s headshot, the spouse details were clearly listed. Name: Wendy Miller. Date of Marriage: May twentieth, six years ago. Status: *Active.* A laugh tore from my throat. Even our marriage was a lie. The seven years of devoted, fairytale romance I believed in didn't even make me a legal mistress in the eyes of the law. Wendy Miller was the real Mrs. Vance. Meanwhile, I had worn the title like a gilded collar, slaving away as an unpaid workhorse for another woman’s husband and their family fortune for seven whole years. “Ms. Sterling? Are you alright?” The clerk leaned forward, worried by how pale I had turned. I didn't answer. Like a robot, I took back my ID and the forged certificate, turned around, and walked out. A blast of freezing wind lashed icy snowflakes against my face, stinging my cheeks. Walking down the stone steps, my knees suddenly gave out, and I collapsed onto the freezing steps. Couples holding hands brushed past me, their laughter drifting through the air. Head down, staring at the useless piece of paper in my trembling hands, my tears finally broke, bleeding dark wet circles into the counterfeit document.Scarlett's POV With shaking hands, I pulled my phone from my purse and dialed Nicole Ward, my best friend and law partner. She picked up almost immediately, her voice warm and energetic. “Scarlett? What kind of mess did Tristan dump on your plate this time?” My throat constricted. “Nicole, find me the best lawyers in the city. Not divorce lawyers... I need corporate property and criminal litigation attorneys. I’m taking back everything that’s mine.” After hanging up, I pulled my car over onto the shoulder of the bridge. Mist rose off the river. The radio was humming with financial news, the anchor highlighting Vance Group’s latest stock surge, crediting the three hundred core patents in green energy and advanced manufacturing that formed their corporate moat. I reached out and clicked the radio off. Absolute silence filled the car. Leaning back against the headrest, watching melted snow run down the windshield, my mind drifted years into the past. Tristan and I used to be the couple everyone in our social circle envied. The Sterling and Vance estates had sat directly across from each other, separated only by a quiet, tree-lined avenue. When I was eight, I recklessly climbed an old oak in the yard, slipped, and fell. Ten-year-old Tristan had sprinted across the grass like a lunatic, throwing his body underneath me to break my fall. I hadn't gotten a single scratch. Tristan’s right arm was shattered, leaving him in a cast for two months and saddling him with joint pain whenever it rained. Even covered in cold sweat from the pain, the boy had used his uninjured left hand to wipe my tears. “Don’t cry, Scarlett. It doesn’t hurt.” When he was eighteen, he went behind his family’s back to enter an underground mountain race. The course was lethal. He took hairpin turns like he had a death wish, his car completely wrecked by the time he crossed the finish line in first place. The prize was a limited-edition pink diamond ring. That night, covered in cuts and bruises, he climbed onto my balcony, slid the ring onto my finger, and looked at me with burning intensity. “Scarlett Sterling, I traded my life to win this ring. From now on, my life is yours, and I am yours. I’ll love you forever.” Then, at twenty-two, right before our engagement party. A business rival sent hitmen after the Vance family, abducting Tristan and me to an abandoned industrial plant. They were going to break Tristan’s hands. To shield me, he took repeated hits from iron pipes, breaking three ribs and coughing up blood, but he kept me pinned beneath him, refusing to let them touch a single hair on my head. The moment the police sirens howled in the distance, one of the thugs lost his mind, drawing a blade and driving it straight toward Tristan’s heart. Without thinking, I threw myself over him, taking the blade in his place. The steel tore through my lower abdomen, tearing into my uterus. I fought for my life in the ICU for three days and three nights before stabilizing, but the surgeon handed our families a grim prognosis: I would likely never be able to carry a child again. When Evelyn heard the news, she threw a massive fit, demanding the engagement be broken off on the spot, claiming Tristan could never marry an invalid who couldn't produce an heir. For the next three days, torrential rain poured from the sky. Tristan, his ribs still fractured, knelt on the flagstones of the Vance courtyard in nothing but a thin shirt, refusing food and water. His knees bled through his trousers, his voice raw as he screamed at his mother: *“Scarlett ended up like this because she took a knife for me! If I can’t marry her, I won’t marry anyone! If there’s no room for her in this family, I’ll end my life right here and give it back to her!”* In the end, Evelyn gave in. Once we healed, Tristan threw me a lavish wedding that was the talk of New York society. Under the arch of white roses, he kissed the back of my hand and swore before every guest that I would be his only love for the rest of his life.Scarlett's POV For seven years after that, he played the part of the devoted husband to perfection. Every time Evelyn showed up at our house to humiliate me, demanding he find a surrogate or use a donor, Tristan would kick her out without hesitation. Then he would turn around, wrap me in his arms, and softly reassure me that I could rest easy at home and ignore all the cruel gossip. I lifted a hand and traced the jagged scar across my lower abdomen. Even seven years later, the mark still ached when winter set in. I had always worn it like a medal of our unbreakable bond. Looking back now, the irony cut straight to the bone. He starved himself and knelt in the rain for three days to marry me, yet he couldn't even give me a real marriage license. He announced to the entire world that he wanted only me and cared nothing for children, but in the very first year of our marriage, he had gotten Wendy Miller pregnant. And six years ago, on May twentieth—a date dripping with romance—he had legally tied the knot with her. I shut my eyes. Memories from the past few years replayed in my mind like a horror movie. Starting six years ago, Tristan took a routine two-week business trip to Europe every single July. Before leaving, he would always be impossibly sweet, clinging to me in bed and waking early to make the oatmeal I loved. And every time he returned, he brought me a gift. A designer silk scarf, an antique brooch, or a bottle of niche perfume. I had once teased him, “Tristan, how did you get so good at picking out women’s things?” His gaze had flickered, and he had wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder with a low laugh. “Because my head is full of you. Whenever I see something that suits you, I just have to buy it.” My eyes snapped open. I reached over and popped open the glove compartment. Sitting inside was an unopened tube of hand cream. Tristan had tossed it to me after his trip last month, saying it was a complimentary gift from an overseas boutique. Rosewood scent. I had a mild allergy to rose fragrances, so I’d never opened it. I pulled out my phone and searched the brand’s official site. The moment the page loaded, my stomach heaved again. It was an ultra-luxury French skincare line dedicated exclusively to postpartum recovery and maternal care. That specific hand cream was a complimentary gift only given with purchases over a hundred thousand dollars in mother-and-baby products. The scarves, the brooches... all trendy, vibrant styles meant for a young girl, completely at odds with my sharp, professional wardrobe. July had never been about European business meetings. July was Julian’s birth month. He had been flying out to celebrate Wendy and their son’s birthday, playing happy family on holiday. The gifts he handed me were nothing more than freebies left over from his shopping sprees with Wendy, or cheap afterthoughts picked up to keep me quiet. He had looked at me with utter adoration and whispered the sweetest vows, all while building a real family with another woman behind my back, playing me for a fool for seven straight years. Why? If he loved Wendy, if he wanted an heir that badly, why kneel in the rain to marry me? Why not just let me walk away? Staring at my bloodshot eyes in the rearview mirror, the truth suddenly hit me. Seven years ago, Tristan had just taken over Vance Group, and his grip on power was fragile at best. I was the sole heiress of the Sterling family, holding the keys to their vast political and corporate networks. On top of that, I was one of the sharpest patent and tax strategists in the city. He needed the Sterling backing. He needed me to engineer Vance Group’s patent fortress. And he needed the glowing public image of a devoted, selfless husband who chose love over bloodlines to win over the board and the press. He had turned my guilt into his greatest leverage, bleeding my devotion dry until he had extracted every drop of my worth. My grip tightened on the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. My fingernails dug deep into my palms, drawing tiny beads of blood, but I didn't feel a thing. I turned the key, hit the gas, and raced toward our estate on the hill.Scarlett's POV The hill estate had been our marital home. When I pushed the front door open, the housekeeper had just set lunch on the table. Seeing me walk in, she hurried over. “Ma'am, you didn’t come home last night? Mr. Vance called this morning asking about you.” “You have the day off. Pack up and leave,” I said, my voice dead and flat. She blinked, startled by my cold tone, but didn't dare pry. She hung up her apron and quickly slipped out the door. The massive house fell instantly silent. I headed straight up to the second floor, walking into the master bedroom and the walk-in closet. Grabbing two large storage bins, I began stripping the room of every single item tied to Tristan, my face completely expressionless. On the nightstand sat our large crystal-framed wedding portrait. In the photo, I was wearing a pristine white gown, smiling with pure, unguarded joy. I picked it up and dropped it into the bin. The glass struck the plastic bottom, shattering into a spiderweb of cracks. Next was the closet. Every brooch, scarf, and perfume bottle Tristan had brought me over the past seven years went straight into the bins without a second glance. Then I walked into the study and dialed open the safe. Stacked neatly inside were ninety-nine handwritten love letters from our school days, the ticket stubs from our first movie date at sixteen, the pink diamond ring he nearly died to win at eighteen, and our wedding bands. I used to value these keepsakes more than my own life. If the house had caught fire, this box would have been the first thing I saved. Now, they were just a pile of sickening garbage. I hauled the heavy bins downstairs and dragged them out to the open courtyard. The steel burn barrel the groundskeeper used for yard waste sat in the far corner. I dragged it to the center of the lawn and dumped the contents of the bins inside, piece by piece. Letters and ticket stubs on the bottom, silk scarves and wooden frames piled on top, followed by the two diamond rings and that worthless counterfeit marriage certificate. Dusk settled over the city, the winter wind howling through the bare branches. I clicked open a lighter. A pale blue flame danced to life. I let go, dropping the lighter straight into the barrel. The dry paper caught instantly. Bright flames surged upward, hungrily licking through the silk and frames. Plastic and leather gave off thick, acrid smoke as crackling sparks snapped against the quiet evening air. I stood beside the barrel, letting the scorching heat blast against my skin. The firelight flickered across my pale face, burning in my eyes, but not a single tear fell. I watched a letter that read, “Scarlett, I’ll love you forever. If I ever break this vow, may God strike me down,” curl into black ash, disintegrating into thin gray smoke that scattered on the wind. I remembered his three broken ribs. I remembered his bloody knees on the stone terrace. I remembered the scar across my stomach. Love curdled, and vows were made to be broken. Since none of it had ever been real, I might as well burn it all down to the ground. Right then, tires screeched against asphalt outside the wrought-iron gates. A black Maybach skidded to a halt. The driver's door flew open, and Tristan bolted through the gates in a charcoal suit, not even wearing his winter coat, his face pale with panic. The moment he stepped into the courtyard, he saw the roaring fire and my slight figure standing beside the flames, looking as though a gust of wind could blow me away. He sprinted across the lawn and grabbed my wrist, yanking me backward. “Scarlett! What the hell are you doing?!”Scarlett's POV He looked down into the steel barrel. The fire was still roaring. Through the glowing embers, he could clearly see the charred remains of our wedding portrait and the pink diamond ring, blackened by the soot. Tristan’s pupils constricted violently, his voice cracking. “You burned our photos? And the ring? Scarlett, have you lost your mind?! Why would you burn these?!” His grip hurt, but I didn't bother pulling away. I just turned my head slowly, looking at him with dead, empty eyes. He had sprinted hard. Strands of hair were plastered across his forehead, his breath ragged, his eyes brimming with panic and distress. How sick. A man who had betrayed me for six years and forged a marriage license could still put on such a convincing display of heartbreak. “Just clearing out some trash that shouldn’t be here,” I said quietly, my voice colder than ice. “Trash? Those are our memories!” Tristan’s brow furrowed deep. He reached out to pull me into his arms. “Scarlett, are you just stressed from the corporate audit? Or did my mom come over and harass you again? Talk to me. Don’t take it out on our things...” I leaned away, dodging his touch. My eyes caught the faint smudge of lipstick near the corner of his suit collar, and the subtle scent of rose perfume clinging to his lapel... I never wore rose. It was a sweet, heavy scent that only suited a younger girl. “Tristan,” I cut him off, staring straight into his eyes. “Where were you just now? I thought you were stuck in an international board meeting.” His eyes flickered for a fraction of a second, but his tone stayed smooth. “The meeting wrapped up early, so I grabbed a drink with a few investment bankers. Why?” Still lying. The very last ember of hope in my heart went out completely. Looking at the man I had loved for over a decade and lived with for seven years, an overwhelming exhaustion crushed me. I wanted to see, just one last time, if he cared about me even a fraction of an inch. “Tristan,” I murmured softly. “I don’t feel well tonight. I’m scared. I only want one thing from you. Stay home with me. Turn your phone off, and don’t go anywhere. Just for tonight.” I stared at him unblinkingly, as if giving him one final trial. If he stayed tonight, it would prove that our decade together still held some tiny shred of meaning to him. And when I began dismantling Vance Group, I might have left him a sliver of mercy. Tristan looked at me, taking my hand in his. A flash of hesitation crossed his eyes, but he answered firmly, “Okay. I won’t leave. I’m not going anywhere tonight. I’ll stay right here with you...” Before the words could fully leave his mouth, his phone blared loudly from his suit pocket. The piercing ringtone shattered the silence of the yard. He pulled the phone out. The caller ID glowed brightly with the name *Wendy*. He glanced at me, his thumb freezing over the screen. He moved to decline it, but after a second’s hesitation, he turned his back to me and swiped to answer. “Hello?” The night was dead silent. The audio leaked clearly through the speaker. First came a woman’s frantic, tearful sobs, followed immediately by a small child’s trembling whimper: “Daddy... I have a fever. My head hurts so bad... Daddy, when are you coming home...?” I stood rooted to the spot, listening to that clear, sweet *Daddy*, a cold smile carving its way onto my lips. Tristan’s hand tightened around the phone so hard his knuckles turned white, all color draining from his face. He shot a frantic look back at me, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Don’t cry, listen to your mom. I’m on my way.” Ending the call, he spun around, unable to meet my eyes, words tumbling out in a rush. “Scarlett, that was... Julian. He’s a friend’s son. He’s running a severe fever and having febrile seizures. His father is out of the country, and his mother has no one else to help her. I just need to run to the hospital to check on them. As soon as they’re settled, I’ll rush right back to be with you, okay?” Julian. Julian Vance. He didn't even bother inventing a different name. Seeing that I didn't push back, Tristan assumed I had accepted the excuse. He gave my shoulder a quick squeeze. “It’s freezing out here. Go inside. I’ll be back in two hours at the most.” Without even sparing a final glance at the smoldering barrel, he sprinted toward the gates. The Maybach’s engine roared to life once more, its taillights cutting through the darkness as it sped into the distance. I stood alone in the cold, watching his taillights vanish, and slowly brushed a windblown strand of hair from my cheek. Tristan, I gave you your chance. You made your choice.