My Husband Slapped Me Out of His House for His Mistress, Then the Most Feared Man in Chicago Put His Ring on My Finger

By two o'clock that afternoon, the financial fallout was absolute.

The video of the Drake Hotel press conference was trending at number one across every sports and news network in the country. The footage of Chase screaming on stage while I stood beside Matteo in custom emerald silk had been viewed over twelve million times.

In his suite at the Four Seasons, Marcus Vance pulled his financial backing from Whitaker Racing before the sun had even reached its peak.

Apex Global issued a formal press statement cancelling Chase’s contract, citing breach of warranty and misrepresentation. Within thirty minutes of that announcement, three secondary sponsors—a national auto parts brand, a luxury watch manufacturer, and a regional energy drink—filed simultaneous notices of termination.

Chase was left with a forty-thousand-square-foot racing facility in Joliet, fourteen unpaid mechanics, three half-finished chassis, and a debt load exceeding six million dollars.

At three o'clock, Patricia entered the study at the DeSantis penthouse where Matteo and I were reviewing structural plans for our new racing facility.

"The Highland Park property has been secured, Vivian," Patricia reported, setting a thin folder on the mahogany desk. "Chase tried to lock himself inside the house at noon, but the bank executed a pre-foreclosure freeze based on the unpaid second mortgage he took out last month without your signature."

I looked up from the blueprints. "He took out a second mortgage?"

"Four hundred thousand dollars," Patricia confirmed. "He used it to pay for Miss Sutton's apartment downtown and a lease on a red sports car. The bank has declared the loan in default due to fraud. He has been given until six o'clock tonight to clear his personal belongings from the property."

I looked over at Matteo, who sat across the desk, calmly reviewing a list of racing engineers we were planning to hire away from rival teams.

"He has nothing left," I said softly.

Matteo didn't raise his eyes from the paper. "He has what he built, Vivian. Nothing."

"What about Brielle?" I asked.

Patricia smiled faintly—a cold, lawyerly expression. "Miss Sutton was dismissed from Apex Global’s public relations contractor list at one o'clock. Furthermore, the landlord of her apartment building on Wacker Drive notified her that her lease guarantor—Whitaker Racing—has been revoked. She is currently packing her bags."

I leaned back in my leather chair, looking out at the gray, rain-washed expanse of Lake Michigan. Eight hours ago, I had been standing in a wet driveway holding a plastic garbage bag, wondering how I was going to survive the night. Now, the people who had tried to crush me were being systematically dismantled by the very machinery they had tried to use against me.

"Are you satisfied, Vivian?" Matteo asked softly, setting his pen down.

I turned to look at him. "I thought I would feel happier."

"Revenge is not food, Vivian," Matteo said, his voice dropping into that deep, resonant tone that always made me pay attention. "It does not fill you up. It merely clears the table so you can eat something better."

He stood up, walked around the heavy desk, and held out his hand to me.

"Come," he said. "Our helicopter leaves in twenty minutes."