My husband threw me out on the street after inheriting 75 million, believing I was a burden. But as the lawyer read the final clause, his triumphant smile turned into a face of panic.

Two days after the burial, the truth surfaced.
I came home exhausted from arranging cemetery details, eyes swollen from crying—and found my suitcases dumped in the entryway. Nothing was folded. My clothes were shoved inside, shoes scattered, sleeves hanging out like afterthoughts.

“Curtis?” I called, confused.

He descended the stairs calm and polished. No signs of mourning. He wore an immaculate shirt, an expensive watch, and held a champagne glass. He looked energized—and frightening.

“Vanessa, my dear,” he said smoothly, “I think it’s time we go our separate ways.”

I dropped my keys. “What are you talking about?”

“My father is gone,” he said lightly, sipping his drink. “Which means I inherit everything. Seventy-five million dollars. Do you understand what that means?”

“It means a huge responsibility,” I began.

He laughed sharply, the sound echoing through the empty house.

“Responsibility?” He sneered. “There is no ‘we.’ You were useful when Dad needed someone to clean him and feed him. A free nurse. But now? You’re dead weight. You’re ordinary. No ambition. No refinement. You don’t belong in my life as a wealthy bachelor.”

The words crushed me.

“I’m your wife,” I said. “I cared for your father because I loved him—and because I loved you.”

“And I appreciate that,” he replied, pulling out a check and tossing it at my feet. “Ten thousand dollars. Payment for services. Take it and leave. I want you gone before my lawyer arrives. I’m renovating everything. The house smells old… and like you.”

I tried to reason with him. I reminded him of ten years together. It didn’t matter.

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