At My Daughter’s Birthday Party, My Husband Lashed Me 30 Times Over His Lover’s Ruined Dress—Five Minutes After I Called My Billionaire Brother... I did not scream when my husband tied my wrists to the iron wine rack beneath our Newport mansion and raised the riding crop for the thirtieth time.

For a split second, the sheer sight of me standing there alive and unbroken unsettled Brooke. Then, her critical gaze dropped to my simple coat, my sensible flat shoes, and the small white bandage still taped to Maisie’s forehead. Her smug, venomous smile quickly returned.

"Well, well, look at this," Brooke sneered, crossing her arms. "The homeless runaway wife is window-shopping for things she can't afford."

Maisie immediately whimpered, shrinking back and hiding behind my leg.

Brooke noticed the fear and leaned down, dripping with fake sympathy. "Don’t worry, sweetheart. Once your daddy finally gets custody of you, you won’t have to wear poor people’s clothes anymore."

I slowly reached up and removed my dark sunglasses.

The saleswoman behind the counter went deathly pale at the sheer, freezing intensity in my eyes.

"Brooke," I said softly, my voice completely devoid of emotion. "It seems the first slap taught you absolutely nothing."

Her smile twitched, a flash of genuine nervousness breaking through. "You think you can still threaten me? Grant gave me his unlimited card. You left with nothing, Evelyn. You're a beggar."

She aggressively slapped Grant's black card onto the glass counter.

"Swipe it," she barked at the cashier. "I am buying every single dress in this store. I’ll donate them to an animal shelter for dogs to sleep on before I let that brat wear a single one."

The entire boutique went dead silent.

Then, the heavy glass front doors swung open so violently that the brass bell nearly snapped off its hinges.

A tall man in a sharp navy suit rushed into the store, sweating profusely, with three massive security officers flanking him. He was the regional director for Whitaker Retail Properties.

"Miss Whitaker," the director gasped, practically bowing his head. "I am so deeply sorry. We were just notified you were visiting this location and we failed to secure the premises properly for your arrival."

Brooke stared at him, her face scrunching in confusion. "Miss what?"

The director turned to Brooke, his expression instantly shifting to open contempt. "You are speaking to Miss Evelyn Whitaker. The majority owner of this entire commercial property group."

Brooke’s mouth dropped wide open. No sound came out.

I calmly walked to the counter, picked up Grant’s black card between two fingers, and inspected it. "Interesting," I mused loudly. "A Hawthorne card being used in a Whitaker building."

Brooke’s face flushed crimson. "You’re lying! This is a trick!"

I ignored her, looking directly at the regional director. "Blacklist this cardholder and all associated corporate accounts from every single Whitaker property. Domestic and international."

"Yes, ma'am, immediately."

"And everything she touched in this store," I added, glancing at the pile of clothes on the counter. "It is contaminated. Destroy it all and send the invoice directly to Hawthorne Capital."

Brooke lost her mind. She lunged toward me, her nails bared. "You witch!"

She never even got close. Two security guards caught her by the arms, lifting her off her feet. As they dragged her out of the boutique, she screamed Grant’s name, promising he would ruin me. For the first time in her life, Brooke was not the fragile, innocent heroine. She was just a shrieking, pathetic fraud being hauled across polished marble in front of dozens of recording smartphones.