I Dumped My Fake-Poor Billionaire Husband

Chapter 7

I always knew Ethan Sinclair didn't love me—he only loved control. His affection was nothing more than a performance.

So I doused him with a bucket of cold water.

Soaked and humiliated, he stormed off in a fury.

I thought that would be the end of him. But just when I was starting to breathe again, life hit me where it hurt most—my mom suddenly collapsed.

At the hospital, the diagnosis felt like a punch to the gut: uremia. The doctor said she needed surgery immediately—half a million dollars.

I didn't have that kind of money. Not even close.

I stood in the corridor, numb with panic, when Ethan appeared again like a bad omen.

"I'll cover the cost," he said. "If you agree to be with me."

My fists clenched. I couldn't even speak.

"Think about your mom," he added, like he wasn't the devil dangling her life over my head.

Just as I was about to respond, a familiar voice cut in. "Audrey."

Vincent Hawthorne strode toward me, calm and steady.

"Don't do it," he said. "I'll pay for the surgery."

Ethan's expression darkened. "You again."

Vincent ignored him, taking my hand. "Come on. Let's go take care of the bill."

And just like that, he paid it—no hesitation.

"I'll pay you back," I said, voice low. "Every cent."

He just smiled. "It's not about the money. Your mom's what matters."

Ethan couldn't stand that he'd lost. Again. Furious, he lashed out by sabotaging our studio—cutting off our clients, pulling strings behind the scenes. A man like him had no shortage of influence, and our small business took hit after hit.

I knew what he wanted. He wanted me to beg.

But I refused.

Still, guilt gnawed at me for dragging Vincent into this mess. One night, I told him, "Maybe I should step down. Ethan's doing this because of me. If I leave, the studio might survive."

Vincent shook his head. "This studio was built for you. If it goes down, then it goes down with me, too."

I stared at him. "What do you mean?"

He hesitated. Then he told me everything.

He'd had feelings for me since high school. But back then, he didn't think he had a shot. Later, when he heard I got married, he backed off—until he found out about my divorce. That was when he made up his mind.

He opened the studio knowing I'd eventually come home, knowing it could give me a fresh start. He even arranged the interview himself—but never told me, because he didn't want me to feel obligated.

"These feelings... they're mine to carry," he said softly. "You don't owe me anything."

I didn't know what to say. But I couldn't let him carry it all alone.

"Vincent," I said, grabbing his arm, "let's fight for this studio. And as for us... give me some time. Please."

He met my eyes and nodded. "Take all the time you need."

Saving the studio became our mission. It wasn't just about work—it was about rebuilding our lives.

But Ethan wasn't done. His attacks became relentless. Clients vanished. Our studio was on the verge of collapse.

Just when I thought we'd lost, a miracle happened.

A prestigious international luxury brand discovered my designs. They offered me a partnership deal.

I said yes.

All those sleepless nights had finally paid off.

Ethan's power couldn't reach me anymore. And his own world was unraveling—his father was hospitalized, and he had bigger things to worry about than tormenting me.

Meanwhile, Vincent never wavered. His quiet strength, his unwavering support—it broke through the last walls around my heart. I finally said yes.

We were together.

The studio recovered, then soared. My designs started winning awards. My name appeared in industry magazines. Eventually, I opened my first boutique—then another, and another. Each one thrived.

I bought my first house and moved my mom in. She was healthy, happy, and always trying to feed me too much, just like before.

Three years later, Vincent and I launched our own brand. That same day, he proposed.

"Will you marry me?" he asked, holding out a ring I recognized immediately—it was one of his original designs, one he'd spent months perfecting.

Real love doesn't need grand speeches. It's in the quiet devotion. The little things. The nights he stayed up sketching, just to make me proud.

Tears welled in my eyes. "Yes," I whispered.

Vincent's parents welcomed me like family. No judgment. No conditions.

At a reunion a few months later, I heard the final chapter of Ethan's fall from grace.

He was never the real Sinclair heir—he'd been switched at birth. His biological mother was a maid in the Sinclair household. When the truth came out, the family cut all ties.

He lost everything.

Last I heard, he was working as a courier, barely scraping by.

Now, he was poor in every sense of the word.

And me?

I was finally free.

—The End—