After I left, they begged for Forgiveness

Chapter 7 - Marriage come back

The headlines exploded like fireworks hours after.

“Business Queen Turned Clown? Valeria Langston’s Unforgivable Fashion Faux Pas at Global Summit.”

“Trident Summit Scandal: Valeria Langston Shows Up in Jeans, Gets Shown the Door.”

“From Power to Punchline: Langston’s Downfall Sealed in Denim.”

Every article came with a picture—her wide-eyed, stunned expression captured mid-humiliation. Sock-clad sneakers, loose hanging like shame, and a black t-shirt clinging to her. They didn’t blur her face. No mercy.

The press wasn’t kind.

But her board?

They were worse.

She remembered their cold stares from last night, their words still replaying in her ears.

“You’re fired, Valeria.”

“Your conduct tonight was a disgrace.”

“You've brought shame to the company. We can’t afford to be associated with your name anymore.”

“The company car, the penthouse apartment—those are under Langston’s name. They’ll be repossessed by morning.”

By morning.

Tomorrow.

Which meant—today was her last night as Valeria Langston, CEO of anything.

She stumbled through the hallway of her penthouse like a woman possessed. Her hands knocked over a vase; the crash didn’t faze her.

Her stilettos had been traded for bare feet, and her black t-shirt reeked of spilled vodka.

She’d been drinking ever since she left the summit, glass after glass of expensive painkillers like Belvedere vodka and Grey Goose.

Her bag was somewhere. Her phone was dead. Her dignity had vanished hours ago.

She reached her bedroom and dropped onto the bed,like a lifeless heap of silk.

Her voice cracked as she mumbled to no one.

“This isn’t real… it’s not real. It’s a bad dream. I’ll wake up. I’ll… I’ll fix it.”

Her words slurred, dripping with alcohol .

She leaned back, blinking up at the ceiling. Everything was spinning. The room, her thoughts, her future .

Gone.

All of it.

But then—

She noticed

Something poking out from under a pile of old mail on her nightstand. Her shaking hand reached for it.

A document.

Gold embossed. Faded at the corners.

She blinked.

Read.

Marriage Certificate.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Elijah Quinn.

Valeria Langston.

Still married.

Her heart skipped. Then raced.

He never filed for divorce?

She shot upright, drunkenness momentarily swallowed by cold adrenaline.

They were still legally bound.

She flipped open the drawer beneath, pulling out the old prenup.

Her eyes scanned it. Her hands trembled—but she found the words. The clause Elijah had insisted on when he was nothing.

If the marriage lasted more than seven years…

She was entitled to half.

Half of everything.

Her lips parted, dry and trembling.

Half of Elijah Quinn.

His empire.

His billions.

Could be hers.

She let out a laugh. Hysterical. Disbelieving.

From jobless… to Queen again.

If she played it right.

She looked at the certificate, at the man’s name inked beside hers.

Elijah Quinn may have destroyed her in public…

But he forgot one thing—

She still wore his ring in the eyes of the law.

And Valeria Langston never left the table without taking something with her.

Her fingers, still slick with remnants of vodka and trembling fury, reached for her dead phone.

She plugged it in. Waited.

The second it buzzed back to life, she opened her contacts.

Elijah Quinn.

She didn’t hesitate.

Not even for a second.

The phone rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Her breath caught.

On the fourth ring—it picked up.

But it wasn’t Elijah.

A soft, silk-smooth voice slid through the receiver like scented oil.

“Hello?” the woman purred.

Valeria’s brows furrowed.

“Who is this?” she snapped.

A slight laugh. Feminine. Confident.

“This is Princess Amirah bint Al-Mahdi. And who, might I ask, are you?”

Valeria’s stomach turned to stone.

The Princess.

The same woman who had stood beside Elijah last night, and also who it was rumored that Elijah’s partner .

Valeria didn’t flinch.

“I need to speak to Elijah,” she said, tone clipped.

Amirah laughed again, this time slower. Like a cat playing with her prey.

“Oh? You need to speak to Elijah?” she cooed. “And who exactly are you to demand that?”

Valeria straightened, steel threading through her voice.

“I’m his wife,” she said clearly. “Valeria Quinn.”

Silence.

Then—

A full-bodied laugh erupted from the Princess.

“Wife?” she said, amusement dancing in her accent. “No, darling. You must be mistaken. I’ve heard of you. Valeria Langston, isn’t it?”

Valeria’s jaw clenched.

“I was Langston,” she said coldly. “But until he files those divorce papers—which, by the way, he never did—I’m still Mrs. Quinn.”

Amirah hummed, clearly unbothered.

“How... nostalgic,” she said lightly. “You’re clinging to a title he’s already erased. How pitiful.”

“Pitiful?” Valeria barked a bitter laugh. “Sweetheart, I built the man you’re clinging to. I was by his side when he couldn’t afford a coffee without asking for change. You weren’t even in the picture.”

Amirah’s voice sharpened, the silk now edged with diamonds.

“And yet, here you are. Jobless. Homeless. Drunk and bitter. Watching from the sidelines while I stand beside him. He never got once spoke of you, is that how useless you are?”

Valeria’s eyes flashed.

“You think this will take you somewhere ?You think you have won his heart ?” she hissed.

“I already have,” the Princess replied smugly. “You’re just the past. A scandal in denim.”

Valeria leaned forward, eyes gleaming.

“Tell Elijah,” she said, her voice low, dangerous, and laced with venom, “that his wife is coming home. Since he decided to make me homeless, I’ve decided to move back in—with my husband.”

Amirah went quiet.

“And one more thing,” Valeria added, cool as winter. “Remind him to warm my side of the bed.”

Then she hung up.

The phone dropped to the mattress.

Valeria stood, shoulders squaring, fire returning to her bones.

If Elijah Quinn wanted war?

He forgot who trained him in combat.