The Husband They Threw Away Runs This Town Now

BZZZT!

The system’s ear-splitting alarm blared through Erick’s earpiece, shattering the silence of the Laurent family’s storage room.

“They know Quade is still alive.”

The encrypted message struck him like a bullet to the chest. Erick’s blood ran cold, but his face remained perfectly impassive. Five years of flawless undercover work, and the walls were finally beginning to crumble.

He deleted the message with one swift tap. The screen went dark. No time for hesitation.

Downstairs, the morning ritual had already begun.

Breakfast at the Laurent estate was never warm. It was a battlefield dressed in luxury.

Leroy sat at the head of the long marble table like a tyrant, newspaper raised like a shield. Evelyn obsessively rearranged her silverware, never satisfied. Michel leaned back lazily, tapping at his phone. Dominique sat by the window, body angled away from Erick as if his presence polluted the air.

Erick took the chair the staff secretly called “the reject seat.”

Michel looked up with a cruel smirk. “Oh. You’re awake. Or did you finally decide to move into the pantry where you belong?”

Evelyn let out a theatrical sigh. “Michel, be polite. Erick is still… family.” The word dripped with contempt.

Leroy didn’t even lower his newspaper. “Let him eat. We can’t have the press saying we starve him before tonight’s gala.”

Dominique spoke coldly. “He’s just logistics. No one will notice him anyway.”

Only Remi held Erick’s gaze a second too long and gave him a small, guilty smile.

Erick stood before touching his plate. “I need to head out early.”

“Clean the table first,” Michel ordered.

Remi snapped, “Leave him alone, Michel!”

Evelyn rolled her eyes. “Don’t act noble, Remi. If Erick weren’t here to absorb your father’s temper, you wouldn’t even be allowed near the corporate office.” She turned her sharp gaze on Erick. “At least make yourself useful and clear the table.”

Erick nodded once. “Sure.”

In the kitchen, the maids whispered without shame.

“Husband or servant? I honestly can’t tell the difference anymore.”

“A man with a face and body like that… choosing to live as his wife’s parasite.”

Mrs. Hollis shut them down instantly. “Back to work. Now!”

Erick’s secret phone vibrated again. He read the new line before it self-destructed.

They’re looking for Quade.

Five years of swallowing every insult. Every humiliation. Every condescending glance. All so he could stay invisible while building his revenge from within.

Mrs. Hollis cleared her throat. “Mr. Erick, Miss Dominique is waiting in the courtyard. She’s late for her dress fitting on Fifth Avenue.”

Erick gave her a faint smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Hollis.”

The drive through Manhattan traffic was suffocating. Dominique sat beside him, laughing softly into her phone in a tone Erick hadn’t heard in years.

“Martin, you’re too funny… Don’t say that, you’re embarrassing me.”

Erick’s knuckles turned bone-white on the steering wheel.

At the luxury boutique on Fifth Avenue, Dominique disappeared into the private dressing room.

Erick waited in the VIP men’s lounge.

Martin Clarke lounged on a leather sofa, smug grin on his face, red velvet jewelry box on his lap — the exact match to the empty carton Erick had seen earlier.

Martin looked up and laughed mockingly. “Erick. I didn’t know chauffeurs were invited to these things.”

His words dripped venom.

Martin leaned in close, voice low and cruel. “You know… when Dominique and I were dating, I knew every inch of her. Every sound she made when I touched her. Every place she liked to be fucked.” His smile turned vicious. “Funny how some things never change.”

Erick’s jaw tightened.

Martin stood, stepping so close their chests nearly touched. “She still calls me when she needs a real man. Someone who can actually satisfy her. Not some pathetic loser who sleeps in a storage room like a dog.”

He tapped the velvet box. “Three million dollars. Just because I can. Tell me, Erick — when was the last time you bought her anything that wasn’t from the discount rack?”

The air crackled with hostility.

“You’re nothing but a glorified driver. A placeholder. A joke.” Martin’s voice turned ice-cold. “She’s mine. She’s always been mine.”

Erick didn’t remember deciding to swing.

One second Martin was sneering — the next, Erick’s fist smashed into his face with a sickening crack. Martin crashed to the floor, blood exploding from his broken nose. The velvet box flew open, scattering diamonds across the marble.

“YOU PSYCHO!” Martin screamed, clutching his face. “I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”

Security rushed in. Before they could grab Erick, the dressing room door burst open.

Dominique stood there in her half-finished gown, face pale with shock.

Erick stared at his bloodied knuckles, breathing hard.

The mask had finally shattered.