“He’s just possessive! A foster uncle pissed because I’m with you!” Joy cried out in panic, tears streaming as she scrambled to defend herself.

Inside, she prayed Gio would swallow the flimsy lie whole. Anyone with half a brain would see how suspicious her explanation was.

Unfortunately for Joy, Gio wasn’t that naïve. Precisely because he loved her, he knew Robert’s rejection was the fallout of a betrayal—something far deeper than an uncle‑niece bond.

He wanted to rage, to call her out. But reason held him back. Above all, love still blurred his judgment.

Joy was carrying his child. The child Ashley hadn’t been able to give him in four years of marriage. Gio was certain Joy was pregnant with his baby—since the night they’d been together, she’d never left his side.

As Gio tried to steady himself, another disruption came. A pounding at the door, just as loud as before, forced him to answer again.

“We’re Mr. Robert’s entourage. Your time is up. Leave this place immediately, and take nothing bought with Robert’s money.” A blond man in a suit spoke curtly. Behind him, five other men stood cold‑faced, waiting for orders.

“You can’t just throw a pregnant woman out in the middle of the night! I’m not leaving!” Joy cried, her face streaked with tears and ruined makeup.

But no one bought the act. The blond man gave a signal, and five cold‑faced brutes stormed in, grabbing Joy by the arms.

Gio’s heart dropped at the sight of his lover being manhandled. “Stop! Don’t touch her! We’ll leave right now!” he shouted, forcing the men to halt before dragging Joy out.

He exhaled heavily, scooped up the scattered files, and urged Joy toward the door.

Joy resisted. “Leave? To where? I have nowhere else! Don’t tell me you’re taking me to your house?” she cried in disbelief.

“Where else? Relax, Ashley’s gone now,” Gio coaxed, his face weary.

Reluctantly, Joy obeyed. The men followed them to the front door. The blond one didn’t forget to snatch the access cards and every bank card tied to Robert’s money.

Meanwhile, Gio’s panic had begun to settle. Somehow, he convinced himself Joy’s silence meant she was already plotting another way to save the company. Wasn’t that always the case? Joy backed him up, made things easier. Unlike Ashley, who was useless and stayed home.

When they finally reached Gio’s suburban house, Joy was stunned by the chaos inside.

“God! Is this a house or an animal pen? It’s disgusting!” she snapped. Trash from half‑eaten meals littered the table and floor. Dirty clothes sprawled across the sofa. Plates and glasses piled up from the dining table to the sink.

Gio gave her a simple smile, ushering Joy inside, then casually sat down on the pile of clothes dumped across the sofa. Joy rolled her eyes skyward, unable to stomach the filth.

“You can clean it up, right? I don’t even have clean clothes left for the office. Maybe start with the laundry,” Gio said, almost lazily.

Joy’s temper flared. “Do you think I’m your maid? You trashed this place, why should I be the one to fix it?” she snapped, her mask of weakness and sweetness gone.

For Joy, raised in an abusive household, chores were a trauma. Every memory came back with the stench of her father’s alcohol, her mother’s shrieks, and the sting of slaps whenever a corner wasn’t spotless. Housework was the symbol of her worthlessness. That hell only ended when she started earning money and hired part‑time cleaners for her apartment.

Now, staring at Gio’s wreck of a house, Joy felt dragged back into that pit. She panicked, ranting—not out of vanity, but because her trauma was triggered.

Gio finally backed off, tidying his room so Joy could sleep comfortably. Yet deep down, he was growing weary of Joy’s refusal to clean.

That same night, hours earlier, Ashley was at an ultra‑luxury private boutique, preparing for the annual elite business gala dinner. She had her hair cut into a sleek, elegant style, slipped into a world‑class designer’s black silk gown, and fastened a Tahitian black pearl necklace around her neck.

The heirloom necklace from her mother created a stunning contrast of texture against the silk of her gown.

Ashley studied her reflection in the mirror. Gone was the image of the simple, obedient housewife. Beside her, Valerie smiled with satisfaction. “Now this is the Ashley I know. Get ready, Ash—tonight marks your comeback to the world you belong to!”

They stepped out of the dressing room, greeted by Arthur and their father, Mr. Lance. Ashley linked arms with Lance, while Val, arriving solo, took Arthur’s arm.

The Fortisiano family’s entrance into the grand banquet hall instantly drew every eye. Camera flashes lit up their faces nonstop. Ashley said little; every question from reporters was deflected by her three pillars of support.

After several minutes of press attention, someone broke through the formality. Vance Kensington, the king of media and entertainment, approached Ashley with an intense gaze. Her aura, transformed, pulled him in without effort.

Vance asked her to dance, and Ashley accepted with grace. Later, they slipped out to the balcony. Vance brought her a drink as she waited.

Ashley’s pensive expression carried a shadow of sorrow. “You disappeared for four years over some low‑life, and came back scarred like this, Ash?” he whispered, voice low and sympathetic.

Ashley turned with a faint smile. “I didn’t come home to mourn, Vance. I need your media empire to make sure that insect never crawls back up again,” she said, asking for his help without hesitation.

Vance grinned obediently. “Anything for you, Ashley.”

In the midst of their conversation, the Fortisiano family lawyer approached Ashley with a report: the first mediation hearing for her divorce from Georgio Miller was scheduled for tomorrow morning.

Ashley sipped her drink elegantly. “Perfect. Make sure tomorrow’s court session is a day my husband will never forget.”