After I delivered our triplets, my husband entered my hospital room with his mistress beside him — proudly holding a Birkin bag. He threw the divorce papers onto my bed and said with a cruel smirk, “Look at you. No one would want you now.”

The FBI didn't take long to finish their investigation. Julian’s financial crimes were sloppy. He had left a paper trail a mile wide, believing he was invincible.

He was arrested a week after the gala at a cheap motel on the outskirts of the city. The local news ran the footage of him being shoved into a federal cruiser, wearing a cheap t-shirt, completely stripped of his pride and his power.

Serena didn't escape unscathed. She was indicted for receiving stolen property. She avoided jail time by testifying against Julian, but she was slapped with a massive fine and forced to surrender every designer item Julian had bought her—including the Birkin bag.

Before his trial, Julian’s public defender begged me to visit him in the county jail. He said Julian wouldn't sign the plea deal unless he spoke to me one last time.

I agreed.

I sat in the sterile visiting room, separated by a pane of thick glass. Julian looked like a ghost. He picked up the receiver, his hand shaking.

"Are the girls okay?" he asked, his voice hollow.

"They are perfect," I replied coldly. "They don't know you. And they never will."

"Clara, why did you hide who you were?" he asked, tears streaming down his face. "If I had known..."

"If you had known, you would have pretended to be a good man for the rest of your life just to get to my money," I interrupted. "I didn't hide who I was, Julian. I just gave you the opportunity to show me exactly who you were. And you did."