From Billionaire Heartbreak to Movie Star Romance

My husband’s “little kitten” was unnervingly well-behaved. When my husband, Warren, and I were in a deep freeze, she’d call him, urging him to come home to me. She even helped him pick out a gift for our daughter’s birthday. The friends in our circle were full of advice: “At least she’s discreet. Better a quiet little mouse than one of those shameless drama queens. For the kids, just let it slide.” But one night before bed, I overheard Warren on the phone, his voice a low, tender murmur: “…A storm is coming tonight. Close your windows tight. If you catch a chill, I’ll worry…” In that moment, I realized I was utterly exhausted. When I finally proposed divorce, Warren just scoffed. “You have to be reasonable! I come home for dinner every single night, and Sasha has never once caused a scene in front of you! What exactly are you so dissatisfied with?” I looked at him, calm and composed. “If you insist on a reason? I guess after getting used to fresh produce, I just can’t bring myself to tolerate wilted greens.”

1 I spent two years in the States, settling our son, Alex, into his prep-school routine before he went off to Harvard Business. When I returned home to our estate in Greenwich, I found Warren Abbott had changed. He still looked at me with a semblance of familiar warmth and affection. Yet, in his peripheral gaze, I detected a barely perceptible flicker of distance. I am a highly sensitive person; I felt that minute shift instantly. And it wasn’t just the eyes. In the eight months since I’d been back, he hadn’t once suggested we share a bed. Warren may be forty-nine, but he has always been vigorous. They say a Ferrari is a Ferrari—and he was certainly that type. His lean, tall frame made him look like the polished, intellectual CEO he was. His deeply set features hadn’t lost their edge, even with a few more fine lines. We used to be intimate on a near-weekly basis. Beyond that, his personal style had shifted. I had always relied on our private clothing consultant to curate Warren’s wardrobe—a collection of tailored suits and casual wear that projected the perfect blend of gravitas, comfort, and taste. But there he was, wearing a sleek, narrow-cut suit with a ridiculously trendy pink silk tie. There was no way he had bought that himself. My heart sank, but I kept my expression neutral, studying him with a stillness that belied my inner turbulence. All the evidence pointed to the same inescapable conclusion: Warren had strayed. 2 It didn’t take long for Mr. Collins, my personal secretary, to dig up the details on the woman. She was only twenty-two—the same age as my son. The photo showed a girl who was not just beautiful, but strikingly pure, even radiating a sort of innocent energy. She could have easily been a breakout star or an influencer. I took a deep, shuddering breath, my hands trembling uncontrollably. At my age, I thought I was impervious to sudden emotional shocks. I thought I had built a fortress. But twenty years of shared life—of building an empire together, side by side… This betrayal felt like being flayed alive. It was soul-crushingly painful. Mr. Collins watched my face, his voice low. “Her name is Sasha Bell. Top-tier finance program from an excellent university. She was the campus ‘It Girl’…” “Warren gave a guest lecture there last year. She was the event host… He brought her into the company this year as a personal executive assistant.” “They’ve been reasonably discreet… but he purchased a luxury penthouse for her in the River Oaks tower. Cash transaction.” River Oaks. Those units started at ten million and went up to thirty. A generous sum indeed. I closed my eyes, my nails digging painful crescents into my palms. 3 Truthfully, after the initial shock wore off, my analytical mind took over, habitually processing the pros and cons. I knew the standard operating procedure for this kind of situation. Divorce was immediately placed off the table. Warren and I were too deeply entangled—financially, legally, socially. A divorce would be a corporate seismic event. Our son, Alex, had just graduated from Harvard Business and was starting his climb within Abbott Global. I needed to maintain my position to guide him. Our daughter, Skye, was only fourteen and deep in the throes of adolescence. A broken home would only destabilize her. Besides, if I walked away, I was clearing the path for Sasha Bell. She was young, and she would almost certainly have children. That would dilute the assets and inheritance for my children. Losing the marriage was a deep regret. Losing control of my wealth and my children’s future would be a bloodbath. If I couldn’t protect my heart, I sure as hell had to protect my legacy. 4 Back home, I played the role of the happily ignorant wife. That evening, the four of us ate dinner together. Alex regaled us with funny stories from his classmates abroad, and Skye complained about the severity of her new teacher. The scene was one of cozy, loving family harmony. After the meal, I asked Skye a few questions about her homework and then retreated to my room to “rest.” My head was pounding. Knowing Warren was cheating on me made my heart race every time I looked at him. We were once so in love, so aligned in our goals, sharing every thought. Now, we were here. I thought about my younger self. The twenty-six-year-old me, or even the thirty-six-year-old me, would have ripped the house apart. The forty-six-year-old me had learned the value of strategic silence, of waiting for the right moment. I wasn’t sure if that was progress or surrender. Warren noticed my low spirits. He came into the room and gently rubbed my shoulders. “Tired, Viv? Still dealing with the jet lag?” I looked at him, my face expressionless, before forcing a cold smile. “However tired I am, I can’t be as tired as you, Warren.” At his age, having to keep up with a girl in her early twenties must be absolutely draining. Warren gave a small, awkward laugh. “Tell me about it. Too many late-night business dinners. I’m starting to get a paunch. It’s a good thing you and the kids are back; I can finally start turning those invitations down!” Hearing that, a small, foolish part of me softened. I gave a small nod. “Mmm.” 5 Warren stayed home with me for several days, but I could feel his anxiety vibrating off him. Was he desperate to see someone? The following week, he suddenly announced he had an urgent business trip to the West Coast. Skye sighed dramatically. “We just got back, and you’re leaving already!” Warren pinched her cheek. “Daddy will be back soon, and I promise to bring you something amazing!” Skye just pouted. “Hmph.” He then turned to Alex. “Keep an eye on the company affairs. Observe and learn. Soon, it will be your generation’s turn.” Alex, always self-assured, grinned. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ve got it.” As soon as he left, I had Mr. Collins check the traveling staff manifest. Sasha Bell’s name was listed right on the flight manifest. 6 Warren couldn’t resist. He was taking his affair cross-country. Perhaps he thought that by moving the main event outside of New York, he could keep it hidden from me. I clenched my fists. After a moment of hesitation, I contacted a private investigator I’d used before. Soon, my encrypted inbox was flooded with dozens of high-resolution images. Knowing is one thing. Seeing is another. My husband, Warren Abbott, and the young woman were walking hand-in-hand, arms linked, through the streets of San Francisco. They looked like a couple on a second honeymoon, stopping to kiss openly on a quiet street corner, sipping coffee in small, local cafes, and even feeding pigeons in a downtown plaza. At night, they checked into the Presidential Suite of a five-star hotel. I could picture the tangled limbs and the messy sheets. The private investigator was, unfortunately, highly competent. He had even managed to rig a surveillance camera in the room, sending back a gigabyte of high-definition video. I did not click on it. I knew if I watched that, I would never be able to look Warren in the eye again. But since he was so clearly intoxicated by Sasha, I decided it was time for a cold, sharp splash of reality. 7 The moment Warren returned, I marched straight into his corner office and threw the stack of photos onto his mahogany desk. He froze for a second. “You hired someone to follow me?” I gave him a cynical, cold smile. “Actually, a major media outlet took these. I paid five million dollars to bury them! You should be thanking me right now for exercising discretion and protecting the bigger picture.” “If I had let these leak, revealing your marital infidelity, the company stock would have plummeted. How would you have explained that to the shareholders?” Warren slowly regained his composure. He knew my mind was sharp and my logic flawless. Even if I was making up the media story, he couldn’t find a hole in it. He took a deep breath. “Viv… I…” My voice was heavy with disappointment. “I thought we had an understanding after I spent two years abroad with Alex! I know your position attracts women. But I faced temptation in Europe, too, Warren. Yet, I can swear on our children’s lives that I was never unfaithful to you! And how do you repay that?” “Is there no basic trust left between us?!” A flash of shame crossed his face. “It was just a fling, Viv. I’m sorry. You know I respect you! I never wanted to hurt you or our family…” I said nothing, just looked at him with icy condemnation. Warren sucked in a breath, raking his fingers through his hair. “Michelle, please, give me some time. I will clean up this mess. I promise.” That was the only line I needed. After the dramatic thunderstorm, the expected calm—and my control—returned. I sighed, walking over to him and laying my hand over his. “I can give you one more chance. For the children. For the history we share.” Not for you. 8 To appease me, Warren promptly fired Sasha Bell and sold the River Oaks penthouse. Everything was handled quietly and efficiently. It was as if the girl had never existed. The following months were peaceful. Warren canceled all non-essential events and came home for dinner every day. With Alex and Skye, he was undeniably a good father. He spoke to them about their studies, their goals, and their lives, using his own experience to smooth their path. I could also sense that he was diligently working to repair the rift between us. Two months later, with the summer holidays looming, Warren suggested a family vacation to a secluded resort in the Caribbean, a chance to enjoy the sea and sunshine. The idea was met with unanimous approval. We chose a small, exclusive hotel on a private island. We spent our days swimming, fishing, and indulging in gourmet food. After years of relentless work, this felt like true, blissful relaxation. Sometimes, watching my handsome son and my lovely daughter together, our family intact, I felt a measure of peace. My choices had been the right ones. But one evening, Warren stepped out to smoke. He knew I couldn’t stand the smell, so he always made a point of excusing himself. I realized he’d forgotten his room key. Afraid he’d be locked out, I went to retrieve it. Just as I reached the door, I heard his voice, a deep, liquid whisper: “…Darling, I miss you so much.” In that instant, all the blood in my body turned to ice. The warm, tropical night felt colder than the dead of winter. The affair wasn’t over. 9 Warren turned and saw me. The initial shock faded fast, replaced this time not with shame, but with defiance. We stood there in silence for a long time. Finally, I broke the silence, my voice hoarse. “Do you… have any integrity left at all?” Warren hung up the phone. He took a deep breath. “She’s in a very difficult place… she lost a good job… her first time was with me… I can’t just abandon her!” What kind of ridiculous defense was that? I could barely believe my ears. I laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. “You can’t be ‘too hard’ on her, so you choose to be cruel to me?” “She is a home-wrecking gold digger! A mistress who tries to steal another woman’s family!” “A girl her age? Do you honestly believe she loves you? She loves your money, your power, your status! Warren, you’re forty-nine! Are you that delusional? Are you an idiot?” I was shouting now, the final word ripped from my throat. He seemed to flinch at my accusation, rage blazing in his eyes. “You don’t get to judge our connection! Am I not deserving of genuine affection? Not everyone is motivated by money!” Not everyone is motivated by money? So that must mean I am, then. It was true. While I didn’t hold a title at Abbott Global, I controlled the family’s financial engine. I came from a family of political and business leaders, and I understood the inner workings of elite wealth. My thriving art trading center wasn’t just a passion; it was a strategically necessary business. For the ultra-wealthy, having all assets in liquid cash or stock is never enough. Converting wealth into fine art is the smartest method of asset protection. If accounts were frozen or there was a security breach, art was safer and harder to liquidate without the right connections. I guaranteed my clients that I would repurchase any piece they bought from me at the original price, no questions asked. That was the core of my leverage in the business world, and I used my influence and connections to bring countless deals and opportunities to Warren’s company. I left for two years to support my son, and he found a mistress! Now he was trying to turn it all back on me. 10 Warren saw my fury and tried to reach for me. “Stop, please. Can we just stop fighting? I’ll break it off with her; I just need a little time.” “Trust me, she doesn’t want anything material. She just… can’t bear to lose me!” Hearing that pathetic nonsense, I felt a cold laugh bubble up. Warren frowned. “Don’t do this, Viv. The children might hear…” I knocked his hand away. “Are you actually insulting my intelligence, Warren? She ‘doesn’t want anything’? Then were the penthouse, the luxury cars, and the endless stream of designer goods for the dog?!” Warren was breathing heavily. “She never asked for that! I gave it to her! It was compensation! You buy your endless parade of bags and houses and ridiculous custom jewelry, and I never say a word!” “That is not the same thing!” I raised my voice. “The money I spend is my right! It is community property! The money you spend on a mistress is my money, too!” “Since you have repeatedly and shamelessly lied, I am done tolerating it!” “Warren, I’m telling you now: I will sue you for every dime you spent on her. You want to protect her? Then I, Michelle Tanner, will use every resource and contact I have to ruin her life!” Warren’s eyes widened, and he snapped, “You wouldn’t dare!” I smirked. “Watch me.” We had been married for two decades. He knew I always followed through. He knew I had the power to do it. He staggered back half a step, a sneer twisting his lips. “Of course, Michelle. Always the calculated threat. You won’t get away with this! You say she’s illegal? Fine! I’ll divorce you and marry her! Then you can’t tell me how to spend my money! I am sick of you, and I have been for years!” 11 The fight was brutal. We had ripped away the last veil of decorum, and the D-word had been thrown into the air. I was cautious about divorce, yes. But wasn’t Warren even more so? Divorce would be devastating for both of us—a mutual destruction. But judging by his outburst, this wasn’t just a fling. He was deeply entrenched. Delusional, even. After our fight, we parted ways on the worst possible terms. Warren lied about an emergency and took the first flight off the island. Alex and Skye exchanged confused glances, completely baffled. I felt suspended in a vacuum. I didn’t regret what I’d said. Twenty years of marriage, and a nameless young girl had managed to steal my husband. Or perhaps I had simply underestimated the insidious nature of human weakness. When we returned home, Warren abandoned his previous attempts at discretion and began appearing publicly with Sasha. He moved her into an even more extravagant property and began bringing her to high-profile business dinners. Once, we actually ran into them at the same exclusive social club. It was the first time I had ever seen Sasha Bell in person. I had to admit, she was even more beautiful than her photos, a rich, ripe cherry. Warren looked momentarily flustered when he saw me. Then, his eyes narrowed, and he quickly positioned himself between me and the girl. Was he afraid I would physically harm her? My forehead was throbbing. My blood pressure shot up. Just as the standoff intensified, Sasha lightly pushed Warren aside. She gave me a slight, respectful bow, then turned and quickly walked away. Warren watched her retreating figure with an expression of heartbreaking pity. Did she think she was Cinderella? What a masterful, cheap performance. 12 When he got home, Warren offered me a formal, profound apology. “That will not happen again. Sasha… she is also very sorry.” I looked at him. I barely recognized the man standing in front of me. My chest felt tight, the pressure of a thousand unshed tears. Later, my best friend, Julia, tried to reassure me. “At least Warren still respects you, Viv. Look at what Michael Chen at North East Tech did—he brought his illegitimate son right into the house.” I offered a self-deprecating smile. “Oh, right. So I should be grateful? Should I host a dinner party, have her serve me tea, and give her a formal title?” Julia sighed. “You’ll only hurt yourself if you can’t accept reality.” She was right. I wasn’t naive; I understood that the world wasn’t black and white, and that power made its own rules. But why should I, Michelle Tanner, have to swallow this indignity? Meanwhile, Warren continued to come home every day, repeating his mantra: “Michelle, can we just leave this alone? My wife will only ever be you. I promise.” “Sasha is truly well-behaved. She is constantly urging me to be patient with you, to respect you. She has never pressured me to leave you; she just wants a tiny fraction of my attention.” “Darling, you are wonderful. I have always appreciated your commitment! You’re brilliant, you’re elegant, you raised our children perfectly—you are the model wife. But look around our circle! Who only has one woman? A successful man with my level of business and power simply cannot be expected to settle for just one.” I stared at him with cold detachment. “And how will you explain this to the children? Will you tell them you’ve taken a second wife who is the same age as their brother?” “How do you expect them to respect you?” A flicker of discomfort crossed his face. “When they’re older… they’ll understand.” He was completely lost to shame now. 12 (cont.) And so, Warren and I entered a stalemate. He continued to play the doting father and the loving husband in front of the children, but in private, we were colder than strangers. As the rumors spread, our friends and relatives began their campaign of persuasion. “The nice ones are better than the wild, shameless ones. For the children, just close your eyes and ignore it.” “But you have to keep a close watch. Do not let her have his baby!” “Right. As long as she doesn’t have a child, let them play wherever they want!” Their advice was all boilerplate, but my elderly friend, Mrs. Davenport, offered a memorable piece of wisdom. She said, “I know you women can’t stomach this, but I’m fifteen years older than all of you, so let me share my experience.” “My husband, Arthur, was a complete womanizer in his youth. I bit my tongue and refused to divorce him. I just waited until he hit his late sixties. His health failed, he couldn’t ‘play’ anymore, and he naturally returned home.” “Now he gardens, plays chess, and dotes on his grandchildren. As meek as a lamb. Our children treat us with respect. That is what a long game looks like.” Their consensus was unified. If I held my seat, I was the only Mrs. Abbott. My children were the only heirs. I married Warren at twenty-two, helped him build this empire, and poured my time and youth into it. Now that we had reached the pinnacle, was I really going to cause a catastrophic breakdown and let someone else take my place? But I felt a profound hollowness. Everything felt utterly pointless. One day, I flew to Paris without a word and maxed out two of my black cards in twenty-four hours. Looking at the mountain of merchandise piled high in the Presidential Suite, my emptiness reached its peak. This wasn’t solving the problem. I flew back home, defeated. Warren rushed to the airport to meet me, his face etched with concern. “Feeling any better? How about I take you to see the Northern Lights next month?” “Michelle, let’s just make up.” “We’ve been married for two decades. We’re more than just spouses; we’re family! Seeing you unhappy makes me unhappy.” But your choices caused my unhappiness. That evening, Warren insisted on taking me out for dinner instead of going home. Under the candlelight and flowers, he pulled out my chair, cut my steak, and displayed every inch of his gentlemanly charm, just as he had when we were young. When we fought, I’d throw a tantrum, and he would always tenderly beg my forgiveness. I would always relent. After dinner, we went home. Warren drew a bath for me. “It’s a long flight; you must be exhausted. Soak for a bit and relax.” I simply nodded, sighing a quiet, defeated breath as he turned to leave. When I stepped out to grab something, I heard Warren in his study, on the phone, his voice as soft as water: “…A storm is coming tonight. Close your windows tight. If you catch a chill, I’ll worry…” “Don’t worry, I’ll talk to her. Honestly, if you hadn’t told me to be patient, I wouldn’t want to come home at all, having to deal with her cold face… Yes… I know… I’ll be good, too…” Warren came out of the study and saw me staring at him. “You… I actually…” He stammered, speechless. This time, I didn’t shout. I didn’t mock him. I just felt a sudden, bright light pierce through the confusion, illuminating my interior world and everything around it. “Warren, we’re getting a divorce.” “!”