I turned my ex-husband into a punchline and landed myself at the top of the trending list. After the divorce, desperate for cash, I joined a reality dating show that gathered my exes, sworn enemies, and people I’d been romantically linked to. The producers specifically warned me to tone it down. After all, my billionaire ex-husband was the show’s biggest investor, currently watching with his unforgettable first love from the VIP box. I smiled, nodded, then turned, and walked on stage, picked up the mic, and began. “I have a friend. She got married for three years. Her husband didn’t even know she was allergic to mangoes, but he had another woman’s menstrual cycle memorized. Any guesses why?” “A. He’s a ‘cares-about-everyone’ kind of sweet guy. B. He’s a professional gynecologist. C. He’s a pure, unadulterated asshole.” The room erupted. Down in the audience, my ex-husband crushed his champagne flute on the spot. Stella POV The divorce agreement slid across the million-dollar desk toward me with a harsh scrape. Julian Vance leaned back in his leather chair, his assessing gaze cold and devoid of warmth. “Serena’s back,” he stated, his tone as impersonal as a business notification. “Sign it. The villa and the money are yours. We’re even.” Three years of marriage, summed up in a single, cold “we’re even.” Everyone in our circle knew I had been Serena Thompson’s stand-in. Now that the original had returned, the copy was expected to vanish. His assistant stood ready nearby, holding a large pack of tissues. They were clearly waiting for a scene. But I didn’t cry. My eyes didn’t even redden. Calmly, I pulled something from my bag-a pink calculator. placed it beside the divorce agreement, where it looked utterly out of place. Under their watchful gazes, I spoke slowly and deliberately. “Mr. Vance, divorce is fine, but the accounts need to be settled. It’s all about contracts, just like you taught me.” My fingers flew across the calculator. “Three years, one thousand and ninety-five days. I served as your personal life manager, handling daily logistics. Market rate: two thousand per day. That’s two million, one hundred ninety thousand.” I also provided on-demand emotional counseling, available 24/7. Top-tier therapist rate, discounted as a friend: ten thousand per day. That’s another ten million, nine hundred fifty thousand.” “And as your social companion, attending fifty-two public events to play the devoted spouse. Standard model rate: one hundred thousand per event. That’s five million, two hundred thousand.” I paused and looked up, my voice steady. “Due to the long-term mental strain of impersonating someone else, I require an additional twenty percent compensation for professional damages on the total.” “Stella Reed!” He slammed the table, shooting to his feet. “You’re reducing everything to a transaction?” “What else?”I put the calculator away and met his gaze. “Mr. Vance, you didn’t actually think I loved you, did you?” I opened an audio file on my phone and pressed play. A muffled male voice indistinctly spoke. “Serena… don’t go… Serena…” In the recording, he repeatedly called out another woman’s name. I turned off the audio, shook my phone, and let out a soft laugh. “This is a collection of your sleep-talking from the past three years. If the company’s investors heard their new CEO repeatedly calling out another woman’s name during his marriage, what do you think the market’s reaction would be?” The air grew thick with silence. After a long moment, he said coldly, “Sign it.” His assistant quickly replaced the check with a new one. I took the check, casually glanced at it, then took down our wedding photo from the wall. I tore the photo in half right in front of him, then into shreds, precisely tossing them into the trash bin by his hand. I stood up and gave him one final smile-the perfectly practiced smile I’d worn as “Mrs. Vance” for three years. “You know, trash belongs in the bin.” With that, I turned and left, the click of my heels sharp and clear against the floor. Stepping out of the building, the sunlight was a bit blinding. I squinted. Clutching that astonishingly large check, yet my heart felt heavy. I opened the debt reminder text message on my phone. The number there had an extra zero compared to the check. This money was far from enough.
Stella POV The bills from my mother’s private rehabilitation center kept piling up, each one terrifyingly expensive. I looked at the fifty million that had just cleared in my mobile banking app, realizing for the first time how quickly money disappeared. This amount was only enough to cover the first phase of treatment. I needed a faster way to earn money. As night deepened, I pushed open an old iron gate plastered with posters for underground comedy shows. This was a famous underground stand-up club in the city, the air thick with the smell of cheap beer and sarcasm. My designer suit was utterly out of place in the club’s grungy atmosphere. The moment I sat down, a lanky male comedian on stage spotted me and seized the opportunity. “Well, look what we have here. Slumming it, sweetheart? Or did your husband finally go bankrupt?” The audience howled with laughter. I didn’t acknowledge him. Walking straight backstage, I found a tipsy stagehand. All I said was, “I need five minutes on stage.” He glanced at me, then waved his hand, implicitly agreeing. When I stood on that small stage with the microphone, the boos grew louder. In their eyes, I was too polished, more like a display piece than someone who tells jokes. I stood still for two seconds, waiting for the laughter to slowly subside, before I began. “Hello everyone, my name is Stella. Just this afternoon, I finished a three-year job. My position was-a certain billionaire’s ‘true love’s stand-in’.” The entire room instantly quieted. Next, in the calmest voice, I condensed the entire process of how I went from being a stand-in to my ex-husband’s personal ATM into a five-minute stand-up routine. “My former boss had a strange cognitive disorder. He always thought he was a deeply devoted, overbearing CEO. In reality, he was a face-blind amnesiac. He couldn’t remember anniversaries, distinguish lipstick shades, or even recall my mango allergy.” “But he did possess one superpower: he always remembered his true love’s menstrual cycle. It made me wonder if he had a side hustle selling tampons.” The entire room burst into laughter. I didn’t whine. Instead, I dissected those high-society scandals into relatable workplace complaints, every line hitting home. Finally, I raised my hand, mimicking the motion of pressing a calculator. “So, ladies, remember: when a man tries to fix your life with money, don’t cry. What you need to do is pull out that calculator and tally up every last cent for overtime, emotional labor, and mental distress over the years.” “After all, love might betray you, but contract clauses never will.” As my words faded, the applause and whistles were loud enough to bring down the house. That night, an audio recording titled “Dumped by the Billionaire, I Used the Contract to Turn the Tables on My Ex” quickly spread online. The next morning, I was woken by the urgent doorbell. Standing at the door was Carol Hayes, my agent from three years ago. She burst in and slapped a contract onto the table. “Stella, you’re a sensation! Look at this show, it’s called ‘Exes Roast Night.’ Three million per episode. Are you in?” I took the contract. When I saw the familiar group name in the sponsor section and Serena’s name clearly listed among the invited guests, my gaze turned cold. Carol lowered her voice to warn me. “The largest investor is Julian’s company…” But I just smiled. I picked up a pen and, on the blank space of the last page of the contract, crisply added a line of text. “Supplementary Clause: All my statements on this show are considered artistic expression. The production team will be solely responsible for all legal and commercial consequences, and Party A waives the right to seek recourse.” I pushed the contract back towards her. “Sign it.” Carol looked at my signature, then added, “It’s a live show. And Serena, I hear, has already been acting like Mrs. Vance, having pre-alerted the production team.” My pen paused, then my lips curved into a smile. Perfect. I still needed material for my first joke.
Stella POV Backstage in the dressing room for “Exes Roast Night,” the atmosphere was tense. Serena swept in, surrounded by a crowd. She wore a flowing white gown, her makeup flawless. Seeing me, she offered a sweet, gentle smile. “Long time no see, Stella. I never thought we’d meet again under these circumstances.” She said, pushing a brand-new Hermès Birkin box towards me. “I know you’re a little tight on money lately. Consider this a welcome gift. Also, Julian is, after all, the face of the company. On the show, please… show some discretion.” The surrounding staff quietly watched, their gazes fixed on me. I didn’t even bat an eyelid. Instead, I leisurely unwrapped the package and took out this ‘limited edition’ handbag. My fingers ran over the stitching, then I leaned in to sniff the leather, like a picky quality inspector. A few seconds later, I let out a soft laugh and tossed the bag casually back onto the table, where it landed with a soft thud. “Ms. Thompson,” I finally looked up at her, my voice cold, “not only are you a relic, but even your gifts are knock-offs. This kind of stitching and leather-are you worried people won’t notice your cheap eagerness to climb the social ladder?” Her face instantly drained of color. Audible gasps rippled through the room. Just as the atmosphere froze, a staff member in a uniform and a baseball cap walked over, carrying a walkie-talkie. He spoke to Serena’s assistant. “Excuse me, there’s a problem with the equipment in dressing room three. Ms. Thompson, please move to seven.” Number seven was a cramped, dimly lit storage room at the end of the hall. Serena’s body trembled slightly, but she could only pack her things and leave. Under everyone’s undisguised stares, she hurried away with her entourage. The young staff member tidied the table. As he passed me, he paused and, in a voice only I could hear, said, “Looking forward to your trash sorting performance.” I froze, and by the time I looked up, I only saw his retreating back. Beneath the brim of his cap, a pair of smiling eyes seemed to hide. Five minutes later, the live broadcast officially began. As the first guest, I walked onto the stage under the blinding spotlights. I ignored the carefully prepared, tame jokes on the teleprompter. I gripped the microphone, and my first sentence instantly silenced the room. “Hello everyone, I am Stella. Today I want to talk about something. It is about how incredibly foolish a business elite can become when afflicted with a severe case of love blindness.” The entire hall erupted. “When my ex husband was pursuing his first love, he once broadcast love declarations for seven consecutive days on the largest commercial screen in the city center. He thought it was the pinnacle of romance. To his company’s employees, however, it was a public disgrace that directly caused the company’s stock price to fall three points that week. All of it was due to the CEO’s questionable judgment.” A wave of laughter and applause burst from the audience. I shifted my tone, my voice turning sharper. “But the real gems were his true love’s classic lines. Like, ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you; I just didn’t know how to reject him.’ Translation: ‘I had options, but I went for the fattest wallet first.’” I dissected every piece of that calculated ambiguity, translating it into plain, brutal honesty. Every line landed perfectly. That was when a commotion erupted backstage. I knew it. Julian couldn’t tolerate his private affairs and scandals being exposed like this to a national audience. I looked up, a smile curving on my lips as I faced the camera, my voice clearly amplified through the microphone to fill the venue and the live stream. “See? The person I just roasted is probably trying to cut the power right now.”
Stella POV The moment I finished speaking, with a loud ‘CRACK,’ the studio plunged into darkness. The lights, sound system, and all screens went blank at the same instant. The entire space was plunged into sudden darkness, followed by gasps and murmurs from the audience. In the dark, every sound was amplified. Just then, I heard the click of a phone being hung up nearby. Someone thought that would make me shut up. However, the very next second, a voice unexpectedly cut through all the noise. “Looks like my ex-husband’s signature move is pulling the plug.” It was my voice. I pulled out a powerful handheld megaphone from somewhere, turning the volume all the way up. My calm, clear, even slightly playful voice was infinitely amplified in the darkness, reaching every corner. “The last time he did that, it was to create a three-thousand-dollar artificial snowfall for his beloved first love, which immediately caused a power outage for businesses along the entire commercial street. He called it ‘a brief darkness before illuminating your whole world.’ We called it ‘brain-dead romance’.” The audience was briefly silent, then erupted in unprecedented laughter. The laughter echoed in the darkness, wave after wave. Some people started raising their phones, and screens and flashlight beams flickered on across the audience. Just then, rapid footsteps approached from the side of the stage. Under the cover of darkness, Serena rushed towards me, her target clear: the megaphone in my hand. I was prepared. With a slight shift of my foot, she stumbled and missed. In the same fluid motion, I casually reached out, throwing her off balance. She stumbled forward, her cheek landing right against the megaphone’s microphone. “Ms. Thompson, are you trying to personally verify this old story for me?” My voice, amplified through the megaphone with a faint static hum, clearly echoed throughout the entire venue. “It’s no wonder. Three years ago, some people thought you were struggling abroad, pursuing your artistic dreams. In reality, you were using his supplementary credit card for a two-hundred-thousand-dollar luxury treatment in Paris.” I pulled a folded piece of paper from my pocket. Using the light from the audience’s phones, I aimed the spending record at the nearest camera. CRASH! With a loud bang, the studio door was kicked open from the outside. The emergency lights flickered on at that moment. Light suddenly fell, casting the figure of the newcomer onto the stage curtain, his silhouette stretched, massive and distorted. I looked at him, a cold smile curving on my lips. I raised my hand and, in the light and shadow, made a shadow puppet of a small figure kneeling in surrender, aimed directly at his magnified shadow. Then, I raised the megaphone to my lips and spoke my last words for the evening. “So, some people’s deep affection is only worth three thousand dollars and a fleeting, artificial snowfall.” As my words faded, the live stream signal, which had finally recovered, also cut out completely at that very moment. The screen went black. All discussions were forcibly cut short, leaving behind only the shock and speculation that hadn’t yet been fully processed. The live broadcast ended. Deep in the underground parking lot, a black Bentley had turned off its engine. The man in the car extinguished the cigarette between his fingers, quietly waiting for me to appear.
Stella POV The screech of tires pierced the night as a black Bentley swung abruptly, blocking my path completely. The car door opened, and Julian stepped out. His face was terrifyingly dark, the handsome face that often graced the covers of financial magazines was now contorted with rage. He advanced step by step, his towering figure looming over me, casting me entirely in shadow. “Had enough drama?” His voice was icy, carrying its usual condescending tone. He pulled a checkbook from his inner jacket pocket, quickly signed his name, tore off a check, and casually flicked it to my feet. “Here’s ten million.” “Delete all video backups and quit this show.” The check fluttered lightly onto the concrete. In his eyes, everything had a price. I smiled. I bent down, picked up the check, and slowly and deliberately flicked off the dust. The next second, I pulled out my phone and, aiming it at the check, snapped a photo. Before he could react, I opened an interface and hit submit. “Mr. Vance,” I shook my phone, my voice calm, “I forgot to mention, once a report of commercial bribery is confirmed, the whistleblower receives a reward. Thank you for voluntarily providing the evidence.” On the screen, the “Submission Successful” notification was remarkably clear. “One more thing.” I looked up at him, my voice colder than the night. “You engaged in asset transfers during our marriage and now you’re trying to buy my silence with this money. I’ve already applied for an emergency asset freeze measure based on this. It went into effect an hour ago.” His face instantly went ashen. He instinctively reached for his phone, only to find that, unnoticed by him, several people had appeared behind him and were slowly circling around him. Just then, a pair of blinding headlights suddenly flashed. A slightly worn pickup truck pulled up beside us with a squeal of brakes. The window rolled down. It was the staff member with the baseball cap. “Get in.” Alex Stone’s voice was short and authoritative. I didn’t hesitate, immediately pulling open the car door and getting in. “Stop them!” A furious roar came from behind. Several people rushed forward. Alex yanked the steering wheel, the front of the truck swerved, and we peeled into a narrow service alley. He clearly knew the routes here well, making several sharp turns and quickly shaking them off completely. Inside the car, my agent Carol Hayes’s forehead was slick with sweat. The moment she saw me, she shoved a document into my hand, her voice trembling. “Stella! A contract from Starlight Media! Julian’s sworn rivals! They saw your live stream and offered twenty million per episode-more than his hush money!” I took the contract, quickly scanned it, picked up a pen, but paused at the signature line. “Carol, add a supplementary clause.” I looked up, my voice calm. “I want them to rent the huge electronic billboard directly across from Vance Group headquarters. Starting tomorrow, it’s to play my show’s promo on a twenty-four-hour loop.” Carol gasped. I later heard that Julian had smashed more than one priceless antique that night. The next day, the city’s largest and most expensive digital billboard, which was positioned directly across from Vance Group headquarters, lit up. It showed me. I was wearing the same simple white T shirt from the show, smiling at the camera and holding a handwritten sign. The sign read, “Refuse Harmful Waste.” It was a silent statement, yet more blinding than any public declaration. I knew Julian saw it. My source close to him confirmed that he then smashed several more expensive antiques.
Stella POV I saw the press release from Serena’s PR team. The headline was eye-catching: “Socialite Serena to Host Charity Gala: Speaking for Love, Invites Industry Friends, Stella Also Among Guests.” This announcement was meant to force my appearance. Serena had calculated correctly. If I didn’t show, it would look like I had something to hide to outsiders. At the charity gala, guests mingled, wine glasses in hand. The lights were bright, the attire dazzling. Serena, in a white custom gown, was surrounded by a crowd, basking in undisguised admiration. When I walked into the venue wearing the gown sponsored by my company, I almost instantly attracted everyone’s attention. Most of those gazes were scrutinizing, even dismissive. As the auction segment began, Serena smiled and raised the microphone, her voice perfectly soft. “Tonight, we’ve also invited Ms. Stella, who has been quite the topic of conversation lately.” She looked at me, deliberately slowing her speech. “Stella, I wonder what special item you’ve prepared for charity?” She emphasized the word “special.” Under everyone’s watchful eyes, I walked onto the stage, carrying only a rusty old medical kit. I placed it on a display stand draped in red velvet. A few muffled chuckles rippled through the audience. Serena wore a perfectly inquisitive expression. “This box looks quite vintage. It must have a heartbreaking story behind it, wouldn’t you say?” Her gaze subtly, almost imperceptibly, swept towards where Julian was standing, then she softly added, “I guess it might be related to a certain friend’s severe stomach hemorrhage three years ago. At the time, I was overseas, so worried. All I could do was send emergency medication. Unfortunately, I still couldn’t get there immediately…” She painted herself as a woman devotedly watching over him from afar. I stood before the display, waiting for her performance to end, before finally speaking. “Ms. Thompson certainly has a good memory.” My voice was steady, devoid of any warmth. “However, you’ve mistaken the main character.” I opened the box right there, in front of everyone. Inside were some cheap over-the-counter medicines and a few yellowed receipts. “Three years ago, Mr. Vance was rushed to the hospital with a severe stomach hemorrhage.” I stated, word by word. “The person he couldn’t reach that day was overseas. And I, his nominal wife, had no authority to access any of his funds.” “I worked three jobs simultaneously and visited over a dozen pharmacies to gather these medicines.” Serena’s face instantly crumpled. She cried out, “You’re lying! These medicines were clearly from me-” “From you?” I interrupted her, pulling a small recording device from my clutch and pressing play. A clear conversation filled the hall. “‘Doctor, if I adjust my nose a bit here, do you think I’ll look better on camera?… Location? Don’t be ridiculous, I’m right here, in the VIP room of Vance Group’s aesthetic clinic. As for social media, isn’t it normal to set your location to overseas?’” The timestamp on the recording matched the day she claimed to have “mailed medicine across the ocean,” down to the second. The entire hall fell silent. Julian, standing in the audience, his body visibly stiffened. He finally realized that the person who truly saved him at his bedside wasn’t the one he’d been pining for all along. He abruptly shoved his chair back and rushed toward the stage. “Stella, I’m sorry, I-” I didn’t even glance at him. I picked up the microphone again, my gaze falling on the old box, a cold smile curving on my lips. “This box contains my cheap and superfluous efforts.” “The auction begins now.” “Starting bid: one dollar.” As my words faded, a man who had been silently sitting in the front row slowly stood up. He shed the familiar stagehand’s jacket, revealing a meticulously tailored custom suit underneath. Under the spotlight, he looked at me, his expression unreadable. “I bid one hundred million.” A collective gasp swept through the hall. He picked up a name card from the table, letting the simple text speak for itself: Stone Group. Alex Stone. “And,” he continued, turning to meet my gaze directly, his own steady and intent, “as the majority shareholder of Stone Group, I will personally design and fund a global stand-up tour for Ms. Reed” Julian was held back by security below the stage. I didn’t look back. I placed my hand in Alex’s outstretched palm, and together we walked toward the VIP exit backstage, leaving the clamor behind us in the dark beyond the spotlight. Just before the door closed, from the direction of the underground garage, came the sudden, furious roar of an engine starting. The sound echoed, sharp and endless, in the cavernous space.
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