Chapter 3

Jason looked like he had already braced himself for my refusal, swiftly pulling out a document from his bag.

"This is the prenup we signed a decade ago. You might want to take another look."

A decade back, at a bustling mall, Jason proposed with a bunch of roses, surrounded by crowds.

His voice was earnest, his eyes brimming with adoration.

"Emily, will you marry me?"

"Here's a prenup. Read it over and then decide. Each clause is protected by law."

I glanced at him, puzzled, "Why bring this out? I remember the terms—just playful stuff like 'You're on chore duty' and 'You're handling the kids.' Feels like play-pretend."

Looking at those terms now, I feel like slapping some sense into my younger self.

I had once proudly posted about it online, thinking it proved how much he loved me.

Turns out, he didn't keep a single promise.

Ignoring my sarcastic tone, Jason urged me to keep reading.

With growing suspicion, I flipped through the pages, my alarm escalating.

There, on the last page, written neatly: [Upon divorce, Party A shall leave with nothing.]

I was Party A.

This clause was definitely not in the original agreement I signed!

"You forged this agreement!" My chest was heaving with rage.

Jason's smirk widened, a look of triumph on his face, "Don't throw accusations around. You can have the signature verified. That's all your handwriting, after all. You were quite in love, weren't you?"

I know myself well enough to say, no matter how in love, I'd never agree to such absurd terms.

Yet, scrutinizing the handwriting, I couldn't spot any flaws—not even in the fingerprint seals.

"Impossible!" I insisted through clenched teeth. "That last clause wasn't there originally. Jason, you're ruthless, stooping this low just to get a divorce? Have you lost your mind?"

Jason let out a light chuckle, "Emily, if you don't sign the divorce papers, I'll have to take it to court. Then you'll lose everything—the house, the car. Can you even afford a lawyer?"

"It's in your best interest to sign now. I'm running out of patience."

He produced another copy of the agreement from his bag, his signature already on it, ready with a stamp pad for my thumbprint.

It was clear he was prepared to force my hand.

I held the papers tightly, "I won't sign this. I need to verify its authenticity first. You can't bully me into signing."

Jason stood, determined, "There's a forensic office next door. I'll go with you."

His confidence was unsettling.

Could I really have overlooked this when I signed?

My thoughts were a whirlwind, but I followed him to the office.

At the office, Jason handed over Sophie's business card and exchanged a few words to expedite the process.

He glanced at me, seeing my anxiety, "This is how the wealthy play. Even if this prenup didn't exist, you wouldn't stand a chance in court."

His smug words were infuriating. I was so tempted to throw it in his face—I am the real heiress of South City's wealthiest.

That would wipe the smirk right off.

But I wasn't about to let this jerk win.

While we waited, Jason took a call.

"Sophie, yeah, it's almost sorted. You can head over."

His tone was soothing, almost affectionate.