The Wife Auctioned For One Dollar Chapter 07
A low, quiet laugh came through the phone.
“You move fast.”
“In ten minutes, I’ll have someone send a remote access link to your phone.”
“All you need to do is keep Vito’s computer powered on for two minutes. My people will handle the rest.”
“Done.”
I hung up and took a steadying breath.
I opened the bedroom door and headed for the study.
Vito had a habit.
When he worked from home, he never shut down his computer—just locked the screen.
I pushed open the study door.
From the living room downstairs, I could still hear Lily’s soft, coy laughter and Vito’s low murmurs of agreement.
I walked to the desk and woke the screen.
Entered the password.
The display lit up.
I quickly clicked the link Damien had sent.
The study door swung open.
Vito saw me standing at his desk. His expression darkened immediately.
“What are you doing in here?”
He strode toward me.
“Looking for something to read.”
I held up the prenatal care guide in my hand, my tone perfectly casual.
“The living room is too noisy. The baby needs rest.”
That landed. Vito’s expression faltered.
He obviously knew how loud Lily had been laughing.
“Lily lives alone in that apartment. She hardly ever gets to go out—”
He was already defending her on instinct, but his eyes drifted past me to the computer screen.
*Ding.*
My phone buzzed.
A message from Damien.
**[Done.]**
I casually closed the book and stepped aside.
“Vito, I think I’ll take a nap. Come get me when Lily leaves.”
Vito studied me for one long second.
“All right.”
Back in the bedroom, I opened the encrypted archive that had just been delivered to my phone.
The first folder: financial records.
Page after page of meticulous documentation. Over the past three years, Vito had funneled nearly fifty million dollars in marital assets into Lily’s offshore accounts—through fake consulting fees, shell companies, and offshore trusts.
Every transfer had a respectable-sounding notation.
“Consulting fee.”
“Relocation allowance.”
“Medical compensation.”
The second folder: surveillance footage.
I tapped the video.
The timestamp read July, two years ago.
Back then, Lily had tearfully told Vito that I—out of jealousy over her pregnancy—had pushed her down a hospital staircase, causing her miscarriage.
The security footage that had been “deleted” now played back in crystal clarity.
In the frame:
There was no sign of me. Not once. Not anywhere.
Lily stood at the top of the hospital stairwell, visibly pregnant, blocked by two men with tattoo-sleeved arms. They were clearly from some street-level loan-sharking outfit—rough hands, menacing faces.
During the struggle, Lily missed a step on her own and tumbled down the stairs.
The two men panicked and bolted from the scene.
When Vito arrived at the hospital, Lily pointed at the empty hallway and swore on everything that I had done it.
And Vito had believed her.
I stared at Lily’s anguished, contorted face on the screen.
A sudden wave of something close to pity washed over me—but not for her.
*This* was the “kind, fragile, helpless” first love Vito had described.
And my husband.
For the sake of this lie, he had tried to put me on the auction block of an underground black market.
I backed up every file, then lay down on the bed and closed my eyes.
Now I just needed to wait for the right moment.
A moment that would send both of them plummeting from the clouds straight into hell—with no way back. Ever.
Vito’s voice came from beyond the door.
This time, his tone left no room for argument.
“Evelyn, get up. Pick out a gown.”
“The Manhattan Business Council charity gala is this weekend. You’re coming with me.”