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.”

A month before Julian’s criminal trial, he requested a visitor.

I didn't have to go. But I wanted to look him in the eye one last time. I wanted to see the final product of my retribution.

I walked into the sterile visitation room of the federal prison wearing a breathtaking white silk dress, diamonds glittering at my throat, radiating absolute perfection.

Julian was led in by a guard. He looked a decade older. His hair was thinning, his face was hollow, and his eyes were completely dead. He picked up the plastic phone on his side of the glass.

I picked up mine.

“Clara,” he croaked, his voice cracking. “Please. You have to tell your father to call off the feds. I’m going to get twenty years in here. The guys in here... they know what I did. They hate me. Please, I’m begging you.”

I looked at him, feeling a profound, beautiful emptiness.

“Do you remember what you told me in the hospital, Julian?” I asked softly.

He swallowed hard, tears pooling in his eyes.

“You told me that no one would ever want me. You told me I was too ugly, and I should be grateful you were making it simple.” I leaned closer to the glass. “Well, look at you now, Julian. You have no money. No home. No mistress. No children. No future. You are going to rot in a cell for twenty years, and the world is going to forget you ever existed.”

“I’m sorry!” he sobbed, pressing his forehead against the reinforced glass. “I’m so sorry!”