My Husband Hurt Me for His Lover, But My 4-Year-Old Daughter Saved My Life

He understood I was baiting him. But in front of that audience, especially Grandpa, he had no move.

He forced a grin and escorted us to the VIP table. The party continued, yet the energy shifted.

Attention swung from the host to our group. Whispers spread: reconciliation? A warning? A spectacle?

The snare was in place. I sipped my wine and watched his face, a map of dread.

The show—the last, most decisive scene—was moments away. When tension peaked, Damon climbed the stage.

He steadied himself, lifted the microphone, and launched into his pitch. He spoke about Golden Future’s vision, the dazzling tech that would change the world.

He promised a brilliant tomorrow designed to seduce investors. From the front row, Eliza gazed at him with worshipful pride.

So lost were they in their fantasy that they missed the tug of the final curtain. “And today,” He announced, his voice swelling.

“We have the great honor of welcoming an important investor from Singapore! This collaboration will be the wing that allows Golden Future to fly higher and farther!” He shouted.

Mid-sentence, the giant LED behind him went black. A rustle swept the audience.

Damon turned, confused. He gestured to the tech crew; there was no response.

Then the screen flickered back on, but not with his logo. A clear image filled it: my face, bruised, swollen eyes, my leg in a cast.

It was the photograph from the morning after that night. Beside it, in large unmistakable text, was written: “This is the true face of love.”

The ballroom held its breath. Music died; stillness took over.

Damon stared at the screen, white as paper. He jabbed a shaking finger at it.

“What is this? Turn it off! Turn it off right now!” He screamed.

Too late. The display cut to a video: security footage of him yanking my hair and kicking me in that small apartment.

Though grainy, the violence was obvious. Shock became outrage: gasps, cries, disgust.

“My God, what a beast! And he seemed so normal.” People whispered.

Eliza froze in her seat. Her eyes darted between the stage and the evidence, panic taking hold.

The reel continued: images of Damon with Eliza, their hidden child, the happy family tableau. Then came bank records tracing my $500,000 into his company.

For the finishing blow, an audio file thundered through the hall. It was their conversation plotting the con, describing me as the money source.

“That woman is naive and trusts anyone. She’s easy to fool. As soon as you ask for money, she gives it without question.” Damon’s smug, contemptuous voice filled the room.

When it ended, fury erupted. The hush exploded into condemnation.

“Scammer!” “Rotten thing!” “Thief!” The crowd shouted.

Investors and partners, who minutes earlier had listened attentively, now stared as if at a monster. Some walked out; others lifted phones to capture the downfall.

Damon stood rigid under the lights, trembling. Everything caved in at once.

He looked down at me, eyes blazing with hate and despair. He realized this was my design.

I rose and stepped onto the stage. A staffer, stunned, passed me the microphone.

I faced him and spoke, cool and audible to every corner. “Damon Garrett, your performance was magnificent, but it’s time to bring down the curtain.” I said.