Pregnant and Abandoned: My Billionaire Ex Regretted Leaving When the Lawsuit Revealed the Truth

Marcus Wolf sat in the shadows of his office, the only light coming from the streetlamps reflecting off the rain-slicked windowpane. He swirled the cheap whiskey in his glass, watching the rhythmic drumming of the storm. He knew the phone call about Julian’s arrest would come soon, but the knock on his door arrived first.

The door didn’t just open; it flew back against the wall.

Tiffany stood in the frame, her silhouette jagged against the hallway light. The twenty-two-year-old heiress looked like a wet cat. Her blonde hair, usually lacquered into submission, was plastered to her skull. Her mascara ran in dark rivulets down her cheeks, ruining a complexion that cost more to maintain than Sarah’s entire annual salary.

She didn't wait for an invitation. She marched to his desk, her heels clicking a staccato rhythm of panic on the hardwood floor.

“I want a deal,” she snapped, though her voice wavered, cracking on the last word. She gripped her designer purse so hard her knuckles turned white, the leather creaking under the strain.

Marcus didn't stand. He didn't even blink. He took a slow sip of his whiskey, letting the silence stretch until it became a physical weight in the room. He watched her chest heave, the diamond pendant at her throat trembling with every erratic breath.

“I’m a plaintiff’s attorney, Ms. Sinclair,” Marcus rumbled, his voice gravel and smoke. “I don’t cut deals. I break kneecaps. Figuratively speaking.”

“Don't play games with me, Wolf!” she shrieked, slamming her hand on his desk. “I know the Feds picked him up at Teterboro. I know the assets are frozen. But you don't have the money. You have the man, but you don't have the money.”

Marcus set his glass down. The clink was soft, but in the quiet room, it sounded like a gavel. “And you do?”

“I’m not going to prison for him,” she hissed, her eyes darting to the door as if expecting the Marshals to burst in behind her. “I was just the girlfriend. I didn’t sign the checks. I didn’t know about the toxicity reports until tonight.”

“Ignorance isn't immunity,” Marcus said coldly. “Especially when you’ve been spending blood money on handbags while my client slept in her car.”

Tiffany’s lip curled, a flash of the old arrogance surfacing through the fear. “You want justice? Fine. Keep your moral high ground. But if you want the payout—if you want to bankrupt that bastard so hard his great-grandchildren feel it—you need me.”

She reached into her soaked coat pocket. Her hand shook violently as she withdrew a small, silver object. It wasn't a weapon. It was a heavy, encrypted USB drive.

She tossed it onto the desk. It slid across the mahogany surface and stopped inches from Marcus’s glass.

“The offshore accounts,” she whispered, the fight draining out of her, leaving her hollow. “Cayman. Zurich. The shell companies he used to hide his fortune during the divorce. It’s all there. Four billion dollars in liquid assets that the IRS doesn't know exists.”

Marcus looked at the drive, then up at her. For the first time, the shark smiled.

“Sit down, Tiffany,” Marcus said, reaching for a notepad. “Start talking.”