The moment my pen left the divorce papers, I smiled—and ᴋɪʟʟᴇᴅ every one of his 15 credit cards. Not later. Not “after I heal.” Immediately. That night, he was clinking champagne glasses at a $75,000 wedding with his mistress, soaking in applause like he’d won. Then his smile cracked. His phone kept declining

The image revealed Laurent standing beneath chandeliers inside an opulent ballroom overlooking the Mississippi River, his tuxedo radiating confidence untouched by consequence, beside a woman whose elegance signaled recent triumph. Her name was Vivienne Laurent, the mistress seamlessly transformed into bride, her gown shimmering with extravagance that screamed financial audacity. Champagne towers rose behind them like monuments to excess, floral arrangements cascaded across marble floors, while Laurent laughed with unrestrained delight, head tilted backward, posture relaxed, as though history itself had been conveniently erased.

Seventy five thousand dollars.

At least.

Then the next clip appeared.

Laurent’s smile shattered visibly as he reached into his pockets, confusion draining color from his face while a waiter stood patiently beside him holding a payment terminal awaiting authorization. Guests continued dancing obliviously until tension rippled outward, cameras instinctively capturing discomfort with merciless curiosity. Laurent attempted another card, then another, composure dissolving rapidly as realization overtook performance.

Declined.

Again.