“The first deal with foreign partners,” I said, “the one that saved your company in its early days—who do you think closed it? It was me. I stayed up nights translating, preparing, and negotiating while you slept.”
Whispers spread around the room. My husband forced a tight smile, his confidence wobbling.
“And the second major deal?” I continued. “You asked me to sit beside you because you didn’t know how to handle it. I guided the entire meeting. When it succeeded, you took all the credit.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd. His colleagues now saw the truth: the success he claimed as solely his own was built on my efforts.
“You always wanted me in the shadows,” I said firmly. “You wanted me silent so no one would know how much I contributed. But the truth is, without me, you wouldn’t have half of what you claim.”
He tried to speak, but no words came. I pressed on.
“And one more thing,” I said, locking eyes with him. “The starting capital for your company—do you remember where it came from? You like to tell everyone you secured funding yourself, but it came from my father. He invested in me, not in you.”
The room buzzed with disbelief. Guests who had once toasted to his brilliance now stared at him in shock. His face turned pale, and the arrogant facade crumbled.
“So yes,” I concluded, “sometimes investments don’t pay off. My family invested in you. I invested in you. And now everyone sees who you really are.”
The silence was suffocating—for him. Then came laughter, not with him, but at him. His colleagues shook their heads, whispering, exchanging looks of ironic amusement.
For the first time in years, I didn’t feel small. I didn’t feel like “just a wife.” I felt strong. And for the first time, my husband finally understood what regret looked like.
