Chapter 2

Stella POV

The bills from my mother's private rehabilitation center kept piling up, each one terrifyingly expensive.

I looked at the fifty million that had just cleared in my mobile banking app, realizing for the first time how quickly money disappeared.

This amount was only enough to cover the first phase of treatment.

I needed a faster way to earn money.

As night deepened, I pushed open an old iron gate plastered with posters for underground comedy shows.

This was a famous underground stand-up club in the city, the air thick with the smell of cheap beer and sarcasm.

My designer suit was utterly out of place in the club's grungy atmosphere.

The moment I sat down, a lanky male comedian on stage spotted me and seized the opportunity.

"Well, look what we have here. Slumming it, sweetheart? Or did your husband finally go bankrupt?"

The audience howled with laughter.

I didn't acknowledge him. Walking straight backstage, I found a tipsy stagehand. All I said was, "I need five minutes on stage."

He glanced at me, then waved his hand, implicitly agreeing.

When I stood on that small stage with the microphone, the boos grew louder.

In their eyes, I was too polished, more like a display piece than someone who tells jokes.

I stood still for two seconds, waiting for the laughter to slowly subside, before I began. "Hello everyone, my name is Stella. Just this afternoon, I finished a three-year job. My position was-a certain billionaire's 'true love's stand-in'."

The entire room instantly quieted.

Next, in the calmest voice, I condensed the entire process of how I went from being a stand-in to my ex-husband's personal ATM into a five-minute stand-up routine.

"My former boss had a strange cognitive disorder. He always thought he was a deeply devoted, overbearing CEO. In reality, he was a face-blind amnesiac. He couldn't remember anniversaries, distinguish lipstick shades, or even recall my mango allergy."

"But he did possess one superpower: he always remembered his true love's menstrual cycle. It made me wonder if he had a side hustle selling tampons."

The entire room burst into laughter.

I didn't whine. Instead, I dissected those high-society scandals into relatable workplace complaints, every line hitting home.

Finally, I raised my hand, mimicking the motion of pressing a calculator. "So, ladies, remember: when a man tries to fix your life with money, don't cry. What you need to do is pull out that calculator and tally up every last cent for overtime, emotional labor, and mental distress over the years."

"After all, love might betray you, but contract clauses never will."

As my words faded, the applause and whistles were loud enough to bring down the house.

That night, an audio recording titled "Dumped by the Billionaire, I Used the Contract to Turn the Tables on My Ex" quickly spread online.

The next morning, I was woken by the urgent doorbell.

Standing at the door was Carol Hayes, my agent from three years ago.

She burst in and slapped a contract onto the table. "Stella, you're a sensation! Look at this show, it's called 'Exes Roast Night.' Three million per episode. Are you in?"

I took the contract.

When I saw the familiar group name in the sponsor section and Serena's name clearly listed among the invited guests, my gaze turned cold.

Carol lowered her voice to warn me. "The largest investor is Julian's company..."

But I just smiled.

I picked up a pen and, on the blank space of the last page of the contract, crisply added a line of text.

"Supplementary Clause: All my statements on this show are considered artistic expression. The production team will be solely responsible for all legal and commercial consequences, and Party A waives the right to seek recourse."

I pushed the contract back towards her.

"Sign it."

Carol looked at my signature, then added, "It's a live show. And Serena, I hear, has already been acting like Mrs. Vance, having pre-alerted the production team."

My pen paused, then my lips curved into a smile.

Perfect.

I still needed material for my first joke.