Brigitte Bardot is a well-known French actress, and Nicolas-Jacques Bardot is her only son. He was born in 1960. Initially, Brigitte wasn’t sure if she wanted to have a child, but her love for Jacques Charrier, the actor she was with, led her to keep the baby and marry him.
Brigitte Bardot didn’t want the public or paparazzi to see her while she was pregnant, so she stayed at home and even gave birth there. She was nervous about holding her newborn son and wasn’t sure about being a mother. All she wanted was to get back to her acting career as soon as possible.
After their baby was born, Brigitte Bardot and Jacques Charrier set up a photoshoot to show journalists that they had a happy family life. The actress managed to look loving and happy in the pictures. These photos were then sold to a major publication for a good price.
Brigitte Bardot and Jacques Charrier soon divorced, and their son, Nicolas-Jacques, stayed with his father. Jacques wanted to raise Nicolas-Jacques himself, and Bardot agreed to this arrangement.
Nicolas-Jacques studied economics at a well-known university in Paris. He also had a passion for music and enjoyed making his own tunes. At 22, he approached the famous designer Pierre Cardin to explore a career in modeling.
While working in the fashion industry, Nicolas-Jacques met Anna-Lin, and they got married in Oslo. They have two daughters together. Initially, Brigitte Bardot was hesitant to accept her granddaughters, but eventually, she grew closer to them.
Today, Nicolas-Jacques works in computer programming and technology. He remains deeply in love with his wife, and together they are happily raising their grandchildren.
My Blood Chilled When I Discovered What Was Hidden in My Husband’s Drawer the Day After We Moved In Together
Freya was eager to start her new life as a newlywed when she moved into her husband George’s ancestral home. However, when Valerie, the housemaid, hinted at George’s hidden life, their marriage vows quickly began to unravel.
Just off the high of our wedding, I moved into George’s grand family home — a place that seemed lifted from a storybook with its towering ceilings, elegant arches, and gardens blooming with flowers. George had been keen on me settling in before we jetted off to our honeymoon in the South of France.
But not all was as idyllic as it appeared. From the start, Valerie, the maid, cast glances my way that seemed to shout, “You’re an outsider.” Despite the chill in her gaze, I was determined to make this my new home. Valerie would just have to accept that.
A few days after moving in, I decided to prepare a big breakfast for everyone in the house, including George’s younger siblings who still lived there.
While I bustled around the kitchen, Valerie watched my every move with sharp eyes as she cleaned around me. Her presence made me uneasy. When I went to grab my phone to look up a recipe, it was nowhere to be found.
“Have you seen my phone?” I asked Valerie, sure it had been right there on the table.
She simply shook her head without looking up.
“I’d get breakfast ready quickly if I were you,” she remarked coldly. “The family will be down soon.”
Heeding her advice, I focused on finishing the breakfast. After she left the kitchen, I found my phone on the seat she had just vacated. But it was the message on the screen that flipped my world upside down:
“Check your husband’s drawer. The top left one. Then RUN!”
Heart racing, I hurried to our bedroom, replaying the warning in my mind. Valerie had already tidied up our room by then.
With a heavy sense of foreboding, I opened the drawer. Inside, I discovered a bundle of letters bound with an old ribbon and an antique key. The letters were from George to someone named Elena.
Sitting on our bed, I read each letter, heart sinking further with every word of love and promises made to another woman.
The last letter was a farewell, dated just days before George proposed to me.
Curious about the key, I asked George’s sister Ivy about it. “It might go to the attic,” she suggested, noting it was George’s favorite hideaway.
In the attic, the truth was starkly displayed. The walls were adorned with photos of George and a woman—presumably Elena. Each image, a testament to their relationship.
Underneath one of the photos, an ultrasound image was pinned, marking another revelation—George and Elena were expecting a child.
How could he have kept this from me?
As I absorbed the magnitude of his betrayal, Valerie appeared in the doorway.
“You weren’t meant to find out like this,” she admitted softly.
“You knew?” I confronted her.
She nodded. “Elena is my sister. She thought you deserved to know. I placed those letters this morning.”
“And the baby?” My voice broke with the question.
Valerie leaned against the wall, explaining how George had fallen in love with Elena, a former maid, and how everything changed when they discovered the baby had Down syndrome. George couldn’t handle the implications.
Valerie and I then faced the family in the living room, revealing everything as George walked in.
“Is this true?” his father demanded, eyes locked on George.
George’s silence confirmed everything.
The fallout was swift. George was disinherited, his future resources redirected to support Elena and her child.
As for me, I was granted a swift divorce, and the family compensated me with assets originally intended for George.
I used some of those assets to start a foundation for children with disabilities, now managed by Valerie, with guidance from me and George’s mother, who had disowned him.
In my position, what would you have done?
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