After Divorce:My arrogant ex-husband regrets
I sat alone at my long marble dining table, staring at a plate of cold truffle risotto. My husband, Jere, was late again, claiming he was stuck in a "war zone" of a board meeting for a multi-billion dollar merger.
A single Instagram notification shattered the silence. It was a photo of a candlelit birthday dinner, featuring a man's hand resting on a white tablecloth. I recognized the slight veins, the jagged scar on the thumb, and the navy-faced Patek Philippe watch I had spent six months tracking down as a wedding gift. Jere wasn't in a boardroom; he was celebrating his ex-girlfriend Irina's birthday while texting me to "don't wait up."
The next morning, I followed him to a VIP hospital wing. I watched through a cracked door as my husband cuddled a five-year-old boy and whispered tender promises to Irina. When he came home, he tried to buy my silence with a rare pink diamond bracelet, but I found the receipt: he had bought two identical ones. He had branded his wife and his mistress with matching jewelry, using hidden trackers to keep us both on a leash. When I confronted him, he didn't flinch. He coldly reminded me that he owned my father's massive debts and could send him to prison for insolvency fraud with one phone call.
"Stop with the attitude, Deliah," he said.
I felt like a ghost haunting my own life, trapped in a gilded cage by the man who paid for my mother's heart surgery while keeping a secret family across town. The humiliation peaked at our rescheduled anniversary dinner when Jere received a text, threw a stack of hundreds at me like I was a stranger, and abandoned me in a crowded restaurant to rush back to her.
"Pay the bill," he commanded before walking out.
Standing in the wreckage of a shattered crystal vase back at the penthouse, I realized my silence was the only thing keeping his empire standing. I pulled the crumpled divorce papers from my purse and signed my name with a steady hand. I wasn't just walking away; I was calling his sister to help me burn his perfect world to the ground.
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Chapter 2
The private elevator doors slid open with a soft, cheerful chime that sounded obscene in the silence of the apartment.
Deliah lay perfectly still, her back to the door, listening. She heard the heavy tread of his footsteps on the floor. Jere stepped into the dark penthouse, the rustle of fabric telling her he was loosening his tie. He was home. The negotiation-the birthday party-was over.
He walked into the master bedroom. The air shifted as he entered, bringing with him the outside world. He paused near the doorway. He must have smelled the faint, lingering scent of antiseptic from her hand, but he didn't say anything. He probably assumed the cleaning staff had used a new product.
He approached the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat on the edge. Deliah could feel the heat radiating from him, a warmth that used to be her sanctuary but now felt like a threat.
He reached out to touch her shoulder. His hand was heavy, possessive.
Deliah flinched violently. Her body reacted before her mind could stop it, jerking away from his touch as if he were a hot iron.
Jere paused, his hand hovering in the air. "You're awake?"
Deliah didn't answer immediately. As he leaned closer, a scent wafted from his suit jacket. It wasn't the smell of a conference room, stale coffee, or the crisp scent of his usual cologne. It was sweet. Sickeningly sweet. Vanilla and some heavy, cloying floral note that clung to the fabric like a second skin.
It was a woman's perfume. Unmistakable. It smelled cheap to Deliah's refined nose, or perhaps it was just the association that made it repulsive, but it was alien. It didn't belong in this room. It didn't belong on her husband.
Deliah sat up, clutching the duvet to her chest, hiding her bandaged hand in the folds of the fabric. The darkness hid her face, but she knew he could feel the tension radiating off her.
"Meeting ran late," Jere said, his voice smooth, practiced. It was the voice he used for shareholders. "It was brutal. The Europeans wouldn't budge on the valuation."
Deliah stared at his silhouette. He was so good at this. If she hadn't seen the photo, she would have believed him. She would have gotten up to make him tea. She would have rubbed his shoulders.
He leaned in to kiss her. It was an instinct for him, a way to seek intimacy to assuage his own guilt, to prove that everything was normal.
Deliah turned her head sharply. His lips landed awkwardly on her cheek. His skin was cold from the night air.
Jere pulled back, irritation seeping into his tone. "What is wrong with you?"
Deliah kept her voice quiet, almost a whisper. "Did the meeting go well?"
"Yes," Jere lied effortlessly. "We closed the deal."
Deliah felt bile rise in her throat, burning and acidic. "You smell like vanilla."
Jere stiffened. It was imperceptible to anyone who didn't know him, a tiny locking of the jaw, a slight pause in his breathing. He hadn't expected her to notice. He hadn't bothered to check. But he recovered instantly. "Must be the catering. They had these dessert trays everywhere."
His eyes adjusted to the moonlight filtering in through the sheer curtains. He noticed the white gauze wrapped around her hand. "What happened?"
He reached for her hand, his voice dropping into that register of concern that used to make her knees weak. "Did you cut yourself?"
Deliah yanked her hand away, tucking it back under the covers. "It's nothing. Just a broken glass." She paused, letting the silence stretch until it was thin and brittle. "Like our anniversary dinner."
Jere froze.
The silence that followed was different. It wasn't the silence of an empty room; it was the silence of a man realizing he had made a tactical error. Their third wedding anniversary had been two days ago. He had missed it then, too, claiming work, and promised they would celebrate tonight. And he had forgotten that, too.
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "Deliah, I'm sorry. With the merger... it completely slipped my mind."
"You have time for 'mergers' on birthdays," Deliah said, her voice trembling slightly, "but not anniversaries."
Jere paused. He thought she was referring to his own birthday coming up in a few weeks, or perhaps hers. He didn't realize she was talking about Irina's. He didn't know she knew.
He sighed, the sound of a patient man dealing with an unreasonable child. "I'll make it up to you. I bought you something. It just... hasn't arrived yet."
Deliah lay back down, turning her back to him. She stared at the wall, her eyes burning. "Don't bother."
Jere stood there for a moment, frustrated by her coldness. He clearly felt he had done enough explaining. He stood up and walked to the bathroom. A moment later, she heard the shower turn on. He was washing away the scent of vanilla. He was washing away the evidence.
Deliah lay in the dark, listening to the water, and for the first time in three years, she didn't feel the urge to go to him. She only felt the urge to run.
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8.1
A marriage of half a decade that Emily Winchester had poured her heart and soul into crumbled in a night after catching her sister and husband lustfully entangled. Her soon-to-be ex releases her nudes to the world, framing her with infidelity. She leaves the marriage with a little more than the clothes on her back, and desperately trying to pay for her grandmother's hospital bills, is aligned with New York's notorious playboy billionaire, Sean Woods, as he's looking for a contract wife.
What happens when a single night encounter is all that is needed for the most eligible bachelor in the country to have his sights set on her? Will she just turn into one of his many conquests or be the one woman who claims his heart alone?
8.9
Debora went to prison to protect the man she loved, only to end up a paroled convict living under the roof of her abusive foster parents.
When they found her positive pregnancy test from a one-night stand, they threatened to kick her out and send her straight back to a cell.
Just as they were about to report her, the stranger from that dark hotel room suddenly appeared.
He paid her foster parents one million dollars to marry her and take her away.
Debora thought she was finally safe.
But the moment they were alone, he looked at her with pure, venomous hatred.
He didn't want a wife; he wanted a prisoner.
He believed Debora was the ruthless murderer who had destroyed his life in a car crash, and he planned to make her suffocate in her own despair.
He didn't know she was just a scapegoat.
To survive and protect her baby, Debora found a job at a bridal shop, only to run into the real culprit—the man who actually drove the car and framed her.
He was now happily engaged to a wealthy heiress.
They deliberately ruined a priceless wedding gown and blamed it on her.
"Kneel on this floor and apologize, or I'm calling the police to revoke your parole!"
Why did she have to rot in hell for his sins, while the man she married wanted to destroy her?
Just as her trembling knees were about to touch the cold marble floor, the heavy glass doors were violently shoved open.
Her billionaire husband strode in like a force of nature, his eyes locked onto the wealthy couple with a terrifying, destructive rage.
7.9
Meet Maya Brooks, a 22 year old who dropped out of school after her father was murdered and her family lost everything.
Determined to uncover the truth behind his death, she takes a job as a personal maid to Ryan Greenville a 25 year old, irresistible CEO known for using and dumping women.
Cold, powerful, and emotionally guarded, Ryan never planned to fall for anyone again until Maya entered his life.
As their worlds collide, dark secrets begin to surface.
Get ready for a thrilling journey of love, revenge, and hidden truths.
8.2
Trapped in a deadly fire at my own engagement party, my lungs burned as I reached a shaking hand out to my fiancé for help.
He stopped and looked right at me through the thick smoke. But instead of saving me, he wrapped his jacket tightly around my stepsister and ran, leaving me to burn.
I barely survived. But when I woke up in the hospital, my father and stepmother didn't even ask about my injuries.
They threw a stack of legal documents right onto my bed.
"Sign the papers, Avah. Step aside. Jaclyn is far better suited to be Kain's wife."
My fiancé then stormed into the room, publicly humiliating me with false rumors of an illegitimate child and threatening to bankrupt my company.
Four years of swallowing my pride to be the perfect, obedient pawn for our family business, all for nothing.
They threw me to the wolves without a single second of hesitation, expecting me to just lower my head and cry like I always did.
But the fire had burned that pathetic version of me away.
I ripped out my IV, letting the blood drip onto the sheets, and tore their contracts straight down the middle.
"The engagement is over."
I threw my million-dollar ring right at my ex's chest, then picked up the phone to call my trust lawyer. They wanted to take everything from me, so I was going to make them bleed.
8.4
They say marrying Cassian Blackmoor is a death sentence.
Seventeen wives. Seventeen funerals. One widower no one can explain.
They call him cursed. They call him dangerous. Some call him a murderer who hides behind wealth and silence. But no one can prove anything - and no one dares accuse a billionaire who buries his wives with the same calm devotion he once loved them with.
Eloise Laurent knows the rumors. She knows the whispers. She knows the stories about the widower whose brides never live long.
Instead, she falls for him.
For the quiet sadness in his eyes.
For the way his voice softens only for her.
For the way he loves like he's terrified of losing her.
And maybe he should be.
But when she discovers a hidden grave bearing her own name, Eloise realizes something far worse than rumors is waiting for her inside his house.
9.2
I was a Parsons-trained designer, but with my family drowning in over half a million dollars of debt, I delivered coffee just to survive.
One clumsy mistake—spilling a latte in a corporate lobby—put me on the radar of the city's most ruthless billionaire, Christian Mercer.
A week later, I wasn't fired. I was summoned to his office on the 85th floor, where he laid out a contract.
He knew everything: my student loans, my mother's crippling medical bills, the foreclosure notices piling up on our kitchen table. He offered to wipe it all away, plus pay me five million dollars.
The price was one year of my life as his wife.
He called it a "mutually beneficial transaction," coldly stating my desperate circumstances made me the perfect, compliant candidate. I wasn't a person to him, just an asset to be acquired to solve a problem he refused to explain.
But when I found the eviction notice taped to our apartment door, my pride was a luxury I could no longer afford. I signed his contract. After a sterile City Hall ceremony, he left me alone in his cold, empty penthouse with a final, chilling instruction.
"The public part of our agreement begins now, Mrs. Mercer," he said, his voice void of any emotion. "Act accordingly."